This, That and Some More

Just a little Poem

2010-08-08T23:57:00.002+05:30

Written for an event at my son's school (Courage House)

We at the Courage House
Caught a little mouse
And trained him to race
In a mighty maze

The mouse was surprised
That he could win a prize
By running a race
And eating cheese in a maze

The mouse raced along
The cheese made him strong
He was certified to compete
And his registration complete

Then came the day
When the officials say
"The race is to be at Ascot"
"Bring your mouse Godot"

We at Courage wail in dismay
"Ascot? That's miles away!"
We have tickets to book
Pack clothes taken off the hook

At Ascot the day dawns
The dew sparkles on the green lawns
Godot is wearing Green, White and Orange
All ready to face the challenge

We at courage bite our nails
As we follow Godot's travails
As the mice race on the track
We cheer for 10, the number on Godot's back

Godot was off like the wind
There was a ball of Gouda all skinned
On top of a golden cup
On which a thousand mice could sup

Godot won by a yard and more
And dived straight into the Gouda's core
Mice and men toast Godot's run
We at Courage had a lot of fun

A Random Chapter

2010-07-12T00:06:00.001+05:30

Practicing to write in third person....

They had met a year and a half back, a few hurried business meetings throughout which his eyes bore into her. She had felt somewhat uncomfortable and wondered if ogling at women was a habit with RK (as he liked to call himself) but she brushed it off and returned his direct eye to eye gaze as they spoke. RK was assessing the teams across the globe and how best to leverage them and also trying to come to grips with his new responsibilities and seemed to be somewhat out of his depth. Shahana patiently explained the Indian operations and how the team she headed fitted in the big picture and the conversation drifted to Alzheimer's disease. "Maybe you can try wearing your watch on your right hand instead of left, then your brain will have a new signal for a routine habit" Shahana said. "Really? Does that work? I think remembering all these Indian names will be quite enough for me" RK responded. Shahana was a bit needled, the so called RK was a Tamil Brahmin with roots and initial education in India and twenty years in the US made him American? More organization structures and flow charts were drawn on the white board and eventually eyelids started to droop and coffee had to be ordered. The German gentleman, Wolfgang who was also in the meeting ordered black and so did Shahana. "Normal coffee in India is a concoction with lots of milk and sugar - would you like normal or black?" Shahana asked RK. "Black? Yuck, no normal for me please. How can you swallow all that bitter stuff?""I am trying to cut down on sugar so black for me" Shahana said and immediately regretted her statement as it reminded her of her nonexistent fitness routine.

Shahana could not accompany her guests for lunch as she had registered for a cancer detection camp and had to go for medical tests during lunch time. RK and Wolfgang had a hearty Indian lunch at the office cafeteria and were back in the conference room which now smelled like a hospital ward thanks to all the blood samples that were collected there for the Cancer detection camp. "I think I am going to faint, I hate the idea of blood being present in this room" said RK as he occupied a chair near the door. Wolfgang presided over the meeting, this time with the whole team, more charts were drawn, more roadmaps were discussed and in general the future was rosy. "With an innovative leader like Shahana, who wears her watch on the right hand to generate new brain patterns and ideas, I think you guys are in good hands" RK summed up. Shahana laughed and was somewhat pleased at being praised in a public forum, "He is just trying to pull me over to his side" she thought.

RK, now officially in charge was all businesslike, he wanted data, reports, contracts and demos, the team scurried to fulfill all his requests, he seemed to inject some energy into an otherwise bored team and his words held some promise for a brighter future. "Can you make it Chennai next week? I would like to bring you up to speed with some plans I have" RK asked Shahana. Sahahna agreed, though somewhat unclear about the exact agenda, when she asked RK mumbled something in an incomprehensible mid western accent. She had been having a tough time to understand his accent and was playing the role of an interpreter for the team who looked blank whenever RK spoke. "Well, let see what's in store" she thought. "Great. Would like to make full use of your time when in Chennai" RK said as he shook hands with Shahana and the rest of the team before departing.

Shahana was left with a highly excited team (RK had dangled the trip to US bait very lavishly) and a lot of questions. She was more restrained in her optimism and was not very sure how RK could revamp a loss making business unit and turn it around in a day. She was more inclined to think that he had some other objectives and planned to channel underutilized manpower to some of his other projects which may not be in the best interests of the team. RK went back to the US and promptly forgot his promises made during his Indian sojourn, Shahana heard from the grapevine that he was having a tough time to establish himself and chart a plan. She got sporadic requests from RK for support with some requests which she provided; she also provided her own ideas for the new business model which was to be launched soon. RK was always very appreciative about her and the team's work. Shahana had overcome her initial reservations about RK and grew to appreciate his style of working.

Somewhere in between Shahana started chatting with RK about politics at work, hobbies, and interests and so on and his witty and somewhat sarcastic humor kept her entertained. He would tell her about his future plans, current challenges and she would offer solutions or suggestions as appropriate. She almost enjoyed their exchanges even if it was mostly related to work. She felt appreciated and valued professionally. Shahana would often catch herself thinking of RK and then mentally shrug him off, "It is quite normal to think about colleagues you work with everyday" she thought. She knew his music preferences, his reading preferences, about his Great Uncle who he admired, about the rock concerts he attended with his Father and his interest in Che Guevara. She knew his wife's name, that no of years he was married, the names of his two sons, how they spent time during weekends, his workaholic nature and how he managed to find time for family, when he migrated to US etc etc. Shahana also collected other bits of information about RK from other colleagues; she also came to know about his drinking habits, his sweet tooth, and his interest in cooking and other odd bits of information. "Am I stalking him?" she would stop and ask herself at times and then shrug and carry on with her life.

RK visited India after almost 18 months, Shahana was leaving the organization, and she was somewhat disillusioned at the way the business model had evolved. There were no opportunities for her to grow professionally so she decided to move on and in the process had to handover a part of her responsibilities to RK. RK had added more weight around his middle and had almost gone completely gray, his accent hadn't got any better despite having to communicate with the 'desis' who never understood a word of what he said., "At least a few things remain the same" Shahana thought. Her opinion of RK had changed somewhat in the last few months, she thought him to be megalomaniac control freak who refused to delegate and empower people, which was one of the reasons she was leaving.

Shahana was going through her handover agenda one by one when suddenly RK noticed her wrist and commented "You still wear your watch on your right hand! I tried your idea and it seemed the whole world had somehow changed so changed back to left. Looks like I have to make peace with Mr. Alzheimer". Shahana smiled and said that it was probably time for her to change and wear her watch on her left wrist, which she did the next day. RK asked her the time about five times during the whole day and Shahana would invariably look at her right wrist and then at the left and catch him with a faint smile and an inquisitive stare. Meetings progressed and coffee was needed and this time RK ordered black while Shahana settled for 'normal' and it was Shahana who had a faint smile this time, glances were exchanged and an old memory recollected but not mentioned. At a dinner later Shahana and RK spoke like friends who had met after a long time while the rest looked on perplexed and probably wondered the mystery behind the apparent camaderie.

Three days went by in a flash and it was time for RK to return to US, Shahana wished him well and he gave her a half hug and said "I'll see you soon, take care". Shahana made all the right noises while she tried to respond to the unexpected hug while her eyes questioned how would they meet again - this was the last time wasn't it? All of a sudden she felt a little bereft and wished that there was something to hold on to. She would miss his sharp, caustic wit and the conversations and also all the stories she heard about him from others, there would be no reason to talk or keep in touch once she moved to a new job except perhaps the new year or birthday greeting which would also eventually fade away. Shahana's mobile phone rang and her five year old daughter demanded when she would be back home, "In another thirty minutes, ask Daddy to help with homework and pass the phone to Shanti Bai". Shanti Bai was told what to cook for dinner and pack for Diya's lunch box the next day. The next call was to the driver to bring the car to the office gate, it was time to go home.

Greed and Creativity

2010-07-09T21:32:00.001+05:30

People asked me why I stopped blogging and I would respond that once I started to get paid for what I wrote, writing merely as a form of self expression seemed a waste of time. It's true I earned a few thousands when I wrote for some publications and I thought that offers would now pour in because whatever I produced was so eminently readable!

Well offers didn't exactly pour in and I also did not pursue my career in writing in all earnest. I also lost touch with my one and only hobby thanks to good old greed. Well eminently readable or not, I can just write for now and rest can happen later.

Hello Again!

Testing My Vocal Cords

2010-07-09T21:17:00.001+05:30

It's been a long time since I sang out loud, at the most I have hummed and once in a while sang in a rush at a friends place to relive some school memories. In some inspired moments, in an empty house after listening to a particularly nice song I try to reproduce it, go hopelessly off key and then give up.

I am also eternally embarrassed at most condolence meetings where I am asked to sing 'something appropriate' (a.k.a. Bromho sangeet or Ranbindra sangeet) and I sit stonily and mumble that I have forgotten to sing. At this stage people offer books which have printed lyrics (which seem to be peculiarly handy) and I cringe further and wish the Earth would swallow me up! But of course such things happen with only ladies as pure as Sita and not a out and out sinner (like me). I usually mutter more excuses and pass on the so called singing baton to the more abled.

Unfortunately (or fortunately?) some people have these elephantine memories and recollect that I used to sing at some point of time and become quite persistent. At such times I usually have to resort to my last straw which is the one and only Rabindra sangeet I know, knowing fully well that it is highly inappropriate. Traditionally this song is sung at ceremonies celebrating birth, and I have sung it a few times at condolence meetings (shradh ceremonies) with the explanation that death is a transition to a new state and hence a form of birth. Purists and the torch bearers of Tagore's work may send me hate mail I guess.

The other day I exhausted my stock and was asked to sing one more song (in other gatherings and encore would perhaps an ego boost) and I had to delve into deep recesses of my memory and recollect all the devotional songs I had learned centuries back. To my complete surprise I did actually recollect one of them and it was good to jog my memory and vocal cords to some forgotten tunes and I also discovered that training in classical music can never really desert you, the vocal cords seem to have their own memory. It is also a liberating and cleansing experience.

I am now suitably convinced that I should take up singing lessons and expand my repertoire, though not for an audience but as a form of self expression.

Published - At Last!

2009-06-05T19:21:00.002+05:30

Dear All,

I am pleased to say that thanks to a dear friend of mine, I have been published at last. It's an awesome feeling to see one's name in print. Here is my list so far:
1. Design Today (April-09) - Write up on PVR Phoenix Multiplex interiors
2. Good Housekeeping (April-09) - Protect Yourself from the Rainy Days - an article on how to manage your finances during recession
3. Good Housekeeping (June-09) - Action Plan: Help Your Child Reach their Potential

Please do read the India editions of th emagazines listed above!

Thanks!
IC

Declaration

2009-01-30T12:04:00.002+05:30

To all

I hereby declare that I want to write professionally because I beleive I have it in me. If you have a writing assignment then please contact me at ichatteralot@indiatimes.com.

Thank you,
IC

Questions and Answers

2009-01-28T13:16:00.005+05:30

I have not been tagged but the following set of questions is one I thought may be interesting to answer even if I am married, have a child and some situations have only hypothetical answers.

1. If your lover betrayed you what would your reaction be?

Love is an emotion that transcends hate, sure it's natural to feel murderous, suicidal, hopeless but beyond that there is love and hope and it is possible to forgive, forget and accept or to move on. Thats what I would do.

2. What’s it that you see in an ideal partner?

A person who can be a friend, in good times and bad, someone who will thoughtfully light a torch in the stairs when there is a per cut (as I cant see in the dark) and someone who will hold my hand whn I climb down stairs as they scare me.

3. What, according to you, is the perfect date?

There is no perfect date - wine, candles, cards, chocolates and flowers were invented to make you spend money. One can have a good time anywhere.

4. Would you like to have children soon enough? Or would you wait till your mid-thirties for the first child?

Biologically it makes better sense to have them sooner, emotionally you are better prepared when you are older.

5. Will you fall in love with your best friend?

Now let me think - no I think that would be sacrilege, even if he is the best looking man on this planet. Love is complicated while friendship is much more simple and I would prefer to maintain simplicity.

6. Which is more blessed: loving someone or being loved by someone?

A parents love and a child's love are the purest and the most divine forms that one can experience. The man-woman thing is often laced with unexplainable complications!

7. How long do you intend to wait for someone you love?

I didn't wait - I just married and you know what, its great!

8. If the person you secretly like is attached, what will you do?

That has happened to me all the time in school - all my crushes had crushes on the hottest girls in school - what can one do really except forget them!

9. What do you think are the foundation stones of a good relationship?

A balanced mix of space and caring

10. What according to you is the most beautiful thing about relationships or marriage?

Dissolving of self

11. Where do you see yourself 10 years from now?

An acclaimed novelist

12. What’s your fear?

I cant think of any

13. What kind of person do you think the person who tagged you is?

No one tagged me so I think all people out there are just wonderful!

14. Would you rather be single and rich or married and poor?

Rich and poor is relative - I am what I always was, I neither feel richer or poorer, so marriage does not really make a difference if you ae careful about joint finances.

15. If you fall in love with two people simultaneously who will you pick?

Intriguing situation - flip a coin maybe?

16. Would you give all in a relationship?

Relationships are not about give and take, if we understood that, we would have everlasting relationships! Its because we think we give, we expect returns from the other side and that leads to all kinds of problems.

17. Would you forgive and forget someone no matter how horrible a thing he has done?

Depends. Its not possible to ignore a wilful desire to hurt someone, if someone does that to me I would disconnect immediately.

18. Do you prefer being single or in a relationship?

That is a question which has no answers - man is never satisfied really! If you are happy and at peace with yourslef, it does not matter whether you single or in a relationship

A Letter to a Landmark

2009-01-23T20:39:00.001+05:30

Dear Taj,

The dust has settled, the debris cleared, blood stains whitewashed, candles have been lit, marches and speeches are over. You stand strong while your core is shattered, a symbol in a way, of the Indian stoic resilience.

You have always welcomed me so graciously and when you needed help, I was unable to be by your side. I wept invisible tears of anguish when I saw you and those you held in your arms being ravaged so ruthlessly and berated my general helplessness.

You are so grand and so beautiful; I have always been in awe of you since my childhood. I always wanted to see you in person someday and it happened on my first trip to Mumbai for a job interview. A friend had invited me for tea and I accepted just because it gave me an opportunity to see you. Your grand staircase, beautiful paintings, chandeliers dazzled me. The view of the lighted Gateway from the Sea Lounge was ethereal in the evening. The tea and cakes were heavenly; the person playing the grand piano at the front was playing some hauntingly familiar tunes.

Going to you was an aspirational journey, a raise, a few extra dollars earned from a trip outside India, special occasions and the many more milestones we had yet to celebrate. Your welcoming ambience reaffirmed our belief in ourselves, that we could come back for more when some more of our aspirations are fulfilled.

Dear VT,

You are the symbol of Mumbai, the busiest place with teeming millions passing through you everyday, the beautiful facade serene and timeless. I have passed through you so many times, always in a hurry, not really looking around to see the details. On the day your floors were spattered with blood and bodies, I saw your structure in relief - familiar and yet shockingly unfamiliar in its new avatar - a terror struck place. The odd passer by, families waiting for a long distance train to their home town, vendors, and policemen, here now and gone the next - wiped out by a massive wave of hate eliminating life forever.

Masses of humanity still flow through you, perhaps a little quicker than before as if fearing the aura of death that hangs over you. Life must go on, those who pass through you must think and they must also fleetingly think how quickly life can end even in the most common everyday places

I pray for both of you and those who died in and around you, I pray that we recover our faith in humanity, I pray that we live with hope and not with fear, I pray for Baby Moshe whose parents were killed without reason, I pray for peace and the mundane predictability of daily living.

Happy Republic Day.

The True Secular Indian

2008-10-21T16:20:00.000+05:30

A few years back, a lady named China worked for me in the capacity of domestic help. When she joined I asked her why she was named after a country. Her answer was that when she was born, nobody wanted her so the name China (meaning "not wanted" in Bengali) stuck. She told me her real name as well but I can’t seem to remember it now.

China had this immense need in her to feel wanted and that showed up in her sphere of work as well. She used to pamper us with all kinds of good food and later she sought out the attention of my neighbors by preparing all sorts of delicacies for them - without my approval. Soon my monthly grocery supplies started to diminish at the speed of light. So I decided it was time for her to leave. She was politely given a one way ticket to Calcutta and asked not to return.

The lure of money is too hard to resist and apparently cooks are in short supply in Mumbai. She came back and has been living and working in the area I live for quite some time. My current domestic help is got to know her and off and on she tells me some bits of gossip about China. It seems that China has large debts; her room mates are tired of shouldering her expenses and were contemplating on marrying off the much married China to a truck driver with HIV and lots of money to clear the debts. How she is kicked out of almost every job she takes on as she is unable to work or be regular.

With such problems China could only turn to God for help. She converted to Christianity and Jesus provided her with some basic necessities. In return, she goes and prays to Jesus every Thursday regularly. For her debts, she turned to Allah during the holy month of Ramzan. She wore a veil and sat in front of a mosque where she received a sizeable amount of money donated by the various people who came to pray. She was able to repay her debts by the grace of Allah. To keep her often failing health in order, she wears an amulet and chain around her neck with the image of Goddess Kali and prays in the night.

That is what religion is to a person who is struggling with every day living and to think that people fight and kill in the name of religion...

Lady of the Night

2008-08-07T15:18:00.003+05:30

Life and its polarities have always been topics of debates and discussions. What is good and what is bad dominates almost every aspect of our existence. Man is always attracted or curious about the "bad" while the "good" is just normal and boring.

Prostitution has always been considered one of the evils of society, the ladies or girls are labeled as "bad" along with a wide vocabulary of phrases to describe their "fallen state". I was as curious as the normal average human being about these ladies who wear garish make up and gaudy clothes and stand on some bridges of Kolkata in daylight as well as early dark. I used to see them while going to Alipore and there used to be a queer silence in the car with some odd whispers saying "Look at them" while others turned their heads in the opposite direction in an attempt to shut out the seamier sides of the society from their lives.

I was told that Kolkata has these "pick up points" in the midst of the hustle bustle of markets and popular places which I heard but never came across as such as I was always busy going my way and had no special interest in my surroundings. One day I asked the Taxi to stop next to Triangular Park gate as there the road is easier to cross. I saw this very elegant lady dressed in a sari with every pleat in place and jasmine flowers in her hair. I gave her a passing look of envy and rued my ever clumsy appearance and walked on almost coming in the way of a tram that came trundling down the tired tracks of Rashbehari Avenue.

On many evenings I continued to see this lady patiently standing near the gate - each day perfectly groomed and the flowers fresh and fragrant enough for me to catch a whiff. I assumed she was waiting for someone perhaps. One evening I saw a car slowly halt next to her, the man craned out, the woman bent down to speak to the man at the window, their conversations were inaudible as voices were low. A few minutes later she got into the back seat and the car drove off into the dark night.

Another evening I caught sight of her and pointed her out to my husband and said that I see her almost everyday near the gate of the park. He took one look at her and said she is a prostitute of this locality and I should avoid being around the park gate as that was a "pick up point". I connected the cars that stopped and the negotiations and then realization dawned.

I can’t remember any immediate reactions as this was years back but when I think back, my first thought is one of admiration. She and many in her situation have to deal with the unknown on a daily and hourly basis, they have to act out parts, fulfill fantasies, get abused and beaten perhaps, deal with pimps and law enforcers, fight over commissions and the areas of operation and probably other situations which we don’t really want to know about. In this vortex, she and others like her, have to be presentable enough to be purchased - after all what looks good sells more.

On one of my recent visits to Kolkata, I saw her again, same place, the same pristinely pleated sari, the jasmine flowers in her hair, her head held high waiting for a person who she can offer some solace, comfort, passion or love - for a price...

The Accidental Pilgrim

2008-06-19T16:47:00.002+05:30

I am a Hindu by birth, a Brahmo by marriage, I feel close to Islam and connected to Christianity yet I have never been religious, I believe in God and that for me is enough. I have lit a candle at a church, offered a chaddar at a mosque, I tied threads in a dargah and I have rung a bell at a temple, most of my experiences have been due circumstances or my curiosity to see the place.

My first experience was when I went to Jharkhand with a group of friends; the trip in itself will need another long post which I will write later. We decided to do some trekking and found the hill on which a famous Jain Pareshnath temple was situated to be an ideal location. Right below the hill was a Digambar Jain monastery where we had to stop to attend to nature calls. We turned beetroot red with embarrassment at the sight of near total nudity of the senior male residents. We kept our eyes strictly focused on the way to the wash rooms which were incredibly dirty) and once done marched out with our eyes focused towards our toes. The hill was about a 1366 Meters climb, the first half was a gentle slope with nicely laid out steps while the second half was a steep climb on a dirt trail which was somewhat non existent due to recent landslides. We came across a gurgling post monsoon stream flowing down which we gingerly crossed by stepping carefully on the stones in between. By the time we had climbed three fourths of the hill, our bodies were screaming with exhaustion but we could not give up so we literally dragged each other and ourselves up the remaining portion of the hill and by the time we reached the steps of the Pareshnath temple, we felt as if we had conquered Mt Everest.

There was a sense of achievement and purpose to our climb once we entered the temple which was very peaceful and quiet. While doing the customary parikrama, I was astonished to discover the height we had climbed. The sight of the lazy Barakar river flowing below was a wonderful sight to behold. We did not have the luxury to remain at the top for long as dusk was near and the hill was not safe after dark. There were dacoits as well as wild animals from adjoining forests to contend with so we descended as fast as we could and by the time we reached the bottom, we resembled the walking dead.

My affinity to Jain pilgrim spots did not end with this stint. Recently on a family vacation, we went to Shravanabelagola with some vague expectation that Bahubali would be visible without much effort. However this was not the case, Bahubali was situated atop Vindhyagiri hill which is about 436 Meters high with about 500 steps to climb. At noon in mid summer this was not a feat for the faint hearted or the easy going vacationer. Being the stubborn one in the family I said I would climb by foot while others opted for the doli which was a cane chair carried by 4 people. The climb was easy enough though it had me panting in between and I had to stop to recover my breath. It’s always a nice feeling to look down to see how much one has climbed. There was a serene looking square pond visible below which is actually the 'belagola' or pond. There is a shrine midway (also known as Odegal Basadi) which has 3 large statues of Jain Tirthankaras carved in black stone.

After crossing this shrine there are a few more (steeper) steps leading to the Gomateshwara shrine which I climbed easily enough - thanks to the midway rest. Nothing had prepared me for the awe inspiring statue of Bahubali or Gomateshwara which stands at 58.8 Meters, mysterious, peaceful and casting no shadows around it. Humans were just a speck of existence at his feet. The pillars around the temple have many beautiful carvings which are worth seeing.

Rest of my family had a rather adventurous journey up and down the steps on a cane chair. The 4 men literally ran up and covered the 500 steps in 15 minutes or so one way while for the average human it takes about 45 minutes one way. By the end of it one either has a sore bum or sore feet but what’s a little soreness in front of such magnificence which is centuries old?

English: A Language that Unites while it Divides

2008-06-16T12:50:00.001+05:30

India, a country with an ancient heritage and culture which is thousands of years old, a country which has many thousands of languages, in some way or another derived from Sanskrit and yet ironically we don’t have a language to unite our country.

Hindi has been announced as the language that will unite India. It is mandatory to learn Hindi in schools but we often come across instances where people from other the eastern or southern parts of India can barely understand it. If the region has a high infiltration of Bollywood films then there may be some hope but down south where the influences of Bollywood have been firmly kept away due to a strong south Indian film industry, chances of people knowing Hindi is almost remote.

In most schools down south, children are allowed to carry books and consult each other during the Hindi exam while the person 'on watch' kindly looks the other way, which of course is not the case for other subject exams. If you are a tourist in Tamil Nadu then there is an unwritten rule - don’t speak Hindi!

It’s even more ironic that our country shuns a language which is indeed 'ours' and universally accepts English which is a leftover of the British Raj. Everybody in urban areas and some of the emancipated rural areas can speak a smattering of English or they are trying their best to learn. Even Indian bureaucracy uses English as it crosses all vernacular barriers. If we observe our daily conversations at home and work, it is comprised of almost 50% English and 50% vernacular.

On the other side while in a way English unites our country, it divides our classes - perhaps more in the urban context. People with better diction and vocabulary are regarded highly 'educated' and 'cultured' while regional accents are frowned upon. When people use a wrong word inadvertently, we are quick to judge and snigger within ourselves - "Oh probably he or she was not educated in an English medium school!" At a workplace one's capability to write and converse in English has a distinct advantage.

So much is our love for English that we look down on the use of our own languages and have now stopped learning it altogether except for what schools force upon us as mandatory learning till class 10.

We are probably victims of our colonial past but it may be interesting to observe that highly advanced first world countries like Japan and Germany have progressed using their own languages while ancient India being the inventors and significant contributors to science, medicine, mathematics and astronomy use a borrowed language to progress.

We have benefited from our colonial past too, the wide knowledge of English in our country helps it to be the back office to the world and provide IT services to many countries so I guess we may love it or hate it but we definitely cannot do without it.

Au Revoir Tooth Fairy

2008-06-09T17:29:00.000+05:30

Bidding farewell to tooth fairies in my thirties is probably a little late in the day as I should have done that when I was 10 or eleven as that is the time by when one looses all one's milk teeth.

My one particular canine was rather reluctant to part with me so it stayed on refusing to budge as the years went by. In the process the suppressed canine protested and violently pushed up my fourth incisor on the right hand side, leaving me with one crooked tooth, a flawed smile and a general bad feeling about my appearance. The dentist gave me a wire brace in my teens which suppressed the crooked tooth for a while but it reared its ugly head (or is it face?) once my mouth outgrew the brace. The dentist maintained a stoic silence in front of a desperate teen, who had to flash pretty smiles at men but could not. He asked me to accept my crooked smile and said that it adds character to my smile! D'uh. The guys definitely didn't think so - no one said I have a pretty smile so far and that more than thirty years.

Well the tooth prevailed and remained and it didn't really create any major problems once I 'accepted' my smile. Somewhere in my late twenties my solitary baby tooth started to make its presence felt, it ached, it chipped and it ached some more and then it disappeared. Of course I wasn't going back to philosophical dentists anymore so I just popped a pill instead.

Slowly and steadily the milk tooth kept depleting, my smile in my photographs started to take on a Draculean air (Dracula Like based upon the word Herculean). The milk tooth now resembled a small fang ready to dip into an unsuspecting neck - it was a nicely chipped triangle hanging from my gums and to make things more sinister, it started to blacken. My aversion to Dentists kept me away - Dracula beckoned.

The other day while brushing my teeth with my contact lenses on I happened to catch sight of my right profile and I nearly shrieked out loud with horror. All my long held affection for my solitary reminder of childhood vanished and I fixed myself an appointment with the Dentist (after 15 years), I marched in bravely and just said - this little black one has to go. A prick of anesthesia and a yank was all it took and it was over in five minutes. The Dentist knowledgably informed me that it was my milk tooth and a new tooth may... just may grow in its place. If that happens, my crooked incisor may just straighten up. Definitely a life changing incident - a perfect smile without spending thousands! If not, then a ceramic replacement would do just as well - one has to compromise I guess.

So technically speaking I am entitled to my last tooth fairy visit, the remains of my milk canine which will be placed under my pillow and I hope she will leave me a nice present....

My Father's Brother

2008-04-24T23:58:00.002+05:30

I guess it’s a strange way to refer to my Kaka (Uncle) but it describes it the best. Jotu as he was known in the family, parts of the family also called him Lal Mama, because he was fair skinned and had pink cheeks, lived in Germany for almost his entire life. Some of his initial years were spent in Lucknow scraping through educational institutions after which he went to Germany to pursue further studies - at that time many Bengalis opted for the erstwhile West Germany to pursue further studies.

From whatever family conversations I had heard about Jotu Kaka, studies were the last thing on his mind in Germany, blessed with good looks and oodles of charm, he was probably busier pursuing ladies rather than higher education. One particular lady - a very pretty lady named Uta managed to stop his wild ways and domesticated him. As the family lore goes, Jotu Kaka lied to Uta Kakima about his age, wooed her and finally married her. He was about 12 years older than Uta but claimed he was just 2 years older. Uta says she was so much in love that she believed everything he said.

After the marriage in Germany - a church wedding, photographs were sent to India, some of the older family matriarchs fainted on hearing the news - a Bengali Brahmin marrying a German who eats beef, the shock was too much to bear! The younger members of the family were curious and eager to meet this "memsahib" who the much loved and popular Jotu had married. When Jotu and Uta came to India for their second traditional Hindu wedding, they were welcomed with open arms by the young and the old. Uta was a lovely girl who won over the family with her charm, manners and respect for the Indian traditions and cultures. The wedding was a grand affair, from what I have heard, which ran into several days with hundreds of relatives converging in to Lucknow. Video shoots were unheard of back in the sixties but thanks to German technology, the wedding was captured on film which includes my Mother's exotic hairdo. My Mother and Jotu Kaka got along well and Jotu Kaka would often tease my Mother about how much effort she spent on dressing up and elaborate hair do's.

I was born much after the above events took place, to me Jotu Kaka and Uta Kakima were just a photograph in the album - it was their wedding photograph, a black and white one with Uta in a white dress and probably orange blossoms in her hand and both of them looking deeply into each others eyes and smiling. That photograph still epitomizes the word romance for me. My pre teen adolescent mind fed by Georgette Heyer, would often wonder about how magical their meeting and coming together must have been.

One fine day my Father announced that Jotu Kaka would be coming to Delhi to visit us, I was very excited as for me the photograph would come alive. I cannot recollect my first impressions of them except that they seemed, for the lack of a better word, foreign. Jotu kaka used to teach Physics to school going children in Düsseldorf (Uta Kakima had forced him to study and get a degree after their marriage) and Uta used to work in a departmental store called Metro AG. Both were avid golfers. We took them to Lucknow, where our ancestral house was to meet Pishima and then for a short weekend getaway to Badkhal Lake - a place near Delhi where migratory birds come during winters. My Father used to cook biriyani very well and we all cooked biriyani together at the Badkhal resort and it was served with much fanfare, decorated with silver sheets (warak), and photographed from all angles. At that time I found it very odd that Jotu Kaka accompanied all his food with beer, it seemed like sacrilege to mix the world's best biriyani with beer.

Jotu Kaka's next visit was after my Father had passed away, by then I was well into my teens and this was the most memorable visit ever. The first few days were difficult; I think my Father's absence along with some other family under currents related to division of property made them uncomfortable. Jotu Kaka wanted to visit Kashmir and he suggested that we also accompany him, which we did. Those few days were when I had my first long conversations with him, about my school, my friends, my hobbies and whatever else that came up. He taught me how to use the Minolta camera which he had given me, I discovered the joys of photography and the many tricks of manual focusing and uses of light. I still remember the plight of an old man leisurely pulling on his hookah somewhere in the Shalimar gardens, he was asked to sit and pull the hookah at some angle while Jotu Kaka photographed him. I am sure it wasn't pleasant for the old man but he complied readily - maybe he was just being polite because a gora mem was beside him.

Family property is more of a curse than a boon, the sale of our ancestral house in Lucknow managed to tide over some difficult times and provide the much needed monetary support, on the other hand its sale created rifts as deep as the Grand Canyon between the people who benefited and those who did not. I think no one can really give up ancestral property - it’s probably something to do with our roots and our desire to hang on to them, even if it is just a few thousand rupees in our bank account. From my perspective, since then arctic winds started blowing in our direction with very brief bouts of warm weather when some relatives remembered my Father and visited us.

The ensuing arctic chills and the many misunderstandings (which now seem inconsequential) kept me from meeting Jotu Kaka during his visits to India. Weddings are a time to forgive and forget, my wedding card was sent to Jotu Kaka and Kakima and they came to India soon after. My husband and I went to meet him, I was happy to find that he was still the happy, enthusiastic, somewhat childish and spoilt person that I remembered him to be - fifteen years is a long time and not much had changed really; maybe the distances we create are more in our mind than in reality.

In one of the other visits Uta Kakima and I exchanged email IDs and we kept in touch though occasional emails. The last time I met Jotu Kaka was when he visited Mumbai a few years back. That’s when he met my son for the first time; it was touching to see how easily they connected. After the introductions were over, Jotu Kaka asked my son "Babaji, cholo ice cream kheye aashi". My son, ever so glad to get some windfall in the form of ice-cream trotted off happily across the busy Malad streets. Both of them came back looking extremely satisfied as if they had accomplished an important mission. I cooked biriyani for them trying my best to reproduce my Father's recipe. I gifted him the remaining biriyani masala which he promised to use in Germany - which was incidentally; powdered using the mortar and pestle used by his mother, my grandmother who I had never seen. I showed him the only remnant of the Lucknow house which I had - the mortar and pestle, using which my Thakurma (Grandmother) ground the paan (betel nut leaf) which she could no longer chew with her teeth.

A few days ago, we got a phone call where a relative said that Jotu Kaka wasn't keeping well and these may be his last few days. A day later we heard he had passed away and had been suffering from lung cancer. They were in India, in Mumbai for a while to visit Pishima. I am not sure why he didn't get in touch with us - I guess I'll just put it down to the fact that this as a typical trait of my strange family, it’s always full of surprises.

I was perhaps through my interaction with Jotu Kaka, trying to discover my Father who I had lost when I was 10 years old, trying to find a bridge into my Father's world; with Jotu Kaka's passing away that bridge has become too frail for me to cross - maybe its best left alone.

Broker vs Broker

2008-03-28T18:45:00.004+05:30

I was checking with a colleague who has just moved from Mumbai to Kolkata and this is what he had to say about Mumbai and Kolkata brokers. I hope you all find this entertaining and in the meanwhile let me rack my brains how to rid myself of this darned writers block. I seem to be having rather long continous spells these days or was my 'writing' phase just a passing phase I wonder...

"
Just an example of the difference I am finding between the two places –

“I met my broker for house hunting today. He is a 70 year young man with big black spectacles, dressed in dhoti and a kurta and greets me as “Kaimon ache babu?” and takes me around tree lined lanes of lake garden in a cycle rickshaw humming a old Bengali tune. He shows me 6 houses within 1 hour and manages to sit for tea with one of the landlord, a ‘bhadralok’, who forces me to have a cup too even if I am not keen to rent his house and discusses about the working culture in banks nowadays and whether Obama or Clinton will win.”

“When I met my broker in Mumbai, he was a 25-26 year old man who was wearing an ordinary tee-shirt and trousers, chewing gutka and greeted me “Time nahi hain boss, bolo kitna budget hain tumhara”. This is the first sentence he speaks! And then he curses the fact that I have no car and takes me in a taxi to andheri all the time yelling in his phone and punctuating with expletives which could make a goonda blush. It takes us an hour to reach the house over cramped and congested roads. The landlord shows us the door within 5 minutes when I try to negotiate the rent saying I like the apartment and would move in soon if we could reach a better price. He also warns the broker to not waste his time like this in future”

So, I think Calcutta is treating me really nice.
"

The Winter Picnic

2008-01-25T12:17:00.000+05:30

Winter is the season for parties, family get togethers and picnics and so we even joined the hordes who set out of Kolkata to the outskirts in search of some open spaces, good times and of course good food. Lorries and buses full of screaming or singing adults and children are quite a common sight. The caterers follow with food to feed a small army for the rest of the day.

One boiled egg, two slices of buttered bread and one banana is breakfast which is usually distributed to all in whatever mode of transport the revelers travel in. Inspired by this age old custom, even we packed neat boxes with the above. Lunch was purchased and packed in individual packets the previous night which comprised of luchi, alu'r dom, nolen gurer mishti, macher chop, one plastic spoon and one napkin (English translations would be pointless!).

We set off to a place near Diamond Harbor - Radisson Fort was conveniently located there in case we feel the need for amenities and ambience. The Tata sumo was equipped with a good stereo system and the FM radio churned out non stop hits in the midst of meaningless chatter. It was a good time to catch up on the last few years and we chatted almost endlessly. After breakfast, oranges were brought out to curb thirst and hunger pangs brought on by constant chatter.

Radisson Fort wore a somewhat deserted look when we disembarked and stretched our cramped legs. We crossed the drawbridge over the moat, the interiors were pleasant but the best was the terrace overlooking the Ganga where the water glistened and sparkled with sunlight and tiny boats bobbed up and down. Some large fishing trawlers ambled by now and then. The gardens within the resort were next to the river with a paved path along the river. There was a barbed wire fence separating the resort with the parallel lane outside.

My son was carrying his cricket bat, we were generally strolling around, a boy of about 10 years was walking with his cycle just outside the fence and he happened to see the bat. He kept asking my son to give him the bat, of course my son would do no such thing, and finally when he got this dialogue went over 15 minutes, my son said "You give me your cycle and I will give you my bat". The boy looked rather dejected at the impossibility of the situation and walked of with drooping shoulders. Perhaps if the fence had not been there, both the boys could have played cricket for a while and had a good time. Some fences are just to high to climb I guess...

We had some rather costly coffee, a small price to pay for using the premises for a few hours and then set off again by the vehicle right to edge of the Ganges. We arranged ourselves around a tree which had a cemented area around it and felt the cool winter breeze. Lunch packets were brought out and devoured with gusto while observing a fisherman arranging nets a little into the river to trap unsuspecting fish. Used napkins, spoons and general garbage were collected into a bad for proper disposal. The driver was scolded severely for throwing a plastic tea cup into the river.

After walking around for a while and dipping our feet into the river, we were on our way back to Kolkata. Since we had time to spare, we went to another popular spot - Victoria Memorial. Unfortunately, the grounds are no longer free for all and there is a queue to get in so we give up the idea. Instead we settle for steaming hot cups of tea from the maidan opposite to Victoria Memorial. We also manage to find a horse driven carriage with strong sturdy horses that would be able to bear the weight of 7 healthy people. The ride down Red Road was scary with all kinds of vehicles zooming past while the 2 horses trotted but it was great fun as well. The horses and their driver got money above the negotiated rate as everybody was generally very happy.

The maidan has its own share of ponies which my son rode and was highly thrilled to shoot balloons of all colors with a rifle. Soon it was time to head back home. The picnic is over!

Basic Instincts

2007-11-03T22:59:00.001+05:30

I am sure this makes us think of Sharon Stone ice-picking through various men but believe me, the basic instincts portrayed by Sharon Stone and her various men comes way below in the list of other prominent basic instincts displayed by humans at public gatherings.

During Durga Puja, most probashi Bengalis (Bengalis living away from their state) spend the better part of the days and nights at the community puja pandal. The kitchens in most of our homes shut down on Saptami, Ashtami and Navami where bhog is served in the afternoons and dinner is usually a mad rush for all the typical Bengali food available at the adjoining food stalls.

We moan and groan about the hectic schedules, anjali in the mornings, bhog in the afternoons and the cultural programs in the night and of course we MUST doll ourselves up with fresh (preferably new) clothes on each visit to the Pandal. The much designer saree'd women, dripping with diamonds and gold jewelry and the men with their elaborate panjabi with gold buttons and dhoti from some designer in Kolkata all form a merry gathering at all times.

All the veneer of apparent sophistication however vanishes when bhog is announced - people run helter-skelter to get to the beginning of the queue, a push or a stiletto digging a hole into your feet does not even require apologies. After all we humans are running towards our foremost basic need - FOOD! The instinct in all of us resembles the early caveman where we hunt for food lest it finishes before we can reach it. So I have come to the conclusion that hunting for food is the primary basic instinct of man.

On Ashtami and Navami when crowds peak, chairs are at a premium and often we have to stand and watch the shows or stand and eat. The hunter in us awakens again in such situations to hunt for chairs, a member of the family goes trawling through the stretch to catch some unsuspecting person who has just got up for a minute and snatch out the chair from under his or her butt. The poor person believing the chair is till there, lands with a thud on the muddy ground. The unapologetic 'chair thief' looks back with a wicked giggle and nonchalantly walks off with the much coveted chair in hand. I think we can attribute this aspect of human behavior to our basic instinct for hunting out a safe shelter at all costs (in this case represented by a chair).

The thousands of years of 'civilization' still hasn't tamed us - we are still very much the cave men and women we were thousands of years back where fight or flight rules us.

Tagged! For the first time!

2007-09-28T23:27:00.000+05:30

May I say that I am honored to be tagged by Nautilus but its rather a dillemma to write about myself. I dont know what to write really. Who am I? Let me try and discover that as I go along these random eight facts about myself.

1. I am a narcissist - I cannot stop admiring myself in front of the mirror for the brief seconds that I catch glimpses of myself throughout the day! This has a flip side as well - the extra pounds that pile on whenever I look at ice-creams or samosas make me hate myself.

2. I dream a lot, my first dream was to be a rock star of repute. I was rather spoilt at school when all the auditorium noise faded away into pin drop silence when I started singing and the little gap after which the applause started. So understandably I felt that being a female version of Elvis was possible. My second dream was a rather common one - to find a man straight out of a Mills & Boon book and of course that did not happen (though I still live in hope!) as such men just dont exist - they are only a figment of a woman's imagination *sigh*. My third and most recent dream is to become a writer of repute - just because I get comments on my blog, I think I can write and Penguin or whoever will offer me a million dollar contract - well lets see...

3. I love being the center of attraction, at times I am the most social person around, while at times I withdraw completely and prefer to be left alone. I can actually go off people altogether for some time. At times I can be detached and cold while at times emotions brim over. At times I am a selfish bitch while at other times I can be better than Santa. At times I look great (with a little effort) while at other times I look like a hag. There is a lot of duality in me - not that I mind. I dont get bored of myself that way!

4. I love giving unsolicited and unwarranted advice. I often play the role of an agony aunt lending my ears and shoulders and of course advice. I am proud to say that I have saved a mariagge, helped in breaking destructive relationships, finding a long lost ex girlfriend of 20 years for a certain gentleman and sending back many gentlemen who have chased me back to their wives or after other women. Advise anyone???

5. I have funny feet, my second finger is way longer than my first and no matter how fancy the shoes may me or how sturdy they may be - they always tear at the most inopportune moment and I am left looking stupid and clumsy either limping along or carrying my fancy sandals in my hand. Now I have resorted to keeping feviqwick in my hand bag to save me from all the shoe horrors.

6. I live in fear of dance as I am no good at it. These days when people are happy and celebrate, shaking one's bums to music is almost mandatory and it is moments such as these that I wish that the earth would open up and swallow me or magically transform me into an ace dancer. I tried to overcome this fear by joining a salsa class but alas, I only became more acutely aware of my shortcomings. Oh the agony of not being able to sway my hips to music - only I know it! Another fear that I cannot conquer is the fear of driving - I am happy to be chaeffeured around.

7. Any kind of transformation awes me. The transformation of obese people into svelte people on reality shows, the transfomation of plain janes into glam dolls on a make over show, the transformation of your everyday common man or woman into a celebrity, the transformation of a new born baby into a 10 year old boy, the transformation of a domineering and sarcastic mother in law into sachcharine sweetness, the transformation of love to indifference and so much more. Change is constant and it is always for the better.

8. This is the most unglamorous but well its quite a passion with me - I love cleaning the loo. Sparkling tiles, milk white basins and commode, clear mirrors give me a sense of achievment!

I hereby complete what I have been asked to do and in the process revealed a bit more of myself than I intended to do but what the heck - its liberating!

I also hereby tag TCP, Winsome Reflections, Punster, Amader Dadu and BlondeButBright. I have broken the rules as I think the others I know in blogosphere have already been tagged so I cannot tag them twice!

And here are the Tag Rules:
1) Each player starts with 8 random facts/habits about themselves.
2) People who are tagged, write a blog post about their own 8 random things, and post these rules.
3) At the end of your post you need to tag 8 people and include their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment and tell them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.
4) If you fail to do this within eight hours, you will have to endure the stigma of having a blog without visitors or comments!

Goosebumps

2007-09-06T09:57:00.000+05:30

I have this chronic sensation of goose bumps all over whenever I go for a movie at an Adlabs hall (movie theater chain). I am not sure when I discovered this apparent malady but since the last 4 or 5 years it happens every time - without fail!

After the usual advertisements, there is a roll of drums and screen message 'Please stand up for the National Anthem). Almost always, the response is immediate except for the popcorn laden people who get up an in the process create a carpet full of crunch. The tricolor flies high in the wind in full size in the screen in front while the National Anthem plays in the background. Most are still embarrassed to sing along though I do see a few lips moving. Most kids sing on top of their voices though and shout a spirited 'Jai Hind' at the end.

I don’t sing, but I swell with pride and patriotism when I hear the National Anthem and that is when the goose bumps appear. I can imagine how people who represent India in sporting events feel when they win a medal and the National Anthem of the winning country is played - I am sure they have an attack of the goose bumps as well.

I thank the founder of this movie theater chain for reminding us who we are, for having our moments of realization about the great country we belong to and teaching our children to be a proud Indian.

Rule Britannia

2007-08-24T22:44:00.001+05:30

After spending eight years in Bombay, Irani cafes were still virgin territory for me, something which I had read about in every single publication, heard about from many friends and acquaintances yet somehow never had the opportunity to go and discover the much talked about culinary delights they served. To add to my worries, I also kept reading that most such institutions were shutting down or selling out to make way for the retail boom in the space starved south Bombay.

On 14th August my husband and I were in South Bombay for some work and we made desperate calls to friends and acquaintances to tell us about an Irani cafe in the vicinity - a Google search may have yielded better results though! Some friends were vegetarian and did not know about any while others were vague about directions, one last call was fruitful though and the kind gentleman told us the exact location and said that Britannia would be closest to where we were.

After a few misses and wrong turns we did finally find the place. A washed out tin signboard with faded red paint with 'Britannia' written over it was just about decipherable. We crossed the street to enter, the place looked dark and deserted, my heart sank, we were well beyond lunch time - maybe we could manage some snacks. The old gentleman and a younger man at the counter with a booming voice said that they were closed. I was hungry and shattered with grief and my husband was probably relieved that he did not have to endure food at this seemingly squalid joint.

The gentlemen proudly said that they were the only eatery in Bombay to shut sharp at 4 in the evening, I resorted to begging for food - surely they can rustle up something. 'It's all finished', they say. I say how much I had read about Britannia and how it was a part of Bombay history and how much I had been looking forward to eat here - still hoping that their hearts would melt and they would offer us food but alas to no avail!

What ensued next was a conversation that I will always hold dear to my heart. The old Parsi gentleman asked us where we were from and seemed quite pleased to hear that we had come all the way from New Bombay - a good 60 kms away. He was even more pleased to learn that we originally hailed from the state West Bengal. The younger gentleman (the son?), immediately said ' Ah! Then you must be a fan of Sourav Ganguly! See how well he is playing now that Chappell has left? He was a real villain I say!' We of course being true blue Bengalis, whole heartedly agreed! The old gentleman went on to say that how much he admired Bengalis and about a friend who was a lone survivor of an air crash. How his niece had married a Bengali and they were living happily ever after somewhere in Canada. (Now that is something as mixed marriages are a strict no-no amongst the Parsi community - they are a fiercely proud lot who are trying to hold on to their roots). Then came the next statement which will floor any Bengali - the old gentleman said 'Why Ganguly, there is Subhash Chandra Bose - he is the greatest Bengali ever'. We were of course floored and sold for life and beaming from ear to ear. We wished them a happy Parsi new year which was on 19th Aug and promised to come back really soon.

Somewhere in between this happy exchange, loomed a dark cloud, the younger gentleman said that they were looking for a buyer and would sell immediately if they got the right price. I sensed some undercurrents of a reluctant younger generation who seemed burdened by a family business which was and is a passion with the older generation as long as they live. Perhaps it was this passion which kept the older gentleman coming in to the eater every day and interacting with the customers and taking orders and supervising the kitchen.

After hearing about the impending sell off we literally rushed back the next day, the commute was much easier as it was a holiday and there was almost no traffic on the roads. South Bombay wears a deserted and desolate look on such days as it is predominantly a business area. Britannia thankfully was open and buzzing with customers. The place was lighted, tables covered with green check cloth and topped with a glass cover. The menu was a printed sheet under the glass cover, straight backed wooden chairs round seats, marble floor, peeling green paint on the walls and a specials menu written on a whiteboard. Almost all tables were full, we managed to find a table though, my husband went and greeted the old gentleman - any Ganguly admirer is his friend for life! The old gentleman left his lunch midway, walked up to our table and assisted us to order our food.

We settle for Chicken Sali Boti, pav (bread), Mutton Berry Pulao and custard. All meat is served boneless here so no fuss. The chicken gravy was mild and thick, tasted pleasant with the handy pav which soaked up the gravy. The potato straws generously scattered over the gravy gave it a unique twist and texture. Once we were done with the chicken, we shifted our attention to the berry pulao, which is a derivation of Persian Jeweled Rice. Saffron colored rice with brown strands of fried onion and generously topped with fried cashew nuts and decorated on the sides with tiny meatballs. The mound of rice hid pieces of mutton cooked in what seemed to be a gravy made with the famed Iranian barberries which were specially imported from Iran or the nearby ever resourceful Crawford Market where one can find any condiment or exotic food item. The berries had a presence in the pulao as well as little bits I think but I will have to go back and verify this - some excuse to eat some more! To say the least, the Berry Pulao is the best pulao I have ever eaten in my whole life - it is divine. The ecstasy did not end here; more followed in forms the famous rich Parsi custard, which is made out of milk that’s been cooked over a slow flame till it turns brown. The custard de molded and served in thick caramel syrup and is indescribably good. The Parsi gentleman's admiration for Bengalis showed up in the menu as well, Mishti Doi (sweet yoghurt) - a Bengali specialty is available here too and that too in a khuri (an earthen pot)! The old Parsi gentleman stopped by again and said that we must try the Mishti Doi and tell him if it is as good as that available in Calcutta. We tried it and found it to be better than what we tasted in Calcutta.

While waiting for the bill and carefully masking our burps of satisfaction, we looked around to find a truly cosmopolitan lot, there were some Japanese tourists, Germans, Americans and of course large merry Indian families enjoying bottles of Dukes Raspberry (which I believe is a fixture in all Irani Cafes) and Berry Pulao all around. The price is modest for such a grand meal; we wave our goodbyes to the Parsi gentlemen and thank them for such a wonderful meal and the hospitality. They thank us and say 'We are always at your service' with a small bow.

There is no love greater than the love of eating - that’s the slogan of Britannia & Co. Restaurant, Ballard Estate, Mumbai. Phone: 2261 5264. If you are a 5* freak then you will realize that the food they serve there is a pale comparison to the truly delicious food made with love that they serve here.

Hail Britannia, Save Britannia. Rule Britannia.

Arresting Images

2007-03-30T18:30:00.001+05:30

Some images remain with you always and they are best retained in our memories as we can retain what we felt, heard, smelt and of course saw unlike the two dimensional photographs which just manage to capture the visual moment.

One such image that has been my most perfect visual moment is from my ancestral home in Calcutta. It was about 11 in the night; there was a power failure so I went out to the balcony. It was pitch dark, the crickets humming, a frog croaked somewhere, mosquitoes sang in my ear and the glow worms twinkled off and on at a distance, the leaves of the coconut tree in our garden swayed gently with a hint of a breeze and a bright full moon just above the coconut tree casting it's gentle light below.

This is beauty that no camera can capture; it just is something that I will always remember for ever.

Lolling Heads

2007-03-23T17:01:00.001+05:30

I once read a post about personal space in a Blog I visit often and I was reminded about it in an incident today morning.

Our country being densely populated with over a billion people, personal space in mega cities in public modes of transport is not even a millimeter. Almost every part of one's body is plastered against someone else’s and one is left to deal with body odor, sweat and what not! I have outgrown my days of traveling with the masses but I do use the office buses that my organization provides to ensure that we reach office in time.

Today morning I was sitting quite comfortably between two scruffy looking ladies and since it’s a long ride, I either read a book or look out of the window and count all red cars going by (ha!). My two neighbors had in the meanwhile dozed off. In the midst of an intriguing chapter from the book 'Feluda's Last case' by Satyajt Ray, I find one head dangerously close to my left shoulder. I cringe at the thought of the hair laden with coconut oil landing on my shoulder and staining my clothes. While the head on the other side seemed to have reasonably clean shampooed hair, I noticed specks of white - dandruff! Yikes!

Obviously the event of any head landing on my shoulder had to be avoided at all costs. My reading was abandoned while I navigated myself to steer clear of these objectionable swaying heads. The funny thing is that the moment the hair fell forward on their face; they were alert enough to tuck it back behind their ears (reflex action?) but when it came to controlling their lolling heads they blissfully let themselves go.

The devil in me took over and I positioned myself at the edge of the seat, away from the back rest, I knew a speed breaker was coming up and the bus would jerk. Predictably, the two heads collided together when the bus went over the speed breaker and a wide grin of satisfaction spread over my face!

Writer's Block

2007-03-22T15:44:00.001+05:30

After 13 months of bright sunny weather the much dreaded clouds have appeared, dark and dense which keeps out the light of creative thought altogether. Perhaps this is the work of the so called cruel number thirteen? So many times I can see my mental typewriter tapping away thoughts and ideas for me to write about, something akin to white fluffy clouds that float about on a bright sunny day without the promise of rain. When it's time for the words to rain on this Blog, they just shrivel up and die.

It’s all there in my mind, all the fantastic stories, the amusing anecdotes, the various experiences of ordinary day to day life yet my fingers refuse to execute thoughts into words. My mind comes up with excuses as to why I should not be stealing fifteen minutes after lunch break to write something. All I need to do is just to sit down and write but alas!

How can such a simple action be so complex? Writing is after all a gift of expression and all we humans want to do is express ourselves. Why has my mind suddenly obstructing what is a seemingly natural process?

While writing this piece, I fearfully opened notepad (as that is the blankest screen editor possible!) and hoped that I could at least put into words my current dilemma and thankfully, the words did flow. Perhaps it's all in the mind (as a friend often tells me), all I really need to do is to break those imaginary shackles and let my words flow like an endless river...

Gifts

2007-01-29T23:11:00.000+05:30

Have gifts become irrelevant in this age of self gratification? Most of us have enough financial muscle to buy ourselves things reasonably within our reach. If it is slightly beyond our reach then there is always plastic money and the numerous personal loans which all banks are dying to offer us. The burgeoning economy and the retail boom add to the options of buying just about any international brand.

Do people even appreciate the sentiments behind a gift in this day and age? Increasingly, I am seeing that a gift is judged by amount of money it cost, from the shop it has been purchased from and such like. I have myself snottily turned up my nose at a lipstick given to me which seemed to be purchased from a throwaway sale - the label showed 0.99 cents. Immediately an internal voice from somewhere rebuked be for being crude and said its the thought that counts, someone cared enough to remember me, someone cared enough to think I was important enough to bring me a little something from somewhere, somebody cared enough to invest that one inch of space in their suit cased to fit in something just for me - don’t all those things count?

I have been on the receiving end as well when I could sense vibes about the 'ho hum' attitude, about things being the usual supermarket stuff, cheap, not exclusive, common and what not. Of course they all say the thank you's very prettily but lack warmth completely. Why did I even bother? Some of the people I have got gifts for have just accepted silently without a single acknowledgement. I had to ask - did you get the thing I got for you and they would wake up and say oh yes - thanks. What a waste yet again. I wonder what they would loose to show a gesture of appreciation to someone who has bothered to remember the person's existence and spent time and money to buy something that the person may like. It's perhaps insensitivity at its best.

I have experienced the joys of gifting as well, the whoops of joy, the smile and the true sentiment that goes with accepting a gift. All of it has been without exception from my immediate family. My Mother makes it a point to mention how much convenient her life has become after the onion chopper or how much she enjoyed the candied ginger and she is not saying that to please me. My son plays with the toys I got for him, my husband spent a little fortune to alter shirts I had brought for him but were of the wrong size.

Perhaps we are more diligent about the gifts when we gift to our loved ones and buy the other gifts out of a sense of duty. Perhaps it is best not to do things just out of a sense of duty and not give gifts to people who cannot appreciate the gesture of gifting and save precious time, efforts and money.

A Beautiful Tree

2007-01-19T12:05:00.000+05:30

During my days in LA, on a gloomy day I stepped out of my apartment with no specific aim about where to go and walked down to Santa Monica Blvd to catch a bus that goes somewhere. On my way I discovered this beautiful tree in full bloom against the backdrop a red brick house - on that gloomy day this vision was the best thing I could have started with...

Are Cartoons for Children?

2007-01-16T20:00:00.000+05:30

I have been watching the cartoon series called Shin Shan on a local TV channel for the past few months and to say the least I am shocked at the language, the double entendres and sometimes obvious sexual innuendos. Add to that a harassed mother who constantly beats her child.

Hardly appropriate viewing material for impressionable young minds who may watch such shows on TV. In one episode Sin Shan forgets to wear his cap and after some yelling from his mother the only 'cap' he can find is his mother's underwear which he wears on his head. In another one Sin Shan drools over skimpily clad women or pretty nurses - are 5 year olds capable of such behavior? In another episode he shown to climb a female mannequin clad in a bikini because he finds it attractive. In most of the episodes he takes off his pants to show his rear. The only safe place he knows is his crotch and there are several other uncomfortable moments where I internally seethe and switch off the TV and warn my son not to see Sin Shan.

On a broader perspective, a lot of the cartoons and the humor contained in them are aimed at adults rather than children. I am still not convinced about the suitability of Dexter, Johnny Bravo or a few other popular shows.

I question the intellect of the TV channels that air this show and also our well known censor boards who are known to be prudish. Had actual people enacted some of the scenes in Sin Shan, it would be termed as paedophilia and banned straight away or given an "Adults" tag. Then why is it acceptable as a cartoon?

Loos of the World

2006-12-28T17:17:00.000+05:30

A rather smelly topic but I thought this was something I could write about in great detail!

My first experience with an unconventional loo was when I was about 10 years old. I went to Lucknow to our ancestral house along with my parents and since the infrastructure in he old ancestral home was inadequate, we put up in a charming old world hotel called Carlton and spent the day at the ancestral house where my Father's sisters lived. Calls of nature can hardly be ignored for a long time and the moment came when I just had to use the loo. My Pishima (Father's sister) showed me the way to this rather dark looking entrance, a 60 watt bulb was switched on for my benefit. On the left hand side there was a bath area and on the right hand side there were toilets. I entered the toilet expecting to find a white commode but instead I found a set of steps, on climbing the four steps I found a hole. Pishima instructed me to use the err... hole from outside. Just below the hole I heard a scuffling sort of a noise and screamed on top of my voice and yelled to Pishima that there is someone down there. She said it was nothing and said she would wait outside. When I emerged she told me that the noise I heard was nothing but the pigs that are let loose in these interconnected tunnels and help in cleaning up the mess. Well I guess that was a stroke of human genius applied to sewage cleaning!

My next experience with unhelpful loos was in Schipol airport in Amsterdam many years back. They may have smartened up by now. I entered this spotlessly clean all white loo and wondered where the flush is, there was absolutely no chain, button, switch or lever in sight. There was a tile with a red dot a cryptic statement 'Please Approach' written in small letters. I gingerly pressed this tile and whoosh came a jet of water!

The next worrisome flushing experience was in Germany or somewhere between Germany and Denmark when we were cruising in a ship. Alcohol is duty free it seems on such cruises so the ladies and gents drank with gusto and as a consequence the loos were rather crowded. On my visit to these cramped chambers I again started my desperate hunt for the flush lever. After about seven minutes of a detailed examination of every nook and cranny I found this almost invisible switch built into the cistern which yielded correct results.

My experience in a WC in a Canada airport is also worth mentioning here. After being accustomed to hidden switches, tiles, levers and chains I was expecting something along those lines but what I found left me pleasantly surprised yet again. When I did not find any known flushing device, I started hunting for the unknown and came upon a foot pedal which I pressed and got the result I wanted. The good thing about foot pedals is that one does not have to use hands!

Lastly I must mention the antique loo experiences in France. It seems that the plumbing was at least 100 years old in the hotel where I put up. One could hear the water gurgling through the pipes from miles away when the loo was flushed. Once I got a call in the middle of the night and a very angry lady was saying something in French and it seemed she was complaining about the water flowing into the cistern which made an awful lot of noise and disturbed her sleep - her room was right next to my loo. I think she should have complained at the hotel reception! At another hotel in Paris I found the much written about French device called the bidet. All my story book imaginations came to life, gold fittings, many fine soaps, a radiator, warm towels on a rail, a porcelain tub .... Bliss!

I am sure I haven't covered all aspects of strange loos - still have many more countries to visit and lots more to experience!

Symbols of Hope

2006-12-21T17:10:00.000+05:30

A rocking chair for a 2 year old, a broken umbrella and a song. These are my symbols of hope and I look them up whenever I am in going through a difficult moment.

The Rocking Chair
I brought the rocking chair as a birthday gift for my son - his second year. When I took my son out for a walk in the evenings, we used to pass by a house where a rocking chair was kept on the balcony and he saw a child sitting on it and rocking. That caught his imagination somehow and it was impossible to pass by that house without a series of tantrums, eventually I had to change routes to ensure more peaceful walks. In those days we were in a tough spot financially, too many commitments, too many loans to repay, debts everywhere and buying a rocking chair for my son seemed an unnecessary expenditure. I did manage to stow away some cash over a few months and finally on his birthday, after work I went to a toy store nearby and found what he wanted and bought it. When I entered my house, I was greeted by somewhat hostile and accusing glances at the sight of what seemed to be an expensive gift then - my son's joy and excitement made it worthwhile and made all the sour faces all around fade away into oblivion. I am a great believer of throwing out the old and making space for the new but I haven't been able to throw away the rocking chair as to me its a symbol of positivity and associated with a belief that all clouds have a silver lining.

The Umbrella
The umbrella dates back to the same financially difficult times associated with the rocking chair. When meals on the table are uncertain, then new umbrellas are an unthinkable luxury. I used to walk to work, clouds thundering over my head and heavens emptying their guts over my poor leaky umbrella. A steady patter of drops fell on my head thanks to the leaks and by the time I reached work I was fairly damp and uncomfortable. One day I just said to myself enough is enough, I NEED a new umbrella and went and purchased it. This rusted and torn contraption also has not made it to the garbage bin because it reminds me that I can change my life if I want to - I just have to go and do it.

The Song
Many years later when all clouds were history, I was one of the members selected for a very prestigious assignment to be executed in USA. This would give me plenty of exposure and growth in my chosen field of work and I was really looking forward to it. The home aspect was challenging as I had to leave behind a 4 year old who had never been separated from his mother for a single day, stocking up on groceries and provisions, instructing the maid and arranging for my Mother to step in and look after spouse and son while I was away. All of these details were taken care of except my visa, all my team members had got their visas but for some strange reason, mine was rejected because of missing information. Half of me was bitterly disappointed from a career perspective while the other half was relieved that the family would not be thrown into a tizzy. My visa application was sent again - this time with complete information, I had to reach the American embassy at the crack of dawn 4 AM to stand in queue for my appointment. During my hours of wait I heard many whoops of joy and saw many tears and also managed to learn a smattering of Gujarati. When my turn came I was asked a few basic questions and dismissed, another hour went by before our passports were handed over outside, the song was blaring out of a radio in a nearby roadside shack as I opened my passport and saw a 10 year visa granted. The song reminds me that there is someone up there to take care of us.

Morning Glory

2006-12-14T12:15:00.000+05:30

Every morning I wake up rather reluctantly when I would much rather stay under a blanket - a rare luxury in Bombay as winter is non existent but mornings are sufficiently nippy for a light blanket and I am forced to emerge due to a rather persistent alarm clock. It seems crows are rather punctual about coming and crowing in delight too. One of them comes sharp at 6:15 AM on the branch of a banyan tree right next to my bedroom window without fail. I haven't decided on the gender but I think it’s female, so maybe I'll name her Cindy or Clara or something.

After being awakened by multiple sources of noise I have this task of waking up my son, usually I just have to whisper "Time for football" and he is up immediately. After which I have to hear the customary grumbles of spouse for causing all the commotion that wakes him up. Of course I am unrepentant as always and continue with brushing my teeth.

After dropping my son at the school football grounds I head for the nearby jogging track which is a beautiful place with plenty of trees, green lawns, walking tracks, tennis courts, little huts for people to do their meditation and yoga. Some people volunteer to water plants and tend to the new saplings just planted, while some help with cleaning or supervising the cleaning of the area. There is a laughter club somewhere from where I hear sounds of ha ha ho ho he hee and what not and an involuntary giggle escapes me every time I hear it, it’s kind of infectious. Once I reach the track, I start running, puff and pant, stop when I am out of breath, walk a bit and then run again.

On my way I overhear bits and pieces of conversation, two ladies walking together engrossed in exchanging recipes; I mentally hope they are fat free. A group of all white clad men with huge beer bellies huffing and puffing and talking about share markets and property prices. A few older men discussing how best to hide grief while the other wisely says one must control ones self not to feel negative emotions. "But how?" asks someone, I don’t wait to hear the answer as I have to keep running. While on an empty stretch I watch a lone duck lazily venturing out to test the waters in the adjacent lake. Further on I see and hear a huddle of Bengalis engrossed in a discussion about the gross financial irregularities in the puja committee, a pair of college teens, lovers whispering sweet nothings in each other's ears, a group chanting Vedic mantras, many people doing pranayam (Ramdev has really reached the masses) and so on.

When I walk back to the school I see some middle aged men fighting like children over what seemed to be an unfair tennis match. An old Sikh gentleman walking with a loaf of bread which he distributes to the stray dogs in that area. A few zealous entrepreneurs who sell all kinds of juices for the health conscious by the pavement, a buzz of activity in front of the school gates where parents are collecting their children.

I spot my son in the crowd, (the bright blue t shirt helps) who is drenched in sweat and when he sees me he gives me a bright smile. It's time to go home.

I am VERY Busy

2006-12-06T11:23:00.000+05:30

In this teeming city of millions it seems everybody is a floating island, nobody has time for anybody as everybody is very busy. They look busy, act busy, say "I'm busy", walk fast, and talk fast and what not. At my workplace when I talk to my colleagues, they say "It's been a hectic week", "I'm going home late everyday", "I don’t even have time to get up for lunch" and so on.

I know somebody (who works part time) and calls us off an on for some reason or the other and her primary theme of conversation is that how busy she is and how full her social calendar is and how blessed we should feel that she actually found time to call us and inquire about our well being. Another lady who again works on a free lance basis loves to say that her phone is hardly ever free for 12 hours in a day because so many people are trying to reach her. She at one point said that we should not bother calling her on her birthday as the chances of getting through her on her phone would be remote! I know many more people with the same disease.

I prefer to call it a disease because in reality by saying 'I am busy" one creates a moat around one's self by not allowing people to cross over. Even the so called partying set of Mumbai conveniently seeks refuge in their cell phones whenever they feel threatened by invasion of their private spaces. I wonder what makes people falsely project that they are the busiest people on this earth when they are not? Is it low self esteem which makes them hide behind these self created veneers? Or is it that they like to live in a world of their own creation where they are in demand every second? Sometimes I think it’s a cry for help to save themselves from their lonely existence.

In my corporate experiences, I have seen that when most people approach me, they first ask me "Are you busy?" and I always say "No - nothing that cant be done later", though sometimes I do say "Yes I am busy" when I genuinely want to avoid a person! I find it intriguing that over time in our homes and work places, we have become hesitant to cross each others moats - even if the draw bridges have been lowered, we seek permission before we cross.

Life and Times in Sunset + Vine, LA - Part 1

2006-11-28T15:53:00.000+05:30

This is my much delayed post on my culinary expeditions around the Sunset and Vine area, mostly within half a mile radius

Baja Fresh
Light, fresh, inexpensive no nonsense Mexican food. I found that Mexican food sits rather well on the homesick Indian palate. I tried most of what they had to offer but I liked the Tacos and Quesilladas the best. Everything is served with nachos, salsa and guacamole and makes for a filling meal. Their slogan is No Microwaves and no MSG (I think) and they live up to their 'Fresh' slogan completely. It’s the usual noisy eatery, quick token based service and you needn't tip as its self service all the way.

A meal for one here will cost about $10 to $15

Zen Zoo Tea Cafe
This exotic little eatery is nested beside the Borders book store. The food served is oriental and was definitely music to my spice starved palate. It has both here and to go options and has little Feng Shui knick knacks on sale too which you can browse while you wait for your food to arrive. It also has a collection of fine teas from the Far East which you can order.

I tried the Dim Sum Platter which was served with hot (rather mild as per Indian palates) chili sauce and a very sharp mustard which brought tears to my eyes. The dim sums had all kinds of fillings - spinach, shrimps, pork and there was something called pot stickers as well which had a bread like covering with pork filling inside. It was served in the steamer it was cooked in and has 12 dim sums in all. Beef and Broccoli with brown rice was also good and so was the Citrus Chicken (very much like sweet and sour chicken in Chinese restaurants in India). Though I thought that the chicken was too fibrous and needed a lot of chewing.

A meal for one here will set you back by about $15

Kabuki
A Japanese restaurant which seemed to do very good business. It took me a few days to venture into this place as I have never had a brush with Japanese cuisine before so the fear of the unknown kept me away but I overcame it soon enough. I tried their sushi platter which .... tasted .... different! But it wasn't bad either. The taste of the rice seemed to be more dominant than that of the fish inside - a dunk in the wasabi and soy sauce ensured that it tasted like something.

I also experimented with a tempura platter with miso sauce and sticky rice. This was a much happier experience - the crispness of shrimps and vegetables is amazing and everything is a perfect golden glow. The tempura is served on a bed of salad consisting of lettuce and tomatoes. The miso sauce was interesting though the rice was avoidable.

A meal for one here (any one item) will cost about $20

Fabiolus Cafe
Fabiolus Cafe is an Italian eatery which has a nice informal environment. It’s got a cheery and friendly ambience where the manager / owner or whoever the person may be welcomes each individual with a big smile and a warm greeting and showed me to my table. I had set my heart upon on any kind of a risotto and thankfully it features on the menu in many forms. I opted for a risotto with over roasted Italian sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes and parmesan cheese. While I was waiting for the risotto to arrive, I nibbled on some bread and an olive based dip. The risotto tasted good but I think there is better - the texture was more watery than creamy and the rice was slightly undercooked. It was the typical assembled quick fix risotto with no trace of white wine, which I believe is an essential ingredient.

A meal for one here will cost about $25

Magnolia
One can always depend on this eatery being open till the wee hours of the morning (3 AM) and it serves traditional American food. There are indoor and outdoor dining options and if you choose indoors, the interiors are fairly pleasant. I came here to satisfy my cravings for steak and mashed potatoes and thankfully it was there on the menu. I ordered something called 'Skirt teak with mashed potatoes' - it tasted excellent though the portion of meat was rather modest. The brown gravy from the steak and the buttery mashed potatoes was the best thing I have ever eaten. If I had time I would have come back another time but this was my last meal in LA.

An average meal for 1 will cost about $25 to $35

The Hungry Cat
This is the most trendy and chic eatery in the vicinity and is tucked away a little inside the Sunset + Vine complex, every time I walked past this place - which was everyday as I lived in the same apartment block, I always heard sounds of cutlery on china plates and a lot of animated chatter. It was always crowded and with good reason. I ate here on two occasions, the menu does not have a lot of choice and usually its best to go with the 'Today's Special' I had a crab frittata which was a no nonsense crab frittata with lots of shredded crab meat and a suitable amount of egg to bind it and was lightly seasoned. It tasted fresh, light and excellent - if one has white wine to go with it - it's even better. The next time I went there was for dinner, a sort of a last day in LA all by myself celebration. The seating and the ambience is somewhat rustic, there is a candle on each table, I sat outdoors and had this most divine meal of raw scallops marinated with orange and ginger oil and garnished with cilantro accompanied with a drink called orange juyola (or something like that) which was a lovely orangey and lemony vodka based drink. The Hungry Cat is an elegant seafood restaurant which is more on the expensive side but well worth it.

An average meal for one here will cost anything from $10 to $35 depending on your appetite.

Los Balcones Del Peru
The first time I entered here - it seemed that it was some long forgotten place stuck in a time warp. The interiors have a rustic Peruvian (?) feel. The selection is not long enough to confuse you and is not short enough to leave you wanting for choices. All menu items are available in beef, chicken and sea food options. Toasted bread and green cilantro and chili based dip is served as a starter while I waited for the food to arrive and it took quite a while. Unfortunately I cannot recollect the names of the dishes I ate but it tasted wonderful and was this combination of fried prawns, rice, tomatoes, bell peppers and fries with some divine sauce. On another occasion I tried the sea food spaghetti which was also excellent. It is also popularly known as Mario's and definitely worth a few visits.

An average meal for one costs about $15

Borders Cafe
The coffee served here is termed as 'Seattle's Best Coffee'. A fair amount of variety is there in both hot and cold coffees. I tried something called Raspberry Mocha Twist which tasted good. The cheese cake was divine and quite perfect. The place has inside and outside seating and is a good place to browse through reading material while drinking coffee.

Zankou Chicken
The ultimate in fast food - quick, delicious and cheap. Though it’s not exactly in the Sunset + Vine locality but is a few minutes drive away. I tried their trademark item called the Tarna which was roasted chicken, tomatoes filled in pita bread served with a garlic and horseradish sauce.

A meal for one will cost about $6 to $10

There are plenty of fast food chains in teh vicinity as well which I avoided as most of it except Mexican is available in India.

Baby Steps

2006-11-08T16:49:00.000+05:30

To an alternate career I hope!

Some days back I bumped into this lady, Kavita Chhibber in an online forum and its been a happy association so far, she is using some of my blog posts for her emag located here. It's a well put together emag which makes for great reading, do visit.

I beleive being a part of Dr Deepak Chopra's blog is by invitation only and I managed to gatecrash into intentblog - weekly intent section and managed to generate 43 comments - people sure talk a LOT there!

On an impulse I wrote to a few more people - who knows, I may just hit upon a 1 million dollar book deal somewhere?

I needed to boast about it on this blog!

Sibling Rivalry

2006-10-27T19:20:00.000+05:30

My cousin and I grew up together in Delhi; our Mothers were good friends so as families we met very often. Our dolls used to spend the week at each other's houses, we used to make 'Fanta' by powdering orange drops and then mixing it with Soda, we used to cook food in toy utensils over a candle flame, we used to play 'Beauty Parlor' with our dolls where we would be the beauticians and our dolls at the receiving end of our experimentations. She introduced me to the forbidden Star comics, which were a pictorial representation of a romantic story. Then the kiss seemed a repulsive thing - imagine a man and woman exchanging saliva - YUCK! However curiosity about this man woman thing (however yucky it seemed) made us consume quite a few of this disreputable literature before we were caught.

She was the darling of the colony, everybody knew her, and even my Mother would comment that she is such a bright and lively girl. "Why can’t you be more like her?" She would say. While my cousin's mother would say how quiet, reserved and polite I was and she would say "Why cant you be more like your cousin?" and bemoan the various imagined faults that her daughter had. We were oblivious to all these comparisons as we were very young. Later she moved away to Pune and we wrote each other long letters writing about inconsequential things.

My cousin and her parents visited us at times; she grew up to be a raving beauty with umpteen boyfriends. She used to tell me about some of them and their declarations of undying love while her mother complained to my mother about the pitfalls of having a beautiful teenaged daughter who is addicted to flirting. I was the fat bespectacled serious and studious teen who boys did not talk to or looked at so my mother had no such worries. My mother would say "Isn't she beautiful? She has grown up to be so pretty!" while her mother would say "I wish my daughter was more like your daughter? She is so mentally stable and serious about studies".

Somewhere down the line I would hear that how well my cousin draws and sketches, how good she is at writing poetry and so on. I am sure she also heard many of my imagined or real talents from her mother. Perhaps the jealousy crept in somewhere and started showing up. I still remember the first incident where I was thrilled that I solved the Rubik's cube puzzle, my cousin too wanted a shot at it and said she needed to concentrate and went to her room - alone. Voila! She came out with a solved Rubik's cube, however on closer inspection, I found that all stickers had been tampered with and had been moved around to 'solve' the puzzle. She probably felt that she would be compared to me yet again so she felt the need to prove herself in any which way she could.

Somehow things were never quite the same after that and to this very day, after so many years we still are uncomfortable around each other, we may not show it but its there. The other day she invited us for lunch, my Mother waxed eloquent about her artistic capabilities and the way she had decorated her house while I mentally hemmed and hawed and yawned. May be she did but I have this mental block not to recognize anything that she did and to this day I think that she is the most ordinary looking girl in this world while everybody around me thinks she is model material.

Its just one of those things one cannot change...

Traffic & Tempers

2006-10-18T13:09:00.000+05:30

A ride in an auto rickshaw on a Bombay street is always full of adventure. In addition, it gives you a good workout and digests food faster as the craters on the road shake and stir you in every direction till your insides are all mixed up!

I missed my office transport so I took an auto rickshaw to work and while on the highway I heard a lot of impatient honks behind. The rickshaw driver was of course quite oblivious and thought he was Michael Schumaker driving a Ferrari. Once he awakened to reality, he reluctantly gave way to a Merc right behind, however the Merc was rather miffed that she was not given way so the lady at the helm spewed a few verbal abuses to the rickshaw driver. Michael Schumaker spat in return and drove on with more vigor - it was a make beleive Ferrari versus a Merc!

Anyway Bombay is hardly a place for aspiring F1 racers and traffic played spoil sport to the merry chase (rickshaw sputtering behind a Merc) and Schumaker in a vengeful mood, bumped into the Merc as she chose to halt right in the middle of the road without any indication - just because she is a Merc. The lady emerged screaming obscenities and slapped poor Schumaker and said that he had deliberately banged (strong word - it was just a tap) the Merc. The Policeman, who's main job is to catch hold of hapless souls and collect a little bribe was called upon to listen to the horrific story of a Rickshaw deliberately banging into a Merc, a small crowd gathered around and the Lady in the Merc swelled with self importance and wailed about how Schumaker refused to give way while she was in a hurry to go the Doctor. I was called in to give my expert judgemnet and I went for Schumaker all the way and wished that he had actually dented the Merc! The Merc Lady shouted at me and said how the crowd always supports the underdog and one day I will suffer at the hands of such louts and then I will understand her predicament.

The rotund Policeman, seeing a lot of prospects zipping past him, told the fat Merc Lady "Madam, apna energy mat waste karo aur jaldi kaam pe jao" (Madam, dont waste your energy over trivial things and go where ever you were going). So in all it was much ado over nothing, I lost 15 crucial minutes and got some material to write about in my blog after a long hiatus!

As a closing thought, I wonder if people with bigger, shinier and more expensive cars are ugler, angrier and more violent?

Going Back

2006-09-13T18:01:00.000+05:30

For the past 15 years I had been contemplating about going back to Delhi - just to visit friends and look up all the old places that I used to frequent while I lived there. Somehow the opportunity or a reason to go to Delhi never came up and going alone for a weekend just to mingle with old friends was frowned upon heavily by family. Thankfully a very dear friend of mine decided to get married and the whole family had a reason to go to Delhi.

There was a lot of excitement everywhere, another dear friend called me and threatened dire consequences if I didn't stay with her and both of us had a lot of conversations about our husbands meeting for the first time, food likes and dislikes and the menu plan for the five days that we would stay with her. The menu plan was an impressive array of Mongolian, Lebanese and Italian cuisines along with some Indian fillers which I used to eat at her house many moons ago. I was to be the guinea pig for the recipes that would make it to her soon to be published cookery book and kept my fingers crossed!

The great thing about friends is that one can take up exactly from where we left off and after banishing our respective husbands and children to their respective rooms we talked like there was no tomorrow and caught up on each others lives, thankfully the husbands and the kids got along quite well so we could leave them together and go do our own thing.

I went back to my school after more than a decade and this time with my son which felt kind of strange. I bribed the ferocious looking watch man and gave him emotional crap about wanting to show my son this grand school where I once studied. We walked around and to my relief not much had changed and whatever had changed was not at the cost of open spaces and greenery. The gardens were perfectly manicured, flower beds bloomed with seasonal flowers, the canteen was still at the same place and so were the water coolers. I peered through the art room to see the wall where my creations were once displayed and the award I had received from K R Narayanan (one time President of India) for my art. The Banyan Tree which was also our school emblem had spread its branches forming a shady green canopy; the props from Rang De Basanti were thankfully not in evidence.

We walked down the lane behind the school to Nathu's and I remembered the many times that we had sneaked out of the gates to have their famous chaat and gol gappa. We drove down to Defense Colony market and ate at Aka Saka (as Faley's had closed down). I requested the chef to make me roast pork noodles which no longer seemed to be on the menu. The gentleman at Defense Stores where we ordered grocery from seemed frozen in time and still looked the same. I introduced myself and said that we stayed in A33 and at once he recollected my Father's name and enquired about my Mother and gave me updates about who had died, who had moved and how many old shops had closed and so on.

My favorite bakery had closed down so I reluctantly brought my son an éclair from the one that had taken its place. I took my son to the toy store where I used to buy comics and toys - this gentleman had grown older and frailer. I was overjoyed to see that the small little library behind the market was still in existence. The house where I had spent 18 years of my life however had been razed down and a new building was being built in its place.

So much had changed yet so much remained just the same. The houses were grander, the roads were wider, the people were richer, the familiar landmarks were gone and there were new ones in their place and some roads and the parks which seemed grand before appeared to have shrunk. It felt like home but it also felt like a maze where I tried to search my past looking for some reassuring signs of familiarity. At times it felt as if the city had overtaken me in terms of progress and it seemed vast and strange and at times it felt that I had outgrown the city as my horizons had widened.

It's good to go back home...

Aagomoni

2006-09-01T21:03:00.000+05:30

I heard from a friend that this time Goddess Durga is coming to visit us in a boat. I keep hearing various interpretations of her mode of travel which people use to predict the future. Maybe there is some amount of truth in it but that’s a topic to be researched later.

To me, the coming of the Goddess was signified by the fragrance of the 'shiuli' flower which blooms in the months of September and October. The flowers would bloom in the wee hours of the morning, spread their heady fragrance and intoxicates all around and then fall off by mid morning. I remember there was a 'Shiuli' tree in our garden which I used to shake and all these little flowers would rain on me. I would collect these flowers in my basket and place them in front of idols of Radha Krishna which belonged to my paternal Grandmother; it was a daily chore during the season.

The coming of the Goddess was also signified by examinations which would invariably fall in those days, I had two Mothers pulling me in two different directions, at one end my human earthly Mother ordering me to study while at the other end Mother Durga beckoned me to join the festivities. I managed to appease both; I studied diligently all day so I could go to the 'pujo pandal' in the nights.

Listening to the 'Mahalaya' telecast at 4 AM in the morning is another must, the mesmerizing and hypnotic voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra and the timeless songs still give me goose bumps when the tale of the Goddess Durga's victory over Mahishasur is told. The nippy morning air, the dewy silence of a world just about to wake up adds to the magic.

On the first day of the pujo we would go to the pandal and see the Goddess being adorned with jewels and all the weapons being placed in her ten hands while the dhakis (drummers) beat the drums in unison. Lunch was usually not cooked in any Bengali home in the vicinity and all would troop in to eat 'bhog' which is first offered to the Goddess and once she eats and approves, it is distributed to all who come irrespective of caste, creed and social standing. I would stand as close as I could to the drummers and stare into the all encompassing fierce but kind eyes of the Goddess and allow the drums to drive away the cobwebs from my mind and draw strength from the gaze of the Goddess, this is something I still do.

On the ninth day of Pujo - Navami, the lights of the pandal would be switched off, the only light would be from the 108 oil lamps which would be lit up, the smell and the smoke from the 'dhuno' would fill the air and the Dhakis would beat the drums with all their might while he priest performed the arati (worship) and finally the holy flame would be passed around so we could all place our hands over the flame and be blessed and lastly holy water would be sprinkled over all the bent heads in front of the Goddess by the priest.

I still remember the air of competition amongst friends over how many new dresses they got, the lazy afternoons where we sat around in circles after eating bhog and gossiping about people in general. Going back home to freshen up and then again dress up with more vengeance for the evening, the rehearsals for the dances and plays that we performed, the stage fright when we actually did, the bloopers of forgetting our lines, the endless goodies from the snacks counter, the yearly rounds to Kali Bari, Kashmiri Gate and Greater Kailash pujos, the budding romances, the beautiful ladies dressed in red and white silk garad saris, the men in crackling starched dhotis, the candy floss man, the bows and arrows, swords and clubs sold outside, my dear friend Rachita and her parents Pinu Aunty and Samir Uncle who made sure that the absence of my Father never affected me.

Durga Pujo in the A Block Defense Colony grounds was magical, somehow I haven't found that magic anywhere else, in Calcutta every corner has a Pujo and it’s too commercial. In Bombay its all about how many crores the Bengali associations spend to outdo the and somewhere the Goddess, the worship and belief are sidelined and forgotten, people head straight to the seating area to grab seats to see some famous artiste perform and then they head towards the food stall to fill their greedy stomachs while the beautiful Goddess in all her finery just gets a passing glance and a quick bow.

At times I wonder that the Goddess should enter our beings and kill the Mahishasur within us in forms of greed, hatred, lust and make better humans of us all.

My First Job

2006-08-28T17:48:00.000+05:30

My first job was as a seemingly lofty designation of Center Manager of a training firm. This place had 4 employees in all, a receptionist, a general dog’s body (also known as a peon in India), a trainer and I as Jill of all trades. My Mother was dead against me working in some sleepy backward town but my Grandmother encouraged me to go and find my bearings after being sheltered for two decades and some. I loved the idea of staying alone and experiencing the unknown quite like the Fool in the Tarot story.

After many arguments, my mother relented and brought first class tickets on a train called Black Diamond and she offered to reach me and settle me into whatever accommodation had been arranged. The 'first class' experience on Black Diamond was interesting, carpeted floors, the train attendants appeared to be dressed in clothes from the British Raj era, spacious seating and a choice of food, tea and coffee. The first class compartment seemed to be full of potbellied bespectacled gentlemen who probably held senior management positions in the steel and coal plants in the Durgapur - Ranigunj - Asansol regions.

We managed to get a taxi to take us to our destination, some address in City Center. The car came to a halt in front of a half built house with tall knee high grass growing in front of it. A rusty motorbike was parked in front which was probably the only sign of habitation. I got down, waded through grass and found a calling bell and pressed with all my might. The door opened and an old gentleman stepped out, we introduced ourselves and then realization dawned. He scurried to get the keys and opened the room in front of the house facing the road (and the grass). The room was dingy, dark, had a fan, a tube light, a functional bed with four legs, a table and a chair. The toilet was even more dingy with barely a beam of sunlight fighting its way though a dirty glass window. My Mother let out what seemed to be a wail of despair while I smiled and blissfully left it to her to manage. The landlord (the old gentleman) warned us of dire consequences if we left the fan on after stepping out of the house or cooked inside the room using a kerosene stove. My Mother, enterprising as she is, managed to find a person who would provide cooked meals thrice a day so I would not have to cook.

The 'office' was a better place in comparison, it was a residential property which was turned into class rooms to train people to be computer literate and become programmers. The 'receptionist' was a friendly girl names Sharmistha, the 'peon' was a sinister looking person named Tarak, who (I later learnt) peddled XXX videos to men and women who had such tastes. The trainer was an Amir Khan look alike called Shantanu who I immediately fell for! I was given my brief by the 'Boss' who owned the franchise - another shady looking businessman who (I later learnt) always kept a pack of French letters handy, I forget his name now. Later Sharmistha told me to be careful as she had already been propositioned by the boss. Well all in a day's work as they say!

My Mother left after a week - the little room seemed emptier, there was no TV, only my Sony world receiver which helped me to keep in touch with the world. I brought along a cookery book and looking at it made me miserable but still I turned pages and drooled over pictures of lemon tarts and shepherd's pies and tried to assuage my cravings vicariously while I ate bullet like rice with watery dal (lentil soup), mushy characterless vegetable and a smelly fish. Most of my lunches and dinners were fed to a dog and her new born litter of pups. Over the next eight months I saw them grown into confident young puppies and Mama Dog gave up hunting for food as she had a benevolent provider at hand. The Papa dog was never seen in the vicinity and was perhaps making merry with the other bitches.

The monsoons came along with torrential rains, the grass in front of my door grew taller, the earthworms crept up into my room for a dry place and plenty of frogs hopped in the moment I opened the door. I could not bear the thought of spending nights with frogs who has no intention of turning into princes so I led them Pied Piper like into the toilet and swept them into the Indian toilet with a broom and flushed them to a watery end. The numerous earthworms met a salty end as I had read somewhere that if one sprinkles salt over all kinds of creepy crawlies they shrivel up and die.

The monsoons went and the grass turned into a field of 'kash phool' (a kind of wild flower which blooms in October), the sun was fierce and I wore my new bright orange dress and was walking down the street humming a song. I was in for a nasty surprise, a bull snorted angrily and started coming towards me menacingly and I still remember running for dear life and 200 meters seemed like a never ending stretch of 2000 kilo meters. I have never worn bright orange after that incident!

In the meantime I had managed to strike up a friendship with the landlord's daughter and watched some TV in the evenings which was better than sitting alone with nothing much to do. Shantanu used to take me for long rides on his bike all around Durgapur but his parents sensed a budding romance and strictly forbade him to go around with a spoilt city girl and I will not go further into that story. Sharmistha, Shantanu and I were good friends - as one usually is when they are thrown together in difficult situations, we had a lot of fun, we cooked together, went for picnics, watched an XXX movie at Shantanu's house (my first) courtesy Tarak which was more hilarious than erotic and had all of us in splits.

Every alternate weekend I traveled back to Calcutta, took a rickety bus which had people sitting on the roof and unlikely co passengers like some sheep and goats all packed in like sardines. On reaching Burdwan, I used to buy some 'mihi dana' which is a specialty and then board the local train to Calcutta - at times without a ticket! In course of another few months, the novelty of living alone and a job which had no future or challenges wore off and I finally bade farewell to the friends and acquaintances and came back home for a better job. I learnt a lot of lessons during that stint, some small and some big which helped me deal with situations along the way.

Now when I sit in my plush office with a laptop and all the trappings of the good life that this job provides, I remember my humble beginnings and the immense excitement and adventure that went along with it. It’s been a wonderful journey so far where India and I have progressed together and I hope we reach the greater heights together as well...

Amusement Parks: Universal Studios Hollywood

2006-08-19T18:06:00.000+05:30

Los Angeles is a great place to be in, especially if one has to fill the long lonely weekends with something interesting to do. Most of my Friday evening was spent in browsing www.metro.net to chart out my itinerary to my destination by bus and train. I diligently wrote down the bus numbers and directions so I did not get lost. Los Angeles can be quite cumbersome without a car I was told but I managed fabulously with a $3 Metro Day Pass and my legs filled in for the rest.

The first amusement part I visited was Universal Studios; I took the red line train from Hollywood and Vine to Universal. I emerged and wondered what to do next and just followed the crowd who must be heading towards the park. I waited at the shuttle bus stop and a white and blue four carriage long tram like bus came along shortly and I boarded with a ho-mum-bored attitude. The bus started its ascent towards the studio and as it climbed, my interest grew. The studios were situated on a top of a hill and the panoramic view was great. The bus came to a halt in front of the entrance, I spent some time walking up and down 'Citywalk' which was a collection of souvenir shops, cafes, restaurants and movie theaters trying to find a camera. The disposable cameras did not look too appealing so my friends and relatives would just have to take my word that I had visited Universal in absence of tangible proof in form of photographs.

After finding absolutely nothing to buy, I headed towards the ticket counter and bought a general pass, there was a 'first class pass' which guaranteed the first position in any queue for double the price but I had a lot of time to kill so did not feel the need for it. On entering I was assailed by what I call the 'amusement park smell' which is an amalgamation of odors emanating from fries, waffles, ice-creams, hot dogs and pop corn, which put me off food altogether - at least the kind that was available in park seemed revolting to say the least and if something looked remotely appetizing, the portions were far too large for me to finish.

I walked along trying to figure out a landmark from the map I had and stood in the first queue I came across which turned out to be Shrek 4D. With swarms of kids and families everywhere I felt even more miserable while in queues. The queues thankfully are fast moving so I didn't have much time to wallow in self pity. The Shrek show was rather cute where the earth shook while horses galloped and you felt Shrek's spit when he sneezed and nearly jumped out of your seat when the mice ran over your feet and something seemed to come straight at you.

The next ride was the Studio Tour which was the most wonderful part of the Universal experience, though the wait in this queue is probably the longest. The bus took us around the various stages which are numbered and where some famous stars were currently shooting for some up coming movies - we just heard about them but didn't see any. Next the bus took us around the 'facades' which were dummy buildings complete with doors, windows, curtains, signboards and so on. The streets had strategically placed mail boxes, street lights, trash bins - all made of cardboard or some such thing and managed to looks so real. The tour guide said that these facades could be remodeled to depict a street in any country and any period back in time. She rattled off the names of some movies which were shot in these streets but I can’t remember their names now.

Next the bus entered a dark looking shed when suddenly the bus started shaking, the whole place seemed to disintegrate, two trains were about to collide and it seemed that a truck would land right on top of the bus but of course we were saved just in time. This was the earthquake zone where we were shown how such scenes in movies are simulated. Next we entered another dark looking cave which was the King Kong zone where there King Kong ranted and raved like a maniac looking ferocious with big red eyed and sharp teeth.

Talking about natural calamities, floods can’t be ignored; they have their rightful place in the movies too. The bus drove along at a leisurely pace along the winding streets of a street with a look and feel of a Mexican village and suddenly we experienced 'torrential rains, dark skies, gusty winds, thunder, lightening and floodwaters gushing towards us. If I didn't know that this was a studio I would quite certainly be swept away and drown in the floods - they looked that real. The skies cleared magically and we moved on through the Jurassic Park jungle which had some watery and creepy sounds and then on to some exhibits of cars used in movies which overturn, burst into flames and were used for many famous chases in many famous movies. There was also an exhibit of Fast & the Furious: Tokyo Drift which was then just about to be released - the bus remained rooted there for 5 minutes so all of us knew that this movie was opening in theaters soon.

We passed through many bungalows where the stars of the yesteryears stayed during movie shoots; these are now used as offices by various producers. We saw the New York Central Park which is probably the size of backyard garden (okay it wasn't that small!) in this studio. For movies using New York Central Park, aerial shots are taken of the actual park and then fitted in with this park where people are shown walking around or sitting on benches.

Next was the water tank for the movie 'Jaws' where all the underwater shooting was done, there were some unexpected surprises as well when the bridge 'collapsed' and a rusty tin shark opened its jaws wide to make a meal of all the passengers and fires came up everywhere. Well we lived through this one as well and moved on to the next calamity - the house on the hill or the 'Psycho House' which has been carefully preserved. Thankfully no showers were turned on and no one crept up from behind!

War of the Worlds was next where the set was created by actually blowing up a fully created set to pieces. There were half burnt cars, broken houses, a broken aero plane, smashed coke cans, torn curtains and so on. It was a very real looking set which was used for the movie.

The bus then passed through a very pretty looking lane lined with houses on both sides with gardens in front, the houses were real and not facades and it looked very familiar - I had seen this before I told myself, Was it deja vu, past life memories? Well of course not! It turned out to be Wisteria Lane from Desperate Housewives - no wonder as I watch it religiously every week. ABC has exclusive use of this part of the studio and people are not allowed inside except for the Studio Tour buses.

The last stop was the huge white backdrop which is used for backdrops in many movies - King Kong against the blue sky was this back drop and then it was a drive down the memory lane where there were posters of movies from 1920s to 2006. This was probably the best exposure for movie goers to the world of movie making with ingredients of drama, surprise and magic.

Another interesting show was the Special Effect Stages where we were shown how visual and audio special effects are created and gained some more insights into the world of movie making. The Jurassic park ride was entertaining as well where one had all kinds of dinosaurs popping up unexpectedly and some spewing water at the gawkers. I had very unusual company of two Tibetan monks who were seated in the same row as me for this ride. Walking through the Lucy Tribute was nostalgic too. The 'Revenge of the Mummy' ride was an awesome rollercoaster ride where one has no idea about the direction where one is going. The only disadvantage is that one has to deposit all hand baggage in the lockers outside.

The rides up and down the escalators gave me a good view; there are three escalators one after another which connect the lower level to the upper level. On the upper level I tried some more rides like Back to the Future which was modeled on the movie, which was good but not great and definitely worth a miss. Van Hesling and Waterworld are good too if one is so inclined. I didn't have time to see Terminator 2 and Backdraft shows so I cannot comment much on them, gives me an excuse to go back another time (Dave are you listening?)!

As for food options, there were plenty. I chose Panda Express broccoli, beef and noodles which passed muster and assuaged my craving for something Asian, next was a Ben & Jerry waffle cone which was too large for me to handle but I tried my best while sitting on a foot massage seat soothing my aching feet and doing justice to my ice-cream which ultimately went to the trash bin half eaten - I long for it now! There are plenty of souvenir shops with Marvel merchandize and an array of colorful basketballs with Superman, Shrek and Spongebob pictures which seemed worth buying. By the time I was done it was close to 9 PM and I was ready to drop with amusement park fatigue but I loved every minute of my first experience of an amusement park.

Tears for Men?

2006-08-11T11:37:00.000+05:30

If we must shed tears then they are perhaps better utilized the hungry and starving children of this planet rather than waste them over men.

Read My Tears for Men

Let there be Light

2006-08-08T19:14:00.000+05:30

Every day I considered myself lucky to have this beautiful mountain just outside my window, I felt strong just by looking at it. The mountain was omnipresent in my life, my dreams, decisions and actions were derived from the strength that this mountain gave me. I often looked up with wonderment and admired its height, magnificence, majesty, beauty and the general halo that surrounded it. It made me aim higher and strive for more in life.

One day there was a tremendous storm with a heavy cloudburst and when the light of the day finally dawned, I looked out of my window to find that my mountain had disappeared. I was devastated to find that my mountain was just a heap of volcanic ash which had stood high in a perfect world but collapsed under the vagaries of life and nature. Perhaps it was my belief which helped it to stand for this long.

What I did not realize was that my mountain blocked light out of my life; it limited my vision and limited my aspirations. Now the horizon is mine to conquer, there are bigger dreams to dream and greater heights to scale and I am thankful to my mountain who taught me to think and dream big and instill in me the belief that dreams do come true if one wants it enough...

My Great Aunt

2006-08-04T16:13:00.000+05:30

My Mother's maternal aunt was deaf and dumb, she was born that way and just because she was special, she was her Mother's pet. There was no great love lost between her brothers and sisters due to the sibling rivalry - the other children were jealous because she always got everything and all the attention while others - all seven of them, felt alienated.

In my childhood, I always looked forward to going to their house in South Extension; it was a small barsati (a room on the terrace) which she and her husband had rented. The house was impeccably neat; shelves stacked neatly, photographs of her husband receiving various awards from Presidents and Prime Ministers of India proudly displayed and an array of potted plants on the terrace. Her husband was the President of the Deaf & Dumb Federation of India and my great aunt, being his second wife was suitably pampered by her husband. At times they had massive fights when the step children came to stay or visit and all those fights were executed at our residence where both husband and wife banged our dinner table gustily while arguing - my Mother once in a while tried to remind them that the table was ten years old but who cared!

Years passed, my father passed away, my Mother had to start working and there was no one to look after me (I was eleven years at that time). My own Grandmother had her life and duties in Calcutta so she could not come and stay with us permanently. It was a difficult situation but my Great Aunt saved the day by offering to travel all the way from Narayana to Defense Colony every day, cook and feed me and leave in the evening. For many months she made sure that I ate a hot meal every day after I returned from school and had a maternal figure watching over me while my Mother was away at work. I carried the house key as she could not hear the calling bell but one day I lost the house key and I remember banging the door for an hour before she opened quite by accident.

Later our finances improved and we could afford full time domestic help but she continued to come every now and then to check our well being. She always got some snacks whenever she came - without fail and I always looked forward to her visits and the snacks. She taught me sign language, she taught me to lip read, communicating with her was never a problem because she could read lips very well. She was a lively, aggressive and gutsy lady who could not care less if buses, cars or rickshaws honked and stopped in their tracks because she was crossing the street at her own pace. She would just show her hand and glare at the driver.

Her husband passed way mysteriously on a train, he was poisoned and robbed and one fine day her life changed suddenly. She had to return to Calcutta, her brothers and sisters tried their best to avoid her as they would have to offer food and shelter, she lived with us for a few months but we were a family of women and it was stressful for my mother to manage two elderly people. She moved to an old home and finally the step son who she had ill treated and shooed out of her domain offered shelter. Her health failed, she lost her spirit, she kept visiting us, she asked if we were all well and still she never forgot to get the snacks.

I got married; I had a baby while she became bedridden with old age. My Mother visited her sometimes and told me about how she was ill treated and neglected. My Great Aunt wanted to see my son and my Mother kept reminding me that I must go and show her my son. The line "Chele ke khub dekhte ichche kore" (I want to see your little boy) still haunts me for I never did make it, she died before I could visit her.

To this day I regret that I could not find time to go and visit someone who had left her everyday priorities and daily chores and come and looked after me when I needed her.

Stars Under my Feet

2006-08-02T10:13:00.000+05:30

One must be quite used to seeing stars in the night sky, seeing stars when knocked out or seeing stars throwing starry tantrums and flashing plastic smiles. I kind of got used having stars under my feet while in Hollywood. Every time I walked down Hollywood Boulevard I read the names of the stars that fell under my feet (ha!). It seemed kind of sad to walk all over them so I walked around them as far as possible.

I was greeted by Frank Sinatra and Lucille Ball the moment I stepped out of my apartment. I still remember the good old Door Darshan (the only channel on Indian television about 15 years back) days when they showed 'I Love Lucy' and hearing 'Strangers in the Night' on AIR (All India Radio) and dreaming about some mysterious man who would come and sweep me off my feet (never turned up though!). I walked on some more and met Cary Grant who I fell in love with after watching 'The Rear Window' and I reverently stood and mooned a bit in front of his star.

When I had time to look up, I saw shops; there were plenty of shops selling everything from cannabis free cigarettes, incense and oils, tattoos to risqué lingerie. The first kilometer or so I was convinced that this is not such a good part of town but it gets better as one walks towards La Brea. Most shops seemed to be closed our out of business with shutters down. The shutters were painted with pictures of Mickey Rooney and Humphrey Bogart etc so it was good looking at the shutters too - I truly felt I was in tinsel town with stars twinkling everywhere.

I stood in front of Humphrey Bogart and bemoaned the state of love and romance as it is today. 'Casablanca' is perhaps the most perfect and poignant romantic movie I have ever seen, perhaps that’s why movies are made, to let us dream and live in a perfect world momentarily and forget the harsh realities of life. Which probably explains why I have seen 'Casablanca' five times and 'Sleepless in Seattle' 3 times and 'Come September' about nine times. *Sigh* I passed by Rock Hudson and rued the loss to womankind in general and wondered why men always have the best of everything - including the best looking men.

While walking I got hungry and stopped for snacks at Popeye’s for some chicken wings and then at Greco's Deli Pizza for a pizza by slice which was good but not exceptional. I walked by some old buildings which were probably booming cinemas a few years back, I walked by Disney Cinemas which seemed to be very popular and then past 'Ripley's Believe it or Not' which had a tap in mid air with no support with water gushing out of it, however I didn't venture in. This area seemed to be a more happening part of town, full of tourists from all over the world who constantly kept stopping in their tracks to take pictures of the stars. When one is trying to walk fast this is the last place one should try it.

I crossed the street to the other side of Hollywood Boulevard and walked past some studios, and then Mann's Chinese Theater which is a pagoda like structure. There were some characters performing on the street, probably related to the movies playing in the cinemas. A ferocious looking samurai with a sword suddenly broke into a smile and greeted me with a 'Namaste' which left me beaming. Right in front of Mann's Theater there were foot and hand prints along with printed good wishes in concrete from many stars to the founder of the theater. I put my hands in Gregory Peck's hands and remembered some of the spellbinding moments I had spent with him on the silver screen. A little ahead there was the Kodak Theater, where some of the most prestigious award ceremonies are held including Oscars, the most recent one being the American Idol event. The theater complex is full of shops and cafes and generally a good place to hang out if one has nothing much to do. I entered and walked up to the entrance which was barricaded and I saw some very elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen hurriedly entering the door and a thousand flashbulbs going off the moment they did. Maybe I saw some stars for real as well but I would not really know who I saw!

I walked on and gave in to the temptations of sizzling hotdogs being sold on the pavements and watching all kinds of performers doing all kinds of things to convince the tourists to part with some of their money. I stopped at Starbucks (again appropriately named!) and had some frappuccino and walked on towards Hollywood/Vine. The walk was uneventful till I bumped into this very good looking man who offered me a free personality test. I fell straight for a handsome face and right into the trap of Scientology. After answering all 200 questions I was given my assessment, I was told that I was downright stubborn (okay - I agree), kept a LOT within myself (I agree somewhat) and I am a poor communicator (I STRONGLY disagree). The counselor told me that I probably had something to hide and though I communicated on the outside, the most important things were locked away within which was probably affecting my closest relationships. Ah..ummm....well.... god knows really but definitely worth thinking about a bit but I was kind of busier looking at the eye candy in front of me. Little did I know that all this was to hard sell courses targeted at my weak areas which I must do to have a more fulfilling life. Of course the course costs less than a pair of sunglasses - only $150. I kind of managed to slip away saying that I was just a poor software developer with a very meager allowance - I could barely afford to eat, forget about sunglasses (or courses). I still had to buy a book called 'Dianetics' and had to listen to Tom Cruise speaking about the wonders of Scientology.

After the Scientology adventure I ventured into a general store for some bread/food and the proprietor turned out to be a Bangladeshi gentleman who had migrated to the US 6 years back. It was nice speaking in Bengali after a while. While we were talking someone asked "What kind of language is that?" and we promptly chorused in unison "Bengali - the sweetest language and only parallel to French". The person said "At least it’s better than hearing Spanish all the time!" and walked off. The proprietor offered me a Hagen Daas ice cream and refused to accept payment for it. I was very touched.

My last stop on Hollywood Boulevard was the Pantages Theater where I had the privilege to watch 'Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat' - a musical by Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber. The hall was magnificent, the musical was even better - it was a biblical story about a boy named Joseph who dreamed big and made things happen. This was just the inspiration I needed to become an author, sell my movie rights and buy that dream house in Beverly Hills!

San Francisco – A Precious Experience

2006-07-17T14:57:00.000+05:30

My tryst with San Francisco started with a Southwest Airlines flight which deposited me to the Oakland airport. From there I was advised to take AirBART to the Coliseum station and then take the BART to SF. The ticket vending machines looked very complicated and left me quite at sea. I decided to be shameless and dumb and asked the person behind me to assist me with the ticket, she pressed a few buttons and the machine greedily sucked in a 10 dollar note as that is the only denomination I had. Since machines are not intelligent enough to understand my thoughts, it d didn’t give me back the change. I headed up to the platform and boarded BART, which was comfortable, spacious and very fast and it dipped under the bay and zipped across and then I was in SF in just 20 minutes.

I emerged at Market Square and there were these tram lines right in front which reminded me of Calcutta. I had no idea how to get a taxi, I asked a person and she said “Oh just show your hand – they’ll stop” so I hailed a cab and clambered in and showed the address of the hotel and asked him to take me there. The cab driver was speaking in a language vaguely familiar but I could not quite decipher what it might be. Then he asked me where I was from and I promptly said Bombay, India. The cab driver immediately started speaking to me in Hindi and played some Hindi film music so that I felt at home. He was from Afghanistan but his family had settled in Peshawar, Pakistan. We had an animated discussion about the Khans of the Hindi film industry, he knowledgably said Hrithik Roshan was doing well too. In the midst of all this conversation, he took me to the wrong hotel, looked at the address again and drove all the way back – the meter had climbed to $25 but he said you give me only $10, the actual fare was probably $5 but I did not really mind as I had a nice conversation.

I checked into a place called America’s Best Inn and met a very sweet Indian boy at the reception. I was later told that almost all lodges and inns across west coast were owned by Indians, specifically Patels. I checked into the room which was tiny but had all that I needed for 2 nights. It smelled rather musty so I had to open the window to air the room. I had carried along my laptop and the super fast wireless internet made sure that I didn’t feel too lonely.

The next morning I was up early and went to the reception and gorged on bagels and doughnuts which were complimentary, the absence of dinner the night before had made me ravenous. A girl called Arju was at the reception, she was originally from Ahmedabad and was studying medicine and worked part time on weekends at the inn. She helped me to select a tour, I settled for the Grayline tour around the city and a bay cruise.

A charming trolley came to pick me up, they had bells for horns and it was made of wood and brass. The trolley took me to Fisherman’s Wharf from where the bus was to depart. The bus took us all around San Francisco starting with the Mission, Twin Peaks, the Crooked Street, Nobb Hill, Marina, the financial district, Washington Square, China Town, Town Hall, China Beach, over the Golden Gate Bridge, botanical gardens and back to Fisherman’s Wharf. The tour commentary could have been better but it covered the basics in a somewhat lack luster way so I did not tip the driver.

Hunger pangs could not be avoided further so I headed straight for the famous clam chowder in a sour dough bowl. The clam chowder was this creamy sauce like gravy with clams (without the shells) and what seemed to be potatoes; I could not make out the rest. The bread was sour and is somewhat an acquired taste but went well with the clam chowder. The crabs were huge and one could order a live crab and they would immediately dunk it in boiling hot oil or water (what a way to die) and serve it up with a dressing or sauce of your choice. I could not quite stomach the thought of eating crabs but I did have fried calamari (squids) and prawns with hot sauce. The sea food was amazingly fresh and tasty and I have never had anything like it before.

After appeasing my tummy, I went for the bay cruise and bumped into some rather bad ambassadors of my country. My fellow countrymen were a bunch of travelers with the SOTC guided tours whose queue etiquette and manners left a lot to be desired. The bay cruise audio was excellent and gave a very detailed background of the city. We sailed past Alcatraz, Sausalito, Under the Golden Gate, past the one time detention center for the Chinese immigrants, the other magnificent bridge – the Bay Bridge which is a double storied bridge, the panoramic view of the San Francisco City and so on.
San Francisco came into being with the gold rush but was ravaged by major earthquakes but was rebuilt quickly. The Panama Canal celebrations were held in San Francisco to prove that the city had recovered and was back on its feet. Some celebrities have chosen San Francisco over Los Angeles as their home; some names I can remember are Robin Williams and Danielle Steele. The transport department of San Francisco had to devise a very unique form of transportation due to the undulating roads; the buses are attached to overhead tram wires which aid them to negotiate the steep inclines.

Walking around Fisherman’s Wharf was a wonderful experience; I let my chocolaty desires run wild in Ghirardelli Square and indulged in buying a basket load of chocolates of all kinds. There were eateries everywhere serving every variation of sea food imaginable and one of the restaurants had a live band playing some great music, I was walking down at a leisurely pace when one man leaped towards me, he was hiding behind some bushes and was ‘scaring’ most of the passers by and everybody around had a good laugh – so did I. I walked on and a psychic tarot reader convinced me to part with $10 for a palm reading. Whatever she told me then helped me to get through some difficult days so I guess it was money well spent.

Pier 39 was another tourist attraction with the sea lions putting up a performance for whoever cared to watch. The Boudin Bakery “where it all started” – I guess they are referring to the sour dough invention was quite a popular spot. The bakers put up a show for all the curious bystanders by flipping dough up in the air and rotating it and then layering it with jalapeno peppers and cheese and rolled it up and thrust it into the oven. My wicked tummy urged me to buy it but it was merely a greedy reaction to visual stimuli so I managed to ignore it. I could have spent hours in the area just absorbing the energy of the place but I had to trudge back to the hotel and my legs were not capable of taking me around any longer so with one last wistful glance at a ship in the bay I headed back to the hotel.

The next day was reserved for China Town and surrounding areas, Arju, the girl at the reception was very sweet and lent me her monthly bus pass so I could go anywhere I pleased. She gave me the numbers of the buses which went to China Town and I set out for my oriental experience. The North Beach festival was going on and the area surrounding Washington Square was very festive and there were stalls selling all kinds of Italian things. I entered a church in the vicinity; I later learnt that Joe DiMaggio and Marylyn Monroe were married in this church. There was a special service in progress in Italian in honor of a visiting dignitary from the Vatican. I sat through the service for a while and tried and failed to understand what was said in Italian. The choir music was beautiful and the atmosphere was peace filled though the attendance was rather poor at the Sunday service.

I walked along Grant Street (humming ‘If you come to San Francisco – you must wear some flowers in your hair’) which is one of the major street s of China Town, it was intriguing to see all people speaking in Chinese, the grocery shops selling all kinds of Chinese vegetables and groceries and some small shop keepers could barely speak English. I brought some candied ginger, some bamboo mats, ate a moon cake and a melon cake from a Chinese bakery and headed to the dim sum shop to indulge in every kind of dim sum available and ended my meal with a dumpling (combination of pork and shrimps) broth and I was ready to burst. I don’t think I will ever be able to have another dim sum without remembering that bursting feeling.

Soon it was time to head back to the hotel, I sat and caught my breath at the reception and as I was waiting for my taxi to arrive, I saw rather entertaining scenes when guests checked in. One person’s wife threw a tantrum and wanted to move out after an hour of checking in because of a smelly room, another couple was going around USA and celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary and stressed upon the need to have a king size bed to befit the occasion, a British couple who were on their annual holiday and needed advise on their next holiday. I obliged and told them about Palace on Wheels in Rajasthan which was sure to thrill them but the gentleman was more interested in covering India on Indian Railways like an average Indian, he said he loved the country last time he went there. A Dutch couple checked in who were jokingly threatened by the golden anniversary couple not to make any kind of noise next door as they intend to make all the noise. Amidst all this colorful conversation Arju prettily blushed and once the guests had left she rolled her eyes and rued about the kind of people she has to deal with everyday but agreed that it was a lot of fun as well.

Finally it was time to say goodbye, Arju and I exchanged email IDs and promised to keep in touch, San Francisco was indeed a very precious experience that I will treasure for a long time to come.

Beverly Hills

2006-06-14T06:44:00.000+05:30

Last Saturday I went back to Rodeo Drive, the place which was kind of etched in my memory from a few years back during my last visit to LA and Beverly Hills. It reeks of exclusivity and its evident to one and all who pass through, the tree lined avenues, the perfectly manicured gardens, the beautiful houses, the opulent hotels and the world's most expensive shopping street, Rodeo Drive is quite something.

Last time I came here on a Sunday so there weren't much people around but all of a sudden a gentleman dressed in a red coat stepped out of somewhere and started speaking to me in fluent Hindi, he greeted me, asked where I was from and hoped that I would enjoy my day in Beverly Hills. I was more than astonished and very much pleased to hear my language in a country far away from India. That memory has always remained with me and it is what that took me back to the place.

On reaching, I find the very familiar, portlier and older "Mr Beverly Hills" in his element on a Saturday when the place was thronging with tourists. He never let a person pass by without asking where the person came from and promptly spoke a few words in his or her language, the reaction was always one of amazement and then happiness. He gave me his usual line, 'Aap bahut sundar hain" and then added that he said the same to Ash (Aishwarya Rai) and Shabana Azmi who had come there to shop. He also put his arm around Ash and took a picture (which is usually frowned upon by Indians but she let him put the arm around), which sent me into a fit of giggles. I said that I was pleased to see him again, he promptly fished out a few brochures to show that he was the mascot of Beverly Hills and on every possible travel brochure which mentioned it.

Right across Rodeo Drive is a well known hotel, also the hotel which was featured in the movie "Pretty Woman", a group of Japs were standing there and gazing at the entrance. Mr Beverly Hills said in a loud voice "You know why those guys are standing there? They are suffering from the Pretty Woman Syndrome"! Another round of giggles from everybody and then suddenly he announced "You see this lady out here? She has come all the way from India to take a picture with me", he snatched the camera from my hands and handed it over to someone who obediently clicked. He sure knows how to get visibility!

After a highly entertaining time, I walked down the street and did some serious window shopping, all the world's fanciest shops, shops where one could shop with prior appointments only, the worlds most expensive men's clothes store (Bijan's) where only royalty, the rich and the heads of states all across the globe shop, Valentino, Chanel, Prada, van Cleef & Arpels, Louis Vuitton, Christian Dior, Guess ... You name it, every possible upmarket store had a presence.

Finally I took this Beverly Hills Trolley Tour which was a very charming ride around the small city, the houses of the celebrities (actors), the witches house from Hansel & Gretel, the Beverly Hills Hotel which is owned by Sultan of Brunei, who forgot for a while that he owned it, the big mansions of the businessmen, the grand limos, the Ferraris and the associations of the streets with a particular movie. Beverly Hills had showbiz, glamour and affluence stamped all over it but thankfully lets us in to see it as well!

A Night @ the Call Center

2006-06-06T09:37:00.000+05:30

No this is not a book review, but a personal experience, that too in a call center in the USA rather than in India. I spent some time at the call center to understand the business process better and in the process got an insight into the much more than business processes.

I was greeted by Yvonne, who was a very amiable and friendly lady, 62 years old, a hot shot COBOL programmer who worked in Bank of America in her hey days and could debug code by just looking at a dump. She was made redundant because technologies changed and jobs were outsourced, however to keep the home fires burning or may be just to occupy her time rather than just being forgotten, she chose this job of working nights as a supervisor at this call center. She showed me around, introduced me to people I should spend time with and offered me some soda and pretzels.

Next I sat with Nicole, who was an Australian who had shifted to USA fifteen years back. Initially for years she worked both shifts probably to make ends meet but now she works just nights and has been with the organization for a good 10 years. She showed me the screens of the application she used to enter data, how data got validated, posted etc. In the midst of all this we talked about Cricket, since she was Australian. I updated her about how well Australia was doing in Cricket. She and I agreed that Cricket was kind of boring if one did not understand the finer aspects of the game, she told me that she loved playing a girl’s version of cricket when she was at school which was far more energetic, fast and exciting as compared traditional men’s cricket. She also asked me that when the new IT systems were going online, she knew the new IT system would automate much of the work she did and it was to assess how much time she had.

My next session was with Ken, he has been working the graveyard shift for the last 10 years, but one does not really get used to such times, he said. He sleeps from 6 PM to 2 AM, when it’s dark outside and reports to work at 2:30 AM and works till 11 AM and has Tuesdays and Wednesdays off, when he catches up with friends etc. He has a very key role of collating and distributing the information before 5 AM every morning. Ken has two people assisting him, who are students and work nights to earn some extra bucks. He runs reports one by one, does a quick proof reading and sends it off to its location, some need to be formatted and emailed, some need to be hand faxed, some need to be printed and couriered while some are sent electronically by the existing system. He has trained several business analysts who came to him to understand the reporting and distribution section. The new system will have SQL Server Reporting Services which will have the intelligence built into it which will take away the human element from collation and distribution. With the new system in place, the customers will not hear Ken’s friendly voice telling them the top 10 figures, all they’ll see is a web page which is updated every 10 seconds.

I came away awed and humbled, awed because of the warmth and co-operation extended towards me despite being an ambassador of the IT solution which would do away with them and the stoic acceptance that they will eventually loose their jobs because the company wants to save on manpower costs by paying millions of dollars to consulting companies. Humbled because no matter how great technology is, people are special and important and you can’t have technology work without their contribution.

Life's a Beach

2006-05-31T09:13:00.000+05:30

Here are some pictures of Santa Monica beach on Memorial Day. It seemed that all of California was out on those beautiful beaches and it almost came close to Juhu on a Sunday in Mumbai.

Interestingly, I have always loved this song by Sheryl Crow called ‘All I want to do is have some fun’, that is precisely what I did this weekend, but the only difference from Sheryl’s song was that I had fun till the sun set on Santa Monica Boulevard!

Memorial Day

A tribute to all soldiers, army, navy, marines, coast guards and air force. There was another pillar on the side dedicated to all soldiers who dies in various military operations in the line of duty since 1999. A pretty picture indeed.

The Pier

Everybody is out to have a great time. Somewhat like a walk down to Haji Ali in Mumbai, musicians playing the guitar or flute, people standing up on benches and trying to entertain the passers by to make some money, the serpentine queues for all the restaurants on the pier, the ancient carousel (set up by the Coney Island creator) which has been in existence since the birth of the pier in 1924, the numerous pretzel and hot dog stands by the side…

The Sailboats and Surfers

The oh so blue sea with pretty white sailboats drifting about happily aided by strong gusty winds. The surfers trying to ride waves which did not seem to be as high as I saw in Baywatch and my men readers would be disappointed to learn that the ladies and the men are mostly overweight and way beyond Baywatch expectations! There were some visual treats but very rare!

The Shade
The tall palm trees and beautiful green grass and the inviting shade made me fulfill one of my simple ambitions of sitting under a tree and reading a book, a hammock would have been perfect but one doesn't get everything. Some of the homeless wanderers had spread out their sleeping bags and rested in the shade, a physically challenged person had placed his 2 legs aside and dozed off, a pretty girl sat under a tree rubbing sun tan lotion, readying herself for the beach while the cool breeze blew gently.

The Sun and the Sand

A walk on the beach and the lovely warm feeling of sand between my toes made me realize a few things, the castles we build are temporary, the footprints we leave on the sand are temporary, the next big wave is but a reality, which will wipe it all clean and leave us with fresh smooth surfaces to build upon again. Walking on sand is also about rebalancing and finding steadiness in a constantly changing ground, I envy the light footed creatures of the beach who move with such speed and ease as compared to my apparently laborious movements.

The Californians do know how to enjoy every moment in between the waves.

Capitalist vs Socialist

2006-05-26T12:17:00.000+05:30

I have a boss who works 20 hours so not much opportunity to blog. I plan to do a post on all my culinary experiences but in the meanwhile here is some food for thought.

In the numerous meetings I am attending here, a point came up where some government policies had an implication on software design. This country happens to be Spain, it also came up that since Spain is a socialist country, they have such policies in place. The person went on to make a comment - "Socialists are just so stuck"

That's USA for you - purely capitalist!

Sleepless in LA

2006-05-23T18:29:00.000+05:30

I had this very eventful journey from Mumbai to LA. It started on an incredibly funny note and I would have really laughed if I wasn't so stressed out about everything. I flew Air India and the first announcement I heard was that the flight has been delayed because the crew had not yet arrived. I wondered what if they don’t arrive at all. Is that a very diplomatic statement to make to agitated and stressed passengers who would miss all their connecting flights? What impression must have all the visitors to India formed about India's international carrier? I was shocked at the callousness and utter disregard for any passenger needs after being reasonable well looked after by Lufthansa, Air France, United etc. No water and soap in the toilets further added to discomfort and I found a human hair in my food. I know for sure I will never fly Air India again.

On reaching LA a couple of hours late, I found that the apartment I was renting had messed up and I had no keys and generally stranded with nowhere to put up. Most hotels were booked to capacity but finally I managed to find one next to Universal Studios, a plush 5 star hotel which was frightfully expensive but I loved every minute of my stay there, the view from the window overlooked Universal City and was brightly lit up.

Now that I have settled into the apartment I can’t seem to sleep. Well nothing ever is perfect but the place definitely rocks, it’s in the heart of Hollywood on the Sunset strip with many interesting shops and restaurants all around. I am finally going to fulfill my year long desire to eat Sushi at the Japanese restaurant right below.

Preparation

2006-05-18T18:42:00.000+05:30

My boss told me that I have to go to Los Angeles for a month, my first reaction is pleasant, being right in the midst of beautiful beaches and Hollywood was interesting. Then the waves of worry replaced the initial thrill - one month is a long time and everything will be topsy turvy at home. Added to that, my maid's tantrums, my Mother in Law's various ailments, my husband's work related travel plans and my son's vacations, complete despair set in. All of it just because I will be away for a month and the family will be thrown out of gear.

The wives manage just fine when the husbands go away for work, why can’t the husbands manage when the wives are away? They behave like helpless babies who need to be given instructions on a daily basis! To ease the pain of my not being around, I have to stock up on groceries which will cover the month, plan the menu with my maid, employ additional domestic help to fill in for the labor that I put in and give my son a few activities and assignments which I hope will keep him occupied.

AT the end of all this I think that perhaps it would have been better to refuse the assignment altogether but another side of me wants to go and work and have fun. I guess this is the eternal dilemma of the working woman who has to balance out home and work.

My Window to the World

2006-05-15T17:05:00.000+05:30

Knowing about and exploring different cultures and places has always been a hobby. These days one can do a lot of armchair traveling thanks to the many travel oriented shows on TV and write-ups in magazines but when I was growing up there weren't too many options available except for reading and traveling to the location and exploring for real.

Thanks to the uncountable Mills and Boons I consumed in my teen years, I know quite a lot of UK, Australia, Italy, Portugal, Spain and Greece. I wonder why Frenchmen were not preferred as heroes in Mills and Boons - perhaps it is because of the age old rivalry between the English and the French? My other obsession was listening to shortwave radio. During a trip to Amsterdam, my Mother brought me a Sony world receiver where one could do a digital scan of all shortwave frequencies. It is till date the most wonderful gift that anyone has ever given me.

Shortwave radio added an entirely new dimension to my learning and also gave me a chance to peek into cultures and countries far away from me. The most accessible stations were Voice of America and BBC; VOA ran a US top 40 song countdown which was then probably the only source for updated music. I still remember Ray Mc Donald who hosted those shows and actually came down to Calcutta to marry a Bengali girl (not me :(). BBC was my favorite source for economic analyses, news and literature. There used to be a program called Bookshelf where selected works for great authors were read out - I 'read' Madame Bovary, Picture of Dorian Gray and Hayavadana through BBC. Hunting out newer shortwave stations became an obsession, I used to maintain a diary of the names of stations and their frequencies - later I found that this hobby had a name, it was called DXing. Then the Internet had not hit India so there was no way to connect with people having the same hobby and no way to share what I had found.

Everyday I would strain my ears at each frequency to try and discover a station; at times the languages were different so I had to wait till they announced the name of the station. I found Radio Luxembourg, Radio Berlin (before the unification of Germany) and few more - 40 in all. Radio Australia was also one of my favorites and I used to listen to a program called Good Morning Australia hosted by a very cheery gentleman with a wonderful Australian accent - he managed to paint a very vivid picture of Melbourne.

I still miss my world receiver which was junked a few years back and I haven't got down to replacing it and neither have I checked the state of shortwave radio after I started working but it was my greatest companion in my growing up years and also my window to the world.

Cold Climates Colder Hearts?

2006-05-11T14:38:00.000+05:30

My Mother recently made this comment under emotional duress - distances and cold climates kill warmth in our hearts. Our personal agendas and our immediate world consume us so totally that we have little care for what else happens around the world or to our extended families.

Most Indian families will have at least one relation staying outside the country, sometimes they are very close relations who choose to move away in search of better prospects and incomes. Longer distances from home may mean lesser frequencies of visits back home, at times they come back after years and years and all distances melt away and it seems like as if they had never left. At times it seems that some stranger has come in place of the person we originally knew and it is so hard to make the connection that we were used to.

I have watched both these situations up close. In one situation a daughter came to visit her Mother after a period of 20 years, the first time since her Father passed away. This was also the first time her mother would see her two grown children who had never been to India before. The mother still had limitless love and affection which would engulf not only her daughter but also the new found grand children but the daughter had emotionally drifted away and barely managed to exchange a few words now and then with her Mother. At one point I heard her saying "I don't want to go anywhere with Ma as I don’t quite know how to handle her". I guess that statement sums it all up.

Thankfully there is a brighter side as well, I have also seen people return and blend into the family as if they had never left, the parties and get togethers, the little thoughtful gifts for each and everyone in the family, visiting the people who have aged and the long conversations over lunches and dinners at home with our fingers and plates all dry with caked gravy residue. It's always a joy having them around and we look forward to their visits.

Maybe distances and colder climates do lead to mental and emotional distances as well, maybe the pressures of living away from home in a strange country do take their toll, maybe definitions of 'home' change but no distances should be that great that they cant be bridged with a warm smile.

Chandalika & the Caste Drama

2006-05-08T13:30:00.001+05:30

Chandalika is a dance drama written by Rabindranath Tagore back in 1933. I was watching it on TV last night and found that it is perhaps as relevant now as it was in 1933.

It's a story of a girl named Prakriti, who is ostracized by the society and lives on its edges. She does not understand the consequences of her birth into a family which is regarded as 'untouchable'. She watches wistfully from the shadows as the world passes her by as even her shadow was inauspicious, the sweet meat vendor, the bangle seller and the flower girls all shunned her existence. One day a Buddhist monk appeared and asked her for some water to quench his thirst, he brushed aside her hesitance and said God made all men equal and her origins were inconsequential and proceeded to drink water offered by her.

The 'caste system' sometimes rears its ugly head during matrimonial alliances but otherwise it’s quite forgotten - at least in urban India. Now with the fresh wave of proposed reservations in education institutions like IIT and IIM, we are reminded again of the antiquated concept of 'castes' and discrimination on the basis of religion.

Now if we extrapolated the Chandalika situation to education and reservation, things are quite simple. Education is the 'water' to be given to one and all irrespective of his or her origins. Unfortunately, money and not caste or religion, is a limiting factor. Some students may be brilliant (no matter what caste or religion they belong to) but have limited financial resources to consume premium education. If reservations are necessary then they should be modeled in a different way which helps such students to gain education on basis of merit.

Obviously the creators of such preposterous plans are some dim witted politicians and political parties who have their own agendas to pursue and think that there are even dim(mer) witted people out there who'll just accept their diktat as manna from heaven. Before India can truly compete at a global level we still have many such seemingly ridiculous problems to solve at the grass roots.

My Days on Bench

2006-05-05T14:20:00.000+05:30

One may wonder what a 'bench' is, so for people who are not aware, it means being without work in an IT company. It is also the most dreaded situation to be in, no place to sit, no computer to pass your time and since you are not doing much there are no credit points to add to your annual appraisal. Most people on bench are seen loitering about in the canteen or in the library. The people blessed with more respectable designations do not have to suffer similar indignities but it still feels miserable to be out of the mainstream delivery drama and generally forgotten. The other day I bumped into the CEO at lunch, we exchanged greetings and he asked which project I was associated with and I said that I was on bench, to which he responded "Oh! Finally you found a place to sit!" Well, that’s a lighter way to look at things I suppose!

It’s been two loooooooong months since I have been sitting and wondering how to kill all of 8 hours. Talking to others was definitely out as everybody looks awfully busy (even if they are not). Watching TV in the canteen was also out as the wafting smells made me hungry and I am on a diet. So I attended every organizational meeting I was invited to without fail (earlier I found smart excuses to avoid them). I bugged my boss about state of various internal tools and zealously (pretended) planned to set it all right, that took care of my visibility within the organization. I sat and looked awfully busy to the extent that nobody dared to come and disturb me - one must always look busy, that's what I have learnt.

The things I did while I 'looked' busy were of course blogging and browsing blogs; it has been a great way to devote some time to something I had just been planning to do for years. I also managed to learn all about mutual funds and online trading and have gone and used my new found knowledge which I hope will make me rich. I downloaded a tarot card reading tutorial and religiously go though lessons each day, I also try one card readings on myself which have been quite accurate till date. I googled on some of my good friends and some I have lost contact with to see if I can get in touch with them and where they have gotten to in life.

So in general, it’s been a fruitful 2 months with lots of additional knowledge and skills which may not be useful in the corporate domain but it sure adds layers to my persona. Sometimes it is good to switch off completely and focus on things which are 180 degrees away from work; it may help us to bring creativity and fresh thoughts when we get back to work.

The Chatroom - Then & Now

2006-05-02T17:28:00.000+05:30

I discovered chatting back in 1999 when I started working for a R&D unit of a US based product development company. Like most startups, the work took its own sweet time to flow down, till then we were asked to update our skills and so some self study and send daily reports of what we learnt. The team comprised of three women and each of us was equally innovative, creative and naughty when it came to sending daily timesheets. Needless to say that with the luxury of an ISDN high speed internet connection, all we did was chat. It was like a drug, an addiction which always left us wanting more. I discovered the true meaning of the word 'disconnection' back then.

MSN Chat rooms were my favorite haunt (not sure if they exist now); it seemed like my gateway to the world, so many different people from so many different places who were quite eager to exchange views. I met a fireman from New York who had lost his girl friend in a fire, an engineer who specialized in lift doors, I have always been petrified of getting stuck in between but he reassured me that there is nothing to worry! I met a stand up comedian from South Africa and a Dutch fashion photographer who worked for JP Gaultier. The Indians were very forgettable barring one, who was working in Brunei. Maybe it’s not fair to generalize but I found that people outside India were quite willing to have general conversations but people from India were mostly looking for some 'cyber'.

Work and the Boss's strict eye cured us of our chat addiction soon enough, the withdrawal symptoms were worse than that of alcohol or drugs though! Idle curiosity took me to a Yahoo chat room recently, the differences are as follows: now all people are looking for 'cyber', same sex preferences are openly evident and so are fetishes and queerness of all kinds, its a happy hunting ground for pimps who 'sell' their 'variety' online. Another new phenomenon struck me as laughable, male prostitutes; men have at last caught up on the last female bastion! Obviously these days the chat rooms are not a place for cross cultural exchanges but more a place to feed baser instincts, enter at your own risk!

Rich Kid Poor Kid

2006-04-28T16:53:00.000+05:30

This incident dates back to my school days, I used to study in a very up market school full of snotty rich kids belonging to the most famous political and industrialist families of India. There were a few kids from middle income groups to stabilize things; otherwise the school would have been rather empty.

Now I come across my school mates smiling out of the page 3 sections in the newspapers or making their mark in politics or media and I wonder that if I were to meet them today, would they recognize or talk to me? Back in school everything was simple; the rich - poor divide was not very evident in the lower grades. A good friend, daughter of one of the most eminent Indian business families often called us over. Being her friends, we were given the royal treatment, the red carpet was rolled out and our every whim was catered to. We demanded a rice dish called 'papad chawal', tri colored puris, hot ginger or cardamom tea every now and then, movies, go swimming courtesy her premium club membership and what not. She and her family happily complied because we were all good friends, our humble origins were inconsequential.

One fine day realization dawned, social and economic differences became important and she became conscious of them. She was getting married and the 'type' of friends who attended her wedding became a matter of concern. Did they have manicured hands and feet, did they have appropriate dresses and jewelry to wear, would they even look 'proper' when introduced to prospective in laws? We may not have had pots of money but we had pride in our hearts and we politely declined the wedding invitation. At 17-18 years, an all expenses paid trip to an exotic location is very tempting but the hurt was far greater than the temptation.

We did meet her a few times later but then she was very much the high society lady who wore a perennial mask, our worlds were completely different and it was impossible to relate, but she will always remain a very essential part of our childhood and happy memories.

A common Thread

2006-04-26T17:45:00.000+05:30

Maybe some or all things that happen in our lives are predetermined. There are some incidents in my life which make me believe in it as the days go by.

My Grandmother wanted me to marry into a certain family, perhaps because that was the only family with an eligible Brahmo bachelor! She could not find a suitable Brahmo groom for her daughters (they were married off into Hindu families), so it was her most cherished dream that her grand daughter should marry a Brahmo. Several discreet and not so discreet attempts were made to initiate the alliance, in one such attempt I was pushed in front of my prospective Mother in Law with necessary introductions. She looked vague and I was promptly dismissed. How did I even agree to such a situation I am not sure but when one is young one gets pushed into situations.

My Grandmother passed away after a few months leaving my mother to shoulder the enormous responsibility of marrying me off. I didn't help things by producing a boy friend who wanted to marry me. Responses to matrimonial ads ranged from disappointing to hilarious but not worth taking it ahead.

Six months passed, the atmosphere around me was like as if I had to embrace eternal spinsterhood, marry a tree or join a convent. One fine morning my Mother came across a simple no nonsense matrimonial ad and my profile was sent promptly. The reply came soon enough, the strange part was that it was the same family and man my Grandmother wanted me to marry. Co-incidence? Perhaps the logical mind would explain it that way but I prefer to believe that my Grandmother pulled a few strings up in heaven. I did eventually marry the same person.

A few more co-incidences have happened in my life which make me believe that we are all tied by a common thread, linked to each other in some way or other and some supreme force controls that thread. When a friend calls just when you are thinking of her, when you see a person on a street about whom you were thinking the day before or when some dream replays itself in real life and you get a feeling of déjà vu, it may be that supreme force at work and not just a co-incidence.

Return to Innocence

2006-04-24T16:52:00.000+05:30

This is a song by Enigma which looks as good as it sounds as the entire video is a rewind and it has been one of my favorite songs for a very long time. Everytime I come across an article which advises us to eat complex carbohydrates (whole whear bread, brown rice etc), do yoga and meditation and studies about alternate fuel and electricity sources, I am reminded of this song.

The industrial revolution has depleted the Earth of its natural resources and the 'good life' along with the pollution generated by industrialization has depleted our health. The oil they say will last us only for 20 more years, the levels of oceans all around have risen by a few inches in the last 20 years, the ozone layer has depleted considerably, ground water contamination due to toxic land fills and use of fertilizers leads to chemical filled fruits and vegetables and unsafe drinking water. The use and throw culture leads to tonnes of garbase, paper is shredded, torn and wasted without a thought for the trees that were cut down to make them, forests are decreasing, plants and animals are becoming extinct and greenery in urban areas is compromised.

We are a race who are living for the moment without a thought for tomorrow. We have a new gadget for personal use every few months and upgrades to existing ones every few days. With so many brilliant minds around, is it that difficult to make cars run on water and generate sustainable amounts electricity from wind and the Sun or bring nuclear fusion out of the laboratory into day to day needs?

Eventually the dynamics will force us to rewind and relearn a better way of progress, in the meanwhile we can try reuse, recycle and find simpler ways of living which are not environmentally costly.

The School Playground

2006-04-21T13:30:00.000+05:30

It resembles a battlefield at times, full of adrenalin charged youngsters running around everywhere trying their best to put the ball in a net or a basket or trying to snatch it away from the person who has it. Aggression reigns supreme, battle cries of 'pass the ball' echo everywhere, deliberate nudges and pushing is the norm and so is the good natured camaderie after the game is over.

This is the usual scene I witness everyday when I drop my son for his basketball lessons, last two days I was feeling lazy and didn't go for my walk / gym, so I just sat and observed the various games in progress, counted the planes that flew over my head, watched the dust rise up and settle down and observed big ants on the ground who very smartly avoided human footfalls and hid in cracks.

During all these aimless observations, a few kids caught my attention. Three girls were playing with a ball, passing it to each other standing quite close to each other. A very simple sort of a game for girls of that age I thought but they played it with a lot of enthusiasm and counted failure points for each dropped ball. After a few minutes of idle watching, I realized that one girl seemed different and all the other girls kept encouraging her. "Throw harder", "Catch it", "Very good", "Well done". On further observation I realized that she was a special child, circumstances or God had deigned her to be different from all other children.

It was heartening to see these girls accepting her 'differentness' and welcoming her into their own world with open arms and having a merry time together. There is hope for the future after all...

Busy With Nothing

2006-04-18T17:50:00.000+05:30

I am so busy doing nothing that my mind refuses to think up of something to write. I can hear several idea bees buzzing around my brain, hopefully I will be able to give them some shape very soon. Till then just let me sleep on them!

Loosing and Discovering my Father

2006-04-11T14:28:00.000+05:30

My Father passed away when I was eleven years old; I remember foggily that in the morning he complained about chest pain when I was leaving for school. When I came back my mother told me that he was no more, I predictably broke down but at that age the comprehension levels are rather low. I felt that he had just gone away on one of his office tours and would be back after a very long time, perhaps I was more upset about not being able to celebrate my birthday which was just next week because we had made grand plans for it. I feel awful putting this down on paper as I am admitting to being selfish, insensitive and a low life by admitting that it was my lost birthday I was crying over rather than my Father's death.

I was the adored daughter, special and pampered, my every wish was fulfilled and I was given the best of everything by my Father. Before the childish affection could grow into a relationship, my Father passed away so I never really knew him as a person. After his death I never had the opportunity to miss him as life took another course which took a great deal of adjustment and I was busy adjusting and dealing with adolescence.

Much later when I was working, I had to do some project work I met some people who knew my Father and I casually mentioned that I was the daughter of so and so. I did not expect the many good things people said about him, it was a revelation as I never really had a chance to learn about his professional side. During Durga Puja, my friend's father would specially introduce me as so and so's daughter. It was really touching to see the amount of respect people had for him as a person. We are not really a very close knit family but when I meet the extended family once in a while, I discover other bits and pieces, his love for cooking, his knowledge of Urdu, his writings, his paintings and so on.

Maybe had he lived we would have been good friends...

Nero Vs Vilasrao

2006-04-05T18:10:00.000+05:30

I find a lot of similarities in them, they could be twins if they were not separated by this vast expanse of time.

I am not a political observer, I cannot keep track of politics most times, I have no interest whatsoever in politics. But even a layman can see the impending doom that our local Nero (Vilasrao Deshmukh) is bringing upon this city. My catty side observes that his son, is doing a better job than his Dad, atleast he is trying to act and his performance is tolerable.

Vilasrao, however is a different story altogether. If body language is an indicator then he appears to be lazy, uninterested, loves the perks of the job and has conveniently forgotten the duties that go along with it. On occasions he has appeared to be downright silly when he went with a begging bowl to Delhi but could not state reasons as to why he needed the money.

Forget Shanghai, we are not even close to Bangalore and Chennai. Even the cities like Hyderabad and Kolkatta are better managed now. The stink of garbage has become a way of life, some roads are not swept for weeks on end, potholes reign supreme on highways and street lights do not work on major highways. The builders can bribe anyone to buy a plot of land reserved for a playground or public amenity, the bribes go all the way up to the highest office I am told. The ministers openly make statements about selling off Shivaji Park , racecourse, salt pan land etc to reduce the debt burden in Maharashtra. Recently the papers labelled Maharashtra as a 'Failed State' - indeed a feather in the cap of Mr Deshmukh.

Nero played the fiddle while Rome burned, Vilasrao sits in movie award functions while Mumbai is being steadily destroyed.

Can we even imagine a person in office making statements about selling off India Gate grounds to realtors or the maidan in Kolkatta? It would cause a public outrage - though I am not even sure of that anymore. Is the public really empowered to protest or do we just turn a Nelson's eye to issues like Mithi River?

The financial capital, the motion pictures industry capital, the megacity, home to some of the fortune 500 business houses - thats a lot of power in one place. Why do they put up with this steady decline which accelerates every day?

My driver sums it up aptly, Andher Nagri, Chaupat Raja.

Who Am I?

2006-04-03T16:32:00.000+05:30

Recently I helped my son with some project work where my son had to list down 20 adjectives (all good) describing himself. Of course I had to help with the list of those words and after I crossed 12 it was kind of difficult! Now if I were to do the same exercise for myself I would probably take days over it. The words are easy to come up with but are they really about "me"? DO I really know myself well enough to come up with words that describe me?

I learn a little about myself each day and I unlearn a bit about myself too everyday. Perhaps I am like a snake that sheds skin periodically, discarding what I don’t need and cultivating what is required. At times I surprise myself by doing something totally unexpected on an impulse and at times I have gone against some of the core values that I have been brought up with and managed to shock myself (without repentance!).

Why do the negative adjectives pop into my mind ahead of the positive adjectives? Are we as a race programmed to be modest or dismissive towards ourselves? Or is it that I want to focus on eliminating the negative aspects of my persona and accept the positive ones without much thought?

These are just some stray thoughts that crossed my mind while I was hunting for those twenty words. Maybe I will answer these questions sometime soon.

Here is what a name decoder says about me, doesn't look too bad!

Death of a Newspaper

2006-03-28T13:03:00.000+05:30

(Based on thoughts generated by the article in my previous post)

When I see the Times these days, I wonder whether I can continue subscribing to this paper for long. From a paper who believed in serious journalism it has degenerated into a rag which mostly prints syndicated material with some writing here and there by correspondents. My uncle was an eminent journalist with the Times, my cousin was the Editor for a while, I grew up with discussions about politics and happenings at the newspaper office and somehow Times has been a habit for as long as I can remember.

Now it has grown into a massive media juggernaut and the groups priorities seem to have shifted and it seems they take the slogan 'sex sells' very seriously indeed. They can read the minds of the strapped for time urban lot who prefer light reading. They know exactly how to add spice to each and every section. Even Economic Times has the occasional titillating picture or a 'juicy' snippet. The morons that we are, we fall straight into the trap and now we expect all publications to have similar 'juicy' bits and the ones which don’t appear dull.

Thanks to Times, now any teenager is well versed with various sexual positions, abnormalities, fantasies and dysfunctions, perhaps the space would be better utilized for AIDS awareness. My relatives in Calcutta are quite amazed that I know how many minutes Bipasha spends on the treadmill, the name of Priety's boyfriend, who coined the term 'Sollywood' and all sorts of rubbish that isn't really worth knowing but comes in handy as conversation fillers. Thanks to Times, now I and many others are experts on partying lot of Mumbai.

At times when I fall behind on current affairs, I desperately try to find some 'news' in the main paper but finally come across nothing that makes me think or adds to my knowledge. I wonder if this is a reflection about the state of journalism today and whether the so called newspapers are slowly turning into magazines for leisure reading. What is more worrying is that perhaps there are fewer takers for serious meaningful writing in newspapers.

Like a recent HT ad campaign said 'Let There Be Light'. Maybe there is hope after all...

India - The Darker Side

2006-03-27T15:39:00.000+05:30

I came across this article in Outlook by P Sainath, which is almost an exact opposite to Fareed Zakaria's article. We who work in the sunshine sectors and live in major metros have absolutely no idea about how the rural majority live. I read somewhere that Ashutosh Gowariker is heading some foundation that encourages the youth to contribute and participate in projects which benefit the rural communities. The publication also advised that the 'mallrats' residing in cities should get moving and do something useful instead of making the rich richer by buying things we don't need.

It's a long read but definitely an eye opener...

Lost The Compass?

Rural India is a giant canvas that is begging the media to do a portrait, many portraits. But it has failed — resoundingly.

P. Sainath

70,000 Indian millionaires...and growing Page 1 headline, The Times of India, June 11, 2005 "The bottom 400 million is a disappointment and a social responsibility, and while it harbours value (maybe not a fortune), it is a difficult market to tap." Economic Times, March 26, 2005

A lot of reporting on rural India nowadays simply views people there as buyers. Real or potential. How many cellphones are selling. How many cars. Stories of great yields from miracle seeds. (Never mind that states have begun to ban some of those seeds as the underside of the miracle pops up.) Never mind, too, that nutritional data across the country shows dismal trends.

So the ‘bottom 400 million’ are not to be viewed as people. (As a separate nation, they’d be the third biggest in the world.) Just as ‘a difficult market to tap’. And hence, ‘a disappointment’. Shame on you guys down there in the bottom 400 million. That’s enough distress and despair. Time to pull up your socks and be better buyers. (And whaddya mean, what socks?) What are the malls for, anyway?

Their own disappointments matter little. The average family is absorbing 100 kg of foodgrain less than what it did in 1991. That should have been a matter of urgent concern anywhere in the world. It hardly draws comment in the media here.

For hundreds of millions of poor, the brave new world of the ’90s meant globalisation of prices, Indianisation of incomes. As we moved to boost our welfare state for the wealthy, India turned its back on the poor. Investment in agriculture collapsed, and with it, countless human lives. In the cities, banks offered loans with which you could buy a Mercedes Benz at the lowest interest rates. At the same time, rural credit was wound down. Rural indebtedness soared.

Thousands of farmers took their own lives. As many as 3,000 of them in a single district of Andhra Pradesh. Work vanished in the countryside. Distress migrations from the villages—to just about anywhere—rose in tens of millions. Foodgrain available per Indian fell almost every year in the ‘reforms’ period. And by 2002-03, it was less than it had been at the time of the great Bengal famine.

Even as the world hailed our Tiger Economy, the country slipped to rank 127 (from 124) in the United Nations Human Development Index of 2003. This means it was better to be a poor person in Botswana—or even the occupied territories of Palestine—than in India. In the last decade, the Supreme Court pulled up state governments over rising hunger deaths.

But it wasn’t just the state that turned away from the poor. Much of the media led the charge in the other direction, celebrating the new order. Through this crisis, it would be hard to find major papers creating new beats to deal with the situation. No full-time reporters to cover agrarian distress. Not even to look at rural poverty as a whole. Very few to track the suicides and migrations. Or the soaring input costs and crashing output prices driving the farmer to despair. Or the hunger of the landless poor.

Now, to appreciate the enormity of this, look at the other end of the spectrum.

Take the 2005 Lakme India Fashion Week. It reflects well the world the media inhabits. Journalists outnumbered buyers three to one. Unlike the bottom 400 million, the tiny number of buyers is not a disappointment. What’s more, buyers at the show were dependent on designers for their passes. The media were not. Their place was assured. What would the LIFW and the media do without each other?

Right now, if all the agricultural labour unions in the country held a press conference in Delhi, they would be lucky if half-a-dozen journalists turn up If they marched in lakhs down the streets of the capital, they might make a photograph and two columns. Never mind that this class is the most vulnerable section of the Indian poor. Or that they—meaning tens of millions of human beings—are at the receiving end of a man-made crisis. It does not make news. Not much.

The LIFW-2004 edition produced, in one count, some 4,00,000 words in print. Over 1,000 minutes in television coverage. Some 800 hours of TV and video footage were shot. And close to 10,000 rolls of film exposed.

Consider that this was the main media event in a country where less than 0.2 per cent of people sport designer clothes. Where per capita consumption of textiles in 2002, at 19 metres, was way below the world average. And this show, too, drew more journalists than buyers.

Or look at the 2004 Diwali special issue of our largest English weekly. It proudly proclaimed an ‘India Deluxe’. The cover story was pleased with our progress. In present-day India, it noted, 1,00,000 families earn Rs 50 lakh to a crore each year. There would be 53,000 families earning over a crore by March 2005. And there were 20,000 already at that level.
India has over 180 million households. And the high-income ones add up to a fraction of that total. Indeed, the India Today story does admit that just about one per cent of the population can be called ‘seriously rich and affluent’. (As against the frivolously wealthy?)
Consider that this is how it is after last year’s polls. It’s as if the elections of May 2004 never happened. As if they held no message or warning at all. India Shining might have been rejected by the voters. The media still give it a two-thirds majority.

A two-day dip in the Sensex after the election results were out was covered with far greater passion and intensity than the polls themselves. With much larger headlines, in any case.

The Times of India front page recalled 9/11 as its chosen analogy for the May 17 slide of the Sensex. It splashed the figure 2,340,000,000,000 across the front page just under the masthead. A strap shrieked that 2.34 lakh crore of ‘investor wealth’ had been ‘wiped out’. The loss of this paper wealth was declared in eight-column headlines as Ground Zero. The report’s graphic mimicked the attack on the World Trade Centre in New York. An image of the Stock Exchange building in Dalal Street exploding in flames. And yes, with the Left supporting the new government, the villains were clear. The hijacked aircraft ploughing into the Stock Exchange building had the Communist hammer and sickle on its tail. The villains were easy to locate since the Left had said it would back a Congress-led government.

Within two days, the Sensex showed what The Times now called ‘instant recovery’. Paper wealth was back. Fact: an estimated 1.15 per cent of Indian households invest in stocks. On the other side of the fence are 65 per cent of households who do not have even a bank account, let alone investments. (In rural India, that is 70 per cent, according to an analysis of the Census of India household survey.) And where tens of millions of farmers live and die in debt.

The death by suicide in 2004 of a bright and talented model, Nafisa Joseph, got more coverage on television in an evening than the suicide deaths of thousands of farmers had in some years. Nafisa was an aspiring actress, a young life snuffed out in its prime. Surely a very sad event. It first came in as breaking news. It spilt over into numerous sectors of TV programming bar the sports news. It was in the news at prime time. It was there on the celebrity and party shows. Then it returned in the business bulletins for its possible impact on the fashion industry and the stress levels in that sector.

Her death was a tragedy. But no less a tragedy were the thousands of farmers’ suicides. Those are still to get anything approaching the coverage and enquiry they deserve.

Throughout its history, journalism has attained greatness or notoriety depending on how relevant it made itself to the great processes of its time. That was true of Thomas Paine and the American Revolution. True of John Reed and his Ten Days that Shook the World. And as true of Mahatma Gandhi, B.R. Ambedkar or a Tilak.

If we were to look back at Indian journalism of the last 15 years—how relevant would it be? There were huge technological advances. Major gains in reach and technique. But how did the media connect with, say, the giant processes gripping the Indian countryside? Did it achieve greatness? Even goodness? Perhaps its mediocrity was too pronounced for it to gain even notoriety. (Though a few did manage that.)

So what are the great processes of our time? There are several. Let’s look at just six that are surely worthy of urgent media attention.

One, the rapid rise of inequality in our society. Inequality, not IT or software, has been the fastest growing Indian sector this past decade. It has increased at a pace not seen since the time of the colonial raj. And how has journalism dealt with this issue?

The ’90s marked the coming of ‘theme weddings’ in a big way. In these, the wedding is held in a specially constructed replica of some great monument or event. These have ranged from the Sistine Chapel (set up for a Calcutta wedding) to forts and palaces and such. Delhi’s unique contribution was a replica of the Kargil conflict. Huge, snowy white tents with dead plastic soldiers, too. Doubtless to remind the young couple of the solemnity of the occasion.

Some of these weddings can cost crores of rupees. They’ve spawned an allied, wholly new segment of the fashion industry. Of course, all these efforts were put in the shade by the wedding of Laxmi Mittal’s daughter. No replica of the Versailles palace would do. It had to be the real thing. And for US $60 million or more, it was. You can see the local variants in any major Indian city today. By and large, the media have celebrated rather than questioned the growth of inequality.

Compare these weddings with what is going on in the countryside. In Anantapur, Andhra Pradesh, and Wayanad, Kerala, for instance, weddings have fallen sharply. No one has the money. A few of the suicides occurred when the farmer found he could not afford his daughter’s marriage. Sometimes, the girl also took her own life, blaming herself for her father’s death.

Another massive process crying for attention is the ongoing agrarian crisis. The crisis of farmers is not just one of agriculture. It touches every sphere of our lives. The suicides of thousands of farmers are a symptom, not the disease. They are the result, not the cause, of a much wider and deeper rural distress. Indeed, the Manmohan Singh government did, to some extent, recognise this. One of its early actions was to set up the National Farmers Commission under Dr M.S. Swaminathan to study the problem. The very first meeting of that commission—poorly covered by the national media—was stunning.

People from sharply differing, even antagonistic perspectives, were present. When you put bankers and farmers in the same room today, you’re organising a riot. And there was quite a bit of fire. There were farmers, labour unions, bank bosses, insurance officers, government officials, scientists and journalists. Yet, across this spectrum, there was unanimity on two things. One, the Indian countryside was seeing its worst crisis in decades. Two, this was policy-driven. Sure, they blamed each other for it. And differed on which policies were at fault and which ones were needed. But on this they agreed: there was a terrible crisis and it was policy-driven.

The meeting threw up some scary facts. The Andhra Pradesh Kisan Sabha brought up hard data on input and output prices in that state. It turned out that you could be a farmer owning eight acres of paddy in Warangal—and still be below the poverty line. This is because the earning per acre of paddy had slipped by Rs 600 to Rs 900 in 10 years. This has to do with a slew of policy measures inflicted on Indian agriculture in the ’90s. The collapse of investment in agriculture, the chaos brought into rural credit, and many other policies. It is surely worth investigating. But it’s hard to do that when you are celebrating those very measures as the arrival of the Golden Age.

Where is that debate in the media?

They have covered PM Manmohan Singh on the need for bank reforms. But have said almost nothing about the fact that rural branches of banks have declined every year since 1991. Between 1969 and 1990, the number of such branches more than trebled. Once the ‘reforms’ began, branches began to close. As Dr P.S.M. Rao points out, in 1990 there were nearly 35,000 branches in rural regions. That is, over 58 per cent of total branches. By 2003, rural branches were down. Both in absolute numbers and percentage. Now, they account for under half of the total branches. The more the banks wiggle out, the more moneylenders thrive.

So there’s one link of the rural credit crisis staring us in the face. But we don’t investigate it. Through the ‘reform’ years, the rich could get a loan at six per cent interest to buy a Mercedes Benz. A farmer paid more than twice, perhaps even thrice that rate if he wished to buy a tractor.

Growing hunger amongst the poorer sections is another great process. With well over 400 million hungry people, India alone has more undernourished human beings than all of sub-Saharan Africa combined. But this does not seem a matter of grave concern within the media.

Another alarming figure comes from the Food & Agriculture Organisation of the United Nations. The FAO’s State of Food Insecurity in the World report 2003 was happy to note that the number of those in chronic hunger fell by 80 million in 19 countries. Yet, it had risen by 19 million in India since 1996-97. Even though this number understates the reality, it’s bad enough. Nineteen million is almost the population of the continent of Australia.
It also means that in this period, the number of hungry rose in India and fell in Ethiopia. Both ways, in millions. This face of India Shining finds passing mention in the odd edit. Close-up coverage? Investigation? You must be joking.

The last few years saw another new development. For the first time since Independence, the Supreme Court admonished at least six state governments for their failure to halt hunger deaths. The court even held the states’ chief secretaries personally responsible for the deaths. Maybe not a great idea. But at least the court was taking seriously what the media fail to. A child dies of hunger every five seconds in the world. The largest numbers of such kids are Indians.

The next great process going poorly covered is the privatisation of basic services. Private hospitals and institutions have given a whole new meaning to the old adage: Health is Wealth. It puts billions of rupees in their pockets. All the while, the access of the poor to health is falling rapidly. Across most of the country, health has emerged as the second fastest growing component of rural family debt. We now have well-documented cases of farmers in Telangana and Vidarbha regions mortgaging their lands in order to pay hospital bills.

It has gotten so bad that 21 per cent of rural Indians no longer seek medical treatment for their ailments. That’s up from 11 per cent a decade ago. Millions are unable to afford the most basic things. And this is made worse by the collapse of rural employment in the last decade—which still continues. In the late ’90s, we chalked up our worst rate of growth in rural employment since we first began keeping data. All of 0.67 per cent. Way below the rate at which the workforce populace grew. Working less, for the poor, means eating less. Especially for women who eat last in the Indian household.

Our spending on health is abysmal, less than one per cent of GDP. India ranks 189 out of 192 countries in terms of how much the government spends on health as a share of total health spending. How many newspapers and magazines have full-time health correspondents? How many speak up for public investment in health?

And then there’s the privatisation of basic resources. With water being the latest on the agenda. This is a country where almost every long-term crisis has been linked one way or the other to water. Take the Cauvery dispute between Karnataka and Tamil Nadu. Or the Kerala-Karnataka feud over the Kabini’s waters. Or the Almatti dam quarrel that set Andhra Pradesh against Karnataka. Or the explosive Krishna waters issue that divides the regions of Andhra Pradesh. Even the Punjab problem of the 1980s had much to do with water disputes between Punjab, Rajasthan and Haryana.

Privatising irrigation and drinking water invites such troubles on a scale we may never have seen. But quite a bit of the media have been supportive of the process. Without even the pretence of investigating it seriously. Meanwhile, Maharashtra has been rewarded with Rs 1,700 crore by the World Bank for doing its bidding. For steering water towards privatisation. Few editorials or in-depth stories. If ever there was a process demanding immediate attention it is this: the rapid move towards water as a commercial good, not as a natural human right.

Through the summer of 2005 when it was a raging 45-48 degree C in the Nagpur rural region, water ‘theme parks’ and ‘snowdomes’ functioned in that district. One of them, consuming millions of litres of water, is located in a village where people got water once in five or even ten days.

And of course, there was the assault on the livelihoods on the poor. The state following the worst policies in this regard was Andhra Pradesh. There, not just farmers, but also weavers and other groups, took their lives in despair. There were also hunger deaths as livelihoods vanished. Carpenters in Telangana died of starvation when farming collapsed. When not a single new plough was ordered, when not one new cart was made, when farmers did not recycle their tools—that smashed the carpenters. Remember this was the state the big media held up as the model. No chief minister ever got the press Chandrababu Naidu did.

A conscious drive to get people off agriculture was also a major feature of what happened in Andhra Pradesh. This, without a clue as to where to redeploy them. Countless thousands went broke and some even lost their lands as they sank in debt. Lakhs boarded buses or trains and left the state in search of work elsewhere. The number of daily buses from Mahbubnagar in Andhra Pradesh to Mumbai was one a week in 1993.It was forty-seven a week in 2003.

Wayanad was once one of the richest districts in Kerala. A huge foreign exchange earner for the state with its cash crop exports. Now, destroyed by our own policies and the new WTO world order. Coffee prices boom in London while coffee growers commit suicide in Kerala. Wayanad was once the only part of Kerala which had more migrants coming in than going out. Today, the reverse is true. There were six buses a day from Mananthavady in Wayanad to Kutta in Karnataka in 1995.Now, there are 24 daily, a 400 per cent increase. The Kerala State Road Transport Corporation is about the only profit-making body in the district.

And, of course, there was an intensification of forced displacement across the country. Adivasis fighting to save their lands from mining interests. People of the Taungiyas were victimised in and around the Rajaji National Park. And many more.

This was the deadly drama of the countryside. All in all, a giant canvas begging the media to do a portrait, many portraits. We failed that challenge—and resoundingly.

Why? Sure, there are the old faults of the media. Elitism, ignorance, paisa-pinching and the rest. And, of course, the central problem of ever-growing monopoly. The stifling of smaller voices. The death of dissent. Media as commerce and nothing but. And the growing frustration of the many journalists who really want to connect with their society but cannot. These remain crucial. Yet, there are new important barriers that render the media unable to get a handle on what’s going on. Whether in rural India, or with the Indian poor as a whole.

For much of the media, the ideology of the new age is infallible. The celebration of the world of Market Fundamentalism is a given. James Galbraith Jr puts two of the tacitly held ‘rules’ coming out of this with gentle irony. All successes are due to globalisation. All failures are national. And—the global market is beyond reproach.

To these we can add a third. The words ‘exploitation’ and ‘oppression’ now barely exist in the media lexicon. Certainly not as causes for deprivation and poverty. Those are the outcome of ‘bad governance’. And there’s another axiom, the less government there is, the less the state does, the better. Any questioning of these commandments is heresy. Do it as a journalist and you’re at once branded a ‘jholawala’ or ‘poverty mafia.’ On the other hand, spend day after day churning out corporate press releases as ‘news’ and you’re a professional.

The media have lost their compass and, with it, their compassion. What Prof Prabhat Patnaik, one of our foremost economists, calls ‘the moral universe’ of the media has changed a lot for the worse. All their awesome technological advances cannot hide this. Indian journals of the freedom struggle had differing perspectives, angry debates. There was richness and variety. Today, you have McMedia. It tastes the same everywhere. Yet, there are so many talented young journalists, dying to do something better. That is a tribute to the great legacy of the freedom struggle and the media traditions it bequeathed upon us.

Youngsters are still drawn to the profession by idealism. There’s a lot more money to be made elsewhere. Whether it is a Narasimha Reddy in Anantapur; or a Purushottam Thakur or a Bijaya Sahis or Jagadish Suna from the Kalahandi region; or a Dayamani Barla in Jharkhand; or a Jaideep Hardikar in Vidarbha; or a K.A.Shaji in Kerala, younger journalists have put their seniors to shame. Their energy and commitment, and that of many like them, is an inspiration. Journalists like these have worked against enormous odds and often in the face of active hostility, to tell the stories of the rural poor.

No less positive is that so many media audiences are so far ahead of the editors and owners. For a decade, we’ve seen the formula peddled that it was page 3 that sold The Times of India in Mumbai. It was monopoly, actually. There was little need to show any regard for the readers in a game too costly for most others to break into. The Times of India, Mumbai, in June 2005, is for now a transformed paper. Six city pages, the return of a books page, some very good stories (and even some analysis) have made it so.

That two major newspapers have set up shop in Mumbai had a lot to do with the change. Now, you have to show the readers some respect. They might find out they had options. True, how the newcomers shape their content will also decide a lot of things. If they, too, buy into the old formula of The Times, we could be halfway back to where we were just a few months ago.

The problems of the media are not beyond solution. But they cannot be solved within the media. The larger public must and will play its role. It was the voters, not the editors and owners, who took on and slammed corrupt and debased governments in May 2004. The big media, in nearly every sense, found themselves on the wrong side of that great battle. The disconnect between mass media and mass reality stood exposed. The challenge now is to reconnect with the people. And rediscover the greater traditions of the Indian media.

India Shining

2006-03-24T12:07:00.000+05:30

AT Kearney has ranked India as the most preferred country for offshore outsourcing. India is among top few in the emerging markets in the retail sphere. The World Economic Forum at Davos featured 'Incredible India' as a theme. George W Bush has suggested that Americans learn Hindi and Chinese. Indian stock markets are booming. Automobiles, healthcare, supercomputing, biotechnology, education, technology and many more sectors in India are steadily climbing to be the best in the world. All publications talk about the burgeoning Indian middle class and the demographic advantage that India has with more than 50% of the population being under 30.

When I read all this I am reminded of the time when I was growing up when Indians as a race suffered from low self esteem, all things across shores towards west seemed so attractive. Kids at school loved showing off their pens, pecilboxes, toys and gadgets from abroad. Most students (they still do I think) studied hard to clear SAT/GMAT/GRE examinations. "Idhar rakha hi kya hai?" (No future here) they would say. Those of us who have relatives abroad would wait impatiently for the suitcases of our relatives to be opened, which seemed to have a characteristic 'foreign' smell. We would be so thrilled to receive gifts of foreign chocolates, clothes, shampoos, soaps, cosmetics, foodstuffs, gadgets and so on. Nothing which was Indian seemed to appeal, we were a dismal lot who were never happy with our country.

The self esteem levels were quite low even about 7-8 years back but gradually it started changing. What changed our perception about our country? The poor are still poor, people still sleep on the pavements, the children still beg on the streets, Mumbai still has the world's largest slum, the politicians are still corrupt and the system still does not work. In a recent article in Newsweek by Fareed Zakaria, there were few lines which seemed interesting and relevant, they are as follows:

India has vast and growing numbers of entrepreneurs who want to make money. And somehow they find a way to do it, overcoming the obstacles, bypassing the bureaucracy. "The government sleeps at night and the economy grows," says Gurcharan Das, former CEO of Procter Gamble in India.

It was all happening right under our noses but we never realized that we are getting somewhere. The first to spot this as an opportunity was the ruling political party BJP who put together the 'India Shining' election campaign which I thought was quite well done. The message was loud and clear - India is happening - the new India has arrived. The middle class may be educated enough to see through crafty strategies of political parties but somehow the message was rooted in their sub concience. They woke up and looked around and found that a lot is really changing for the better and they felt good about themselves and the country. Now whether BJP had brought about the positive changes in the economy is open for debate, but their ad did wonders for realization.

The media and the international consulting firms stepped in as well and the newspapers and magazines were and still are flooded about various reports and analysis about India's bright future. People like me who grew up beleiving that nothing good can ever happen to this country now have happily altered their view point for the better and now we work towards that goal and beleive in the reality 'India Shining'.

A Vegetarian Recipe

2006-03-23T13:21:00.000+05:30

Anonymous asked me to come up with a vegetarian recipe so here I am trying to cook up one. Now that I sit and try to think of something I am quite blank. Yesterday the egg man knocked and said that all is fine with bird flu and I promptly bought a dozen eggs and now all I can think of are egg recipes! Besides Bengalis cannot think vegetarian so this is indeed a challenge. Here goes...

Lou Ghonto (Bottle Gourd Mish Mash)
(I have no idea how to translate 'Ghonto'!)

You need
1 longish bottle gourd (lauki)
3/4 tsp cumin seeds
2 tsp sugar
1 bunch coriander leaves
4 slit green chilies
2 tbsp oil (mustard oil is preferable)
Salt to taste
Handful Mung Dal vadi (optional)

Peel the bottle gourd (reserve the peels which you can fry with potato peels, poppy seeds and onion later) and chop into small cubes. Heat oil till hot, reduce flame and add cumin seeds. Add the bottle gourd when the cumin seeds are fragrant. Cover and forget about it for a while. Lots of water will come out, allow the vegetable to cook in its own liquids on a low flame till the water reduces. Add salt, sugar, coriander and green chilies, stir, cover and cook for a few minutes. Additionally fried mung dal vadi can be crushed and sprinkled over the vegetable to give it some crunch.

Under Seige

2006-03-21T18:24:00.000+05:30

My time under seige, hopefully I will be able to write tomorrow. I discovered this interesting concept of a word cloud thanks to Anindita so I went ahead and gave it a try and the results seemed worth publishing.

I have also been discovering tanabana and its deeper meanings in this new blog.

I also realized that I have been spammed in the comments, I happily thought that I have yet another visitor who had been kind enough to leave a comment but when I checked I found some sort of an advertisement and a vague link so I have turned on word verification now which will hopefully stop such entries.

Here are my blog word clouds - I have a preference for Cloud No 9!

Cloud 9

Cloud 7

Manic Weekends!

2006-03-17T15:47:00.000+05:30

I have this love and hate relationship with weekends, when the weekend approaches, I have so many plans that I will sit and laze around, read one of the five books I am in the midst of, see Memoirs of a Geisha in Wadala, window shop and eat a subway tuna in a nearby mall. The weekend looks full of possibilities to have a great time and in anticipation I finish all my household chores on Friday so that I can have a longer Saturday.

But of course the above is just a dream which only comes true in parts once in a year or so, if at all. As soon as Saturday dawns, any one of the following things can happen:

I can see cobwebs on the ceiling which need to be dusted off immediately
The curtains and upholstery suddenly appear to be very dirty and need to be washed immediately
I suddenly remember that the Parent Teacher meeting at school is at an unearthly time of 2:30 PM in the afternoon which spoils my plans to do anything
There seem to be just too many mailers and letters strewn all about which need to be sorted and destroyed as required
One of the almirahs at any given point of time has things tumbling out whenever the doors are opened, they need to be tidied up
My maid announces that either vegetables or meat, fish etc are out of stock and they need to be purchased by who else but me
My husband decides to take Saturday off and he politely requests for some food and I being the ideal wife that I am, oblige and cook for the family
The refridgerator and the kitchen is coated with layers of solidified gravy and grease, thankfully all I have to do is order my maid to clean, but I still have to supervise
My son announces (or his teacher sends a threatening note) that there are some tests next week so I have to be a stern Mother and supervise his studies

For the last six months any of these one events has taken place without fail and all the five books that I was reading are stuck mid way. In case you are curious, they are: Winning, Blink, Monk Who Sold His Ferrari, Shantaram (made some progress on this) and Felu Da's Last Case. How I long for a Saturday where I had some time to have some coffee, switch the A.C to full blast, get under the covers and read a book and eventually drift off to sleep - maybe when I retire...

Sundays are different, I get up late and eating elaborate breakfasts, lunches and dinners (thankfully not cooked by me) leaves very little time to do anything except read 5 newspapers, talk with family and watch some TV.

I have of late come to the conclusion that Mondays are not all that manic after all!

Loo Sojourn

2006-03-14T13:12:00.000+05:30

Every morning when I land at work, I have to rush to the washroom for obvious reasons and to rectify my scarecrow like appearance to suit the sleek corporate environs. As soon as I enter I am assailed by this bevy of beauties chatting constantly while applying various forms of paints, powders and creams on their faces and brushing their carefully streaked, styled and rebonded manes (perms are out of fashion). My focus is to push through and find an open door.

While I am inside I get to hear the most amazing conversations and juicy bits of gossip which is kind of difficult to come by in the circles I move in. So yes I am guilty of staying inside and eavesdropping at times like these while feeling quite miserable about my shoes and handbags which never match, my unpainted trimmed nails, my boring black hair, my two lipsticks which are at least six years old and my seemingly dowdy loose fitting clothes. Eavesdropping was my sweet revenge!

There are some queen bees who lead this pack and are trend setters and then there are some painfully obvious 'wannabes' who will do anything to ape the leaders. A lot of critical appraisals happen inside the hallowed chambers where the wannabes shower praises on the queens and the queens give out some of their beauty secrets to these poor hapless souls.

The conversations I have overheard are mostly about makeup, clothes and men. The men being the most interesting as I get to hear some tid-bits about the top honchos in the workplace and what they did at a party, about boyfriends and insecurities, about husbands who beat one of these ladies when drunk, about the pass their boss made at them and so on.

Their world is so far removed from mine so its easy for me to draw conclusions about them but after all my eavesdropping I know now that the administrative sales and support staff (who I thought were hired just to look decorative and do this and that) have equally if not more difficult jobs than us but they always do it with a smile on their face.

A Railway Platform

2006-03-10T17:46:00.000+05:30

Railway platforms can be rather interesting places if one cares to be an observer rather than fret and fume about the delayed arrival of a train. I had reached earlier to receive my Mother and discovered that the train was due to arrive 30 minutes later that expected. So I stood around and waited amongst the ebbing and flowing sea of people. I observed the arrival of three trains during my wait, trying my best to ignore the rather unpleasant smells all around me which are unique to only India railway platforms.

Bangalore Express arrived on platform 4, hordes of people alighted from the train, women clad in kanjeevaram silks, men in white lungis, children brightly attired, most of them carrying their own luggage and studiously avoiding all the rickshaw and taxi drivers who pestered them. I saw many Europeans and Americans with their back packs, the women had short hair and the men had long hair and were in clothes which had seen far better days. I truly admire their courage to go around India irrespective of language barriers and so many other challenges.

Then came Kanpur Express. This bunch of harried travelers seemed to be in more of a hurry than the previous bunch, there seemed to be more men than women, the Muslims with their white caps and some men in dhotis and Nehru caps. It seemed to be like a rather business like crowd who knew exactly what to do and where to go and traveled light. Incidentally almost all of Bombay's fruit sellers and Building Watchmen are from the UP region and are fondly(?) called 'bhaiyyas'!

Finally the Howrah Express leisurely chugged in after waiting in queue as there were no empty platforms for the train to come in. Many people seemed to be waiting for their relatives or friends, there were many 'coolies' also waiting to leap into the moving train to get customers. People alighted, greeted and hugged; some touched the feet of elders, noisily haggled with the 'coolies' about rates and complained about the food on the train. The 'Coolies' made a killing as everybody seemed to have at least 3 bulky pieces of baggage. There seemed to be a lot of happy chatter all around, some people huffed and puffed as they ran behind the 'coolie' and others walked leisurely.

In all an interesting morning!

There Are No Shortcuts to Success

2006-03-08T17:41:00.000+05:30

That’s the old adage, many of us may have heard from the generations above us saying these words. As we progress, we have gadgets and services which save us time but no matter how much time we save we still don’t have time for tried and tested ways or taking a more proper approach, today everything is about shortcuts in all spheres of life.

Cooking

Instant chapattis, ready made meals and frozen dinners may have made an entry into Indian markets but I haven't seen too many families using these products. I myself use shortcuts a lot during cooking though and the two tried and tested 'shortcuts' are listed below:

Spaghetti Bolognese
Mix packaged tomato soup with fried mince meat, add cheese and seasonings and ladle over boiled spaghetti. No one can tell the difference - I haven't tried this on Italians though.

Alu Posto (Potatoes with poppy seeds)
This is a low cal quick version. In a pressure cooker, pour about 2 tbsp oil, temper this oil with nigella (kalonji) seeds, split green chilies and some red chili powder. Add the poppy seed paste, fry it a bit, and add chopped raw potatoes, salt, turmeric and sufficient water and pressure cook it for 5 minutes.

Both have saved me about 30 minutes time each and the end result is the same. So shortcuts are better!

Love

The latest shortcut to find 'love' is speed dating, which happens to be quite a rage in Bombay. Each person talks to a person of the opposite sex for 3 minutes and makes a snap decision about that person. The couple now graduates to a first date after investing only a few minutes of their time. Imagine how much of time is saved avoiding the gradual build up, the shy glances, finding silly excuses to speak to a person, asking friends to intervene and deal with the fear of rejection and starting all over again.

I am not so convinced that shortcuts are better in this respect as one may also miss out on the euphoria of making a connection.

Career

Is it better to be smart, visible, well dressed and a smooth talker and good at your work or is it better to sit quietly in your corner and work with your heads down? The former is definitely the proven faster way up the corporate ladder with a bit of buttering on your way up.

So shortcuts or rather faster tracks are not so bad in the corporate environment either.

Roads

In a city like Bombay, there are no shortcuts; this is one place where a shortcut could land you in a complete mess. You can at most try to be a top rung movie star or an industrialist and then you can have your own helicopter but do keep in mind that there are only 3 helipads in the city!

A Dog's Life

2006-03-06T12:36:00.000+05:30

We have known Oscar for the last 6 years, he was dark skinned, had these long doleful eyes, floppy ears and his general demeanor was friendly and playful. We often heard from his Daddy that he loved to eat eggs and had three boiled eggs every day. At times he would wander into our house if our door was open, inspect all rooms, sniff around and walk out. At times he played with the children and either ran off with the balls or got them back from wherever they had landed. All the residents of the building whom he liked were rewarded with a few wags of his tail and the chosen few with licks.

Oscar had been suffering from a chronic illness for the past few months and yesterday we heard that he passed away at 4 AM in the morning. We met his Daddy downstairs when going out for a walk and offered our condolences. Any grieving person finds solace in describing the passing away and the last few moments, so we lingered on to hear about it.

Oscar's Daddy took him to the hospital everyday for the last few days but the Doctor was not very hopeful. For the past week Oscar carefully avoided sleeping at the feet of his Daddy and slept in the vacant adjacent room perhaps because he did not want to disturb the sleep by his constant shuffling. On his last day, he came to his Daddy's room and lay down before the mini temple in the room. His Daddy instinctively knew that these were the last few moments and he instructed his wife to get some 'gangajal' (holy water from the river Ganges), put a few drops in Oscar's mouth, chanted shlokas from The Geeta and the Mahamritunjaya and Gayatri mantras as he slowly breathed his last in his Daddy's arms.

He was bathed with rose water, sandalwood paste was applied to his forehead, and he was wrapped in a new sheet and taken to the crematorium for pets. All who loved Oscar tearfully said goodbye while the priest chanted passages from The Geeta.

At the end of this narration, even my eyes were misty with emotion and I wondered that a Dog's life is not so bad after all...

Hello!

2006-03-03T15:16:00.000+05:30

I am about two months old as far as blogging goes, I am not sure what was the motivation behind blogging but my writing attempts are about a few years old. I started off with soulful philosophical letters to people, and then I moved on to writing editorials for an in-house publication, then some articles for the company magazine and now this blog. Hopefully I will graduate someday to full time writing ... guess only time will tell.

I am utterly charmed by the whole concept, it is like sitting in a breezy sunlit room with all my thoughts spread out and people drop by from all over the world across cultures and communities, browse through the sheaf of my thoughts and leave their comments. At times I wish I had eyes and ears to see these visitors, offer them tea and biscuits, chat a while and hope that I'll see them again soon. I like following the footprints people leave and go around the whole world and discover so much more than I would have done without discovering blogs.

A big Thank You to all the visitors who have stopped by and thanks to TCP for encouraging me to blog!

My Grandmother's Almirah

2006-02-28T19:50:00.000+05:30

It was made out of pure Burma teakwood, about 6 feet tall and a gleaming exterior. It seemed to survive through the years of humid climate without much wear and tear, it only got one coat of polish after it was broken open by burglars.

All through my growing up years, I looked forward to visiting my Grandmother in Calcutta and in long and lazy afternoons my favorite pastime would be to explore her almirah which she indulgently let me as I had the privileged position of being the eldest 'naatni'(granddaughter). Every time I opened the wooden doors, there was this smell of clothes, perfume and wood, there were many drawers with brass handles, some having secret chambers and false bottoms which added to the mystery of the almirah.

My Grandmother carefully preserved all presents, knick knacks, photographs and other things which various relatives got for her from their many travels. There was a Japanese fan, a miniature windmill, tiny crystal figurines, ivory paper knives, Czech glassware, glass tulips, lace handkerchiefs, my mother's wedding photographs, a complete miniature battle set with tanks and soldiers and so much more. It was like taking a trip around the world, going back in time and a lot of wonder for my young mind. That sense of wonder never really faded even as I grew up, opening the almirah was always quite magical.

I wish I had my Grandmother's quality of saving memories and then browsing through them at leisure. I wish I could make my almirah as interesting an experience for my son, but all he sees are neatly stacked sets of clothes and essentials, there is no room for memories, the past or clutter, perhaps it’s the lack of space in our hearts...

People I Remember

2006-02-27T15:59:00.000+05:30

While we were growing up, we were protected, sheltered and safe in our parents nests, a lot of tragedies passed us by but the optimism of youth made us look forward to better things and better times ahead and our parents probably made sure that we did not get affected, but there are two people who still take me back to the very early school days.

Rohit Mathur

Rohit was a fellow back bencher in class 5 who sat next to me. We were thankful to be slightly away from Ms Sahay's watchful eye and at times we could whisper and copy work. Rohit loved to play football and often used to stay back after school for practice sessions. Apparently it seemed he had two good friends, Virender and Deepak. One day during the morning assembly, the principal gravely announced that Rohit was hospitalized as he was injured by a ball which hit him on the back of his head and asked us all to pray for him. Two days later, he announced that Rohit was no more and we should all stand and observe a 2 minute silence. At that time we all went through it in a daze but I can still recall how acutely empty the seat next to me felt and now that I look back, Deepak (Rohit's friend) retreated into a quiet shell and never quite came out of it. His other friend Virender went on to become a person who was frequently suspended for his various misdeeds. I am still scared of balls; I freeze everytime one is thrown at me...

Kalpana Dhingra

She was another of my neighbors in class. I can remember her from class 3 but I got to know her better only in class 4. She was the bright one, all teachers favored her, her copy was used as show piece and her handwriting was the best. She also had these huge braces on her feet, she could not walk without help but we never noticed, to us she was just Kalpana. At times we took turns to stay with her during recess instead of going out to play so she had company and at times we would take her to the washroom. Children unknowingly can be harsh, because of her many disabilities she did not have too many friends. Whoever she talked about at home were graciously invited to spend a day at their home. Kalpana's Mother took greatest care of us and I had some of the most delicious food there. I vaguely realized that somehow there was an air of fatality around, she had some sort of a degenerative illness which sapped her strength each day. We lost touch after class 5 but I used to hear things from here and there. One day I read in the papers that a blind girl named Kalpana had passed the class 10 exams with flying colors, I was due to give my class 12 exams; I guess she was brighter than all of us put together only her body betrayed her...

A Recipe for Bird Flu

2006-02-22T19:18:00.000+05:30

Like they say in Hindi, "ghar ki murgi daal barabar" (translates to "chicken at home tastes like lentil soup"). Now even the "ghar ki murgi" has disappeared and we are left with only daal and chawal and of course fish, which no self respecting Bengali can do without every day. Now of all times, ALL cookery shows insist on showing recipes only with chicken and egg - at least the ones on Travel & Living. The show makes me salivate but I am forced to practice self restraint and will power and avoid thinking that chicken and egg ever existed.

The canteen now seems like a dull and boring place, I miss the butter chicken, chicken kolhapuri, chicken masala, chicken sandwich, egg burji, omlette sandwich, frankies, chicken biriyani ... I could go on... Lamb, mutton and pork are not healthy meats; fish is not liked by all so now the office canteen is strictly vegetarian. Even cakes at the pastry counter are certified to be 'egg less' and are dry and chewy.

All I can say is dear chicken and dear egg, I hope you both are certified to be safe for human consumption soon - we sure miss you like hell!

Now here is a recipe for double dose bird flu:

Dim'er Devil (Devilled Eggs)
Recipe for 4 pieces

This is a Bengali rendition of Scotch Eggs

You need:
2 Hard boiled eggs - sliced in half lengthwise
2 Boiled potatoes - large
2 Onions - shredded fine
250 Gms chicken mince - cooked
Chopped Coriander - as per your taste
Chopped green chilies - as per your taste
1 tsp - cumin powder
1/2 tsp - red chili powder
1 Raw egg
Flour and breadcrumbs to coat
Salt - as required

Method

Mash potatoes fine, add a little chopped onion, coriander, green chilies, cumin powder, salt and red chili powder. Mix with mashed potatoes and keep aside.

Fry the remaining chopped onions in oil till golden, add the cooked chicken mince, add seasonings and spices as required and stir till the meat is dry and keep aside.

To assemble:
* Take the half sliced egg
* Cover the yolk side fully with the chicken mince
* Envelope the half egg topped with chicken mince with the mashed potato completely
* Shape into an oval with your hands
* Dust this with flour
* Dip in raw egg
* Roll in bread crumbs
* Deep fry on a moderate flame till golden brown
* Serve with mustard sauce

Guaranteed to give you bird flu and bliss (if you want it)!

Book & Movie Review

2006-02-20T19:50:00.000+05:30

I have a few things which I can write about but blogging needs serious undivided time which I haven't had over the long weekend - it was long because I bunked office on Friday and did all the things that my heart desired.

I day dreamt (wonder if that is a correct phrase?), I slept, I ate, I watched Rang De Basanti and I picked up this book called Shantaram. All of these activities were equally excellent but since my day dreams are unmentionable and describing what I ate will not really interest the world out there I might as well write about the book and the movie.

Shantaram

I do keep saying that books are better than men, the reasons why books are better is not of interest here. The book is written straight from the heart and even though many situations seem to be over the top but one can still relate to it. As a story, it is free flowing and easy to read like a thriller. There are essentially two things that make this book special, a few lines in the book make you sit up because at some time or the other we have been through similar emotions and it puts into words which we perhaps just felt at that moment. Some of the lines and the contradictions are rather poetic and makes one stop and think for a while. The other aspect is Bombay, it gives the reader an insight into the spirit of the city and its people, the good and the bad often overlap and there are no clear demarcations. The book is a very real representation of Bombay. I'll finish this review when I read the whole of 936 pages!

Rang De Basanti

The whole world by now knows that this is a great movie so maybe it’s rather late to write a review on the movie now. So if anybody is still waiting to go and see it - just do it, it’s worth your money. What uplifted me about the movie was that despite the general apathy all around, rampant consumerism and the all important need of today's generations to satisfy self, someone has bothered to make a movie which attempts to wake us up, take notice and just go and change the world for the better. The new age movie with a message is here. The second point which made me jump with excitement is that it was shot in Modern School, Barakhamba Road - seeing your alma mater on the big screen is quite a kick and when I nearly shouted - "Hey, that's my school!!!", almost the entire hall full of people turned around and looked at me. Well, I have done my bit for dear old MHS sitting here in Bombay!

Love Makes The World Go Round

2006-02-14T16:06:00.000+05:30

Rather popular line which a person hears off and on, however the over thirty five been there done that set will completely disagree and say that it's lust and not love that makes the world go round. With Valentine's Day becoming 'the' day to express your desire (or love), it has become the second largest revenue source for detective agencies as jealous significant others want to see what he or she is up to. Now love has to be expressed through diamonds preferably or some expensive gift which is again great news for the brands. The new love is more about money and lust and less about love - now whatever that may be!

As an impressionable teen and well into the twenties I did believe that I would find it some day but it seemed to be like that elusive yellow butterfly which rested on a flower briefly. Everyday I hoped that I would meet that person, in a bus, in a college fest, in a party or just bump into him and I would know that he is the one. I don’t know why romantic fiction makes us believe that this is as easy as water - if I waited I would I would turn gray I am sure. While I was waiting I did bump into many 'probable' cases but either there was too much of distance and lack of expression or it was too open ended or too cloying or too obsessive but never seemed to be just right.

The jaded say that love is an illusion, the believers say that true love lasts forever, the people who have loved and lost say its better to have loved and lost than not having found love at all. After so many thousands of years existence we still have not been able to decipher and understand this seemingly complex emotion.

Love between a man and a woman may be a big question mark but the love one feels for one's child is the most enduring, selfless and purest form of love till date.

All of secretly hope or hoped to find this sometime, perhaps we do find it eventually but in a different form or a different place, or a different source than we expected, perhaps most times we don’t even realize that we have actually found it and keep chasing that dream...

Delhi to Calcutta to Bombay

2006-02-07T15:49:00.000+05:30

I guess that’s not politically correct - it should be Dilli (??) to Kolkata to Mumbai but who cares! I asked this question to myself once - does my personality change with the cities I stay in? The answer it seems is YES.

The Delhi Me
I was kind of young to be a true Delhi-ite but the school I studied in made sure that I caught on very fast. My new 3 tier pencil box from Germany made me the most popular girl in school for a day, short lived glory! My popularity meter rose with each trip to Disneyland or any country in Europe or North America. My status in the society was determined by how many political connections my family had, whether I lived in South Delhi, how many relatives I had abroad, the size of my house, gadgets and the size of my Dad's car. It became rather stressful to compete with the 'in' crowd so I veered towards the 'behenjis' who wore skirts beyond their mid thigh and put oil in their hair. I was a misfit in both the groups so I was used as a bridge between the two worlds. The men (boys then) were dishy who chased the 'in' girls; I stared after them wistfully through my thick specs. One day I revolted and wore contact lenses and voila, 10 dishy boys came and spoke to me that day - that day was also the last day at school - I almost wept at the lost opportunities! In Delhi appearances count and somehow it becomes a part of our lives.

The Calcutta Me
I felt I had landed in another planet far removed from the Delhi sophistication. I suppose any city looks far shabbier than the capital and Calcutta was well... shabby. The people did not seem to be as conscious of appearances as in Delhi. The college I attended was a girls college in Park Circus, the professors were strict looking ladies and half of the Economics class was full of married girls who discussed their in laws and husbands. The North South divide is present in Calcutta as well and it was near impossible to carry out a 10 sentence conversation with girls from North Calcutta - I have no clue why though - they are just different! After a few days I did manage to find a few like minded girls who were interested in music, movies, men and bunking classes - thank God! In Calcutta I learnt to be intellectual, I read Simone Bouvoir (tried to), Katherine Mansfield, George Bernard Shaw (I love him) and so on. I watched plays, I acted in them, I sang, went to book fairs and international movie festivals and I happily continued to wear my specs. My friend's boy friends were good friends of mine so I didn't feel the need to dazzle men without my glasses and get into a gooey relationship. Work life threw me into an all male environment with loads of attention - felt good. The specs had been replaced by lenses - I guess that explains it! Work was lazy and laid back, there was lots of time to do everything, at times heated discussions about politics, current affairs, food and literature took up most of the day. The men went out often for leisurely smokes and tea at the roadside tea shop. The pace was mostly easygoing and life was good. However there was this rather unsettling element of the hidden, people seemed to keep a lot of their most important opinions or thoughts hidden while over expressing the more irrelevant ones leading to many awkward and unpleasant situations. Calcutta was more about substance rather than possessions and appearances.

The Bombay Me
The transition from Calcutta to Bombay was relatively smooth. One is better equipped to deal with changes after having undergone the upheavals of marriage and childbirth. After a while I got used to the beatific face of 'Sarkar' waving out of the posters (he never seemed to smile) and the saffron flags. The obsession and creativity with potato and bread in various forms was commendable but not at all appealing after being used to street food in Calcutta. I have probably walked down every street in my locality trying to hunt for a fish fry or an egg role but found bhaji toast and the soggy drippy frankie instead. Work was a revelation, I discovered the efficient me who did everything on or before time and was taught to read minds of international customers and deliver as per expectations - stated or unstated. I casually mentioned to the electrician that I needed to change my lamp shades and he was at my door step promptly on the next weekend ready to do the work. The cable man appeared a couple of hours after we moved in so that we could get a connection. The neighbors were not interested if I could afford fish every day, they didn't care how many beer bottles were kept out for the garbage but helped when required - bliss! Gone are my lazy weekends, I am busy planning the next weeks grocery list, menu, shopping, cleaning, laundry, PTA meetings, socializing, gymming, movies and so on. Bombay is about always being on the edge, about activity and movement and about being a step ahead.

The Good, The Bad & The Ugly

2006-02-02T12:18:00.000+05:30

No, this is not an outdated movie review! This is another account of my travel experiences. I have discovered that the degrees of bad and good behavior differ depending on countries and regions. Europe has a veil of politeness which barely hides what they think. The more open Europeans are the most wonderful people I have ever met. In North America again Canada is a much more pleasant experience than the USA, but USA is huge and depends on which area one is in.

I was in Salt Lake City, Utah trying to put together a convincing presentation as to why a corporate entity should dump all the small outdated applications and hire us to redesign and develop a spanking new system which would help them cut their manpower by half. We were a group of 5 people led by a rather tyrannical brute called VJ. At times VJ abandoned us and took off in the company car while we had to walk back to the hotel - a long walk of about an hour. The first day I promptly got lost and just remembered the hotel name. A lady with two kids rescued me from the streets and dropped me to the hotel - I was immensely thankful to her. On another day I was walking down on a street which did not have sidewalks so I walked on grassy patch adjoining the road or at the edge. Several cars passed by with warning honk (I was not supposed to walk on the road), one car slowed down and some people aimed half eaten hamburgers at us and screamed a few profanities. The hamburgers landed tamely missing their target altogether, I wasn't really shocked as throwing things out of buses and cars is almost routine in India! Another car slowed down and stopped right next to me and I wondered - now what?

The person rolled down the window and apologized and said that those guys were drunk and did not realize what they were doing. He said he had noted the number plate and reported their behavior to the Police. He apologized again and wished me a very pleasant stay and drove off. I was speechless and stood rooted to the spot for a few seconds and resumed my trek totally charmed by America and its people.

The French are of course known for their legendary hatred for the English language and I missed many buses and took several wrong turns because people did not respond to my questions but what the heck, it was great fun to explore a bit more and come across delightful sights at the wrong turns.

Germany was well ... cold. I recollect walking around Hamburg, along Alster Lake and saw some groups mainly teens dressed in black leather with shaved heads looking very menacingly at me which almost made me break into a run! I believe they were the so called Neo Nazis or some such thing. I was later advised to walk with a 'Tourist' badge on my coat.

I guess that’s what exploring is all about, experiencing the good and the bad.

Decaying Society?

2006-01-31T17:56:00.000+05:30

Recently I heard a gentleman comment that the old are treated more shoddily in India than in the west and so are the mentally challenged. In the daily blur of life, we rarely have time to reflect on such social issues but this statement made me watch out for its validity.

The first step was the movie 15 Park Avenue which depicts a very real dilemma of having a mentally challenged member at home and how the family copes. I could relate to that situation as I myself have seen a somewhat schizophrenic lady in my own family. She could not handle her disappointment after giving birth to a female child; she wanted a son desperately to gain acceptance and favor of her in laws. She lost her balance and from then on has remained under very heavy medication and sedation. For many many years her husband ensured that she gets to lead a normal life as far as possible, the extended family accepted her and pretended that serving salt to guests was perfectly normal. Perhaps this support still makes her go on now though times are much more difficult with the care givers passing away and children having their own families to raise.

The other day I went to a prayer meeting where 80% of the people were over 70. For them it has been a life long habit to attend the annual prayer meetings, many came on wheel chairs, some with walking sticks and some supported by their sons, daughters or nurses. One lady seemed to be close to 90 and was seated on a chair, her relative kept wiping the saliva that trickled from the side of her mouth at regular intervals and adjusted her clothes when she fidgeted. The grandchildren helped in feeding the grandparents or held their hands while they negotiated steps.

In my own house my maid talks to herself loudly and sometimes has heated arguments with no one in particular. I keep worrying that she might harm somebody in one of her fits. She was married off to the first available person because she was the ugliest in the family, her husband promptly married again and his family and he beat up this lady and threw her out without a penny. Her brothers would not take her back so she had to fend for herself from then on - it cannot have been an easy life. Perhaps today her only outlet to the angst held within is having imaginary conversations with people who wronged her. We somehow despite our many reservations understand.

So I cannot wholly agree with the statement going by my observations in the last few days, there is an ugly side but I hope the good still outnumbers the bad.

Of Tooth Fairies & Santa

2006-01-20T12:58:00.000+05:30

I still recollect the magic and wonder associated with my childhood when I really believed that chairs could grow wings and there were goblins and fairies at the end of the garden. Enid Blyton was partly responsible for weaving this magical world and my parents were responsible for helping me believe in magic. Every time I lost a tooth the tooth fairy religiously left me a 2 rupee note and every Christmas Santa filled my stockings generously with almost all the items I had asked for in my letter to him exactly 15 days before Christmas which was 'posted' by Mother!

Eventually I found out that Tooth Fairies and Santa did not exist but I had probably outgrown that phase so it didn't hit me too hard.

Now that I have a child of my own I try to create the same sense of wonder and magic by reinventing the Tooth Fairy and Santa. Santa is an immensely good tool to use if one wants the kids to behave, so it has its advantages for the parents as well! It has had some very difficult moments too. Once Santa had to leave money for the cycle as the cycle would not fit in his sack. Once the Tooth Fairy ran out of 10 rupee notes so instead had to leave a 20 rupee note. When questioned, I quickly invented that since the tooth was a molar it had more value! Once I almost got caught buying Santa's toy which happened to be a remote controlled car. I had to say that I returned the car as Santa was going to give him one anyway and hid the car in the boot of my car. Once I was away in France so I said Santa stuffed my suitcase full of toys as it would save him a long hard journey to India.

Till now it's worked but I think the phase where one believes anything is coming to an end but I feel that all this 'magic' truly makes us believe that life it's special and magical moments even beyond childhood.

Cambodia on my Plate

2006-01-19T09:47:00.000+05:30

Finding spicy food in France can be quite a challenge. Most of the French would is rather mild and delicately flavored and such fineness is rather lost on our Indian palates. After 3 days of fine food I was quite desperate for some serious chilli so I went in search of some restaurant which served some sort of Asian cuisine.

Meylan was a very small town adjoining Grenoble, I was skeptical but thankfully I came across 'Cambodia' in the next block after walking for 10 minutes. I had never ever eaten in a restaurant alone before but sheer desperation makes us do a lot of things, I walked in and sat on a table facing the window to hide my embarrassment of eating alone.

The proprietor gave me a big smile and handed me the menu. My basic knowledge of French helped me to figure out whether it was beef, chicken or fish and I asked the rest to this man who had forgotten to speak English. I asked if he was from Cambodia and he beamed and said yes he was, he came to France in his teens. I asked if it was during Pol Pot and he nodded his head vigorously and said 'Vely bad time'. He asked me where I was from - I said Bombay, India. 'Cinema!! Aishwarya!!!?' I am of course stupefied and most impressed about his knowledge but groan inwardly about the choice of actor. Can't really blame him - he is a man after all.

I saw he had more questions for me but language is a barrier so I pointed out the items I wanted to eat and he gave me a big smile. 'Good. Wait vingt minute ok?’ I waited and felt rather silly sitting alone and looked across the street and saw the shops downing their shutters.

A few minutes later a plate of spring rolls appeared, the main said 'for you - eat', I said I hadn't ordered this but he said 'I give you' so I ate obediently loving every bite and later managed to what I had ordered as well. I felt revived with some Asian food and thanked the man profusely for his hospitality and paid the bill. He offered me a sweet which tasted very similar to a til laddu and I said it’s a lot like Indian sweets. He said 'Asia country so lot is same'. I promised to come back later and said my goodbyes.

This man was in a country very different from his own, he had left all the turmoil to rebuild his life but perhaps in his quiet moments missed his paddy fields and what used to be home and I was in a strange country trying to cope with the language and food and felt quite homesick. Perhaps that is why we were happy, because we met somebody from close to home...

Fish Philosophy in a Washroom

2006-01-17T14:27:00.000+05:30

Most of the Fish books talk about 'Making someone's day', I came across this gesture from someone (who knows nothing about Fish) who we just take for granted and rarely ever give a second glance.

I would not really give us as a race a lot of awards in keeping public amenities clean. Knowing this, the organization employs 24x7 housekeeping staff who make sure that the toilet is clean, toilet paper folded neatly into a V, enough tissues and there are no nasty odors.

We rush in and rush out barely giving these ladies a smile. I did talk once in a while when this lady asked me a question or two. The other day I wore a sari and managed to look quite a mess with asymmetry everywhere. During my mid morning visit to the wash room, this lady literally berated me for wearing something so pretty all wrong. She took charge, fixed the pleats, pinned wherever necessary and I was transformed to this elegant air hostess sort of a look.

To be honest I was having a stressful day because every time I stepped on my sari I thought the whole thing would fall apart. This lady put my fears to rest with all the pins in place, boosted my confidence levels and certainly made my day. This was such a sweet and kind gesture from someone I barely knew.

I just realized that I didn't even ask her name. I must do it when I visit the washroom next...

Oh! Champs Elysees!

2006-01-14T23:24:00.000+05:30

While I was growing up the television didn't have any soaps on it - it was mostly a four hour slot which screened some programs for farmers, some documentaries and a movie on Sundays. So the next best alternative was to read - whatever I could lay my hands on. Reader's Digest was a regular feature in our house and it had a series on Napoleon at one point of time. I remember reading about Josephine, his victories, Waterloo and his alleged arsenic poisoning while he was held captive. I even dreamt of driving down the road that led to Arc de Triomphe. At that time I did not know that road was called Champs Elysees - the most romantic avenue in the whole world.

My dream came true in the most wonderful way. I got an opportunity to travel to France for work, it was a small city called Grenoble in east of France quite closed to the famed Mont Blanc peak. I went to Paris on a weekend by TGV which was an awesome experience, managed to find my way to the hotel, checked in, dumped my bags and set out immediately.

No sunny skies and no lover at my side, I set out to explore the world's most romantic city. It was drizzling and I didn't have an umbrella so I tied my muffler around my head and hoped I would not be chilled to the bone. It was just the week before Christmas and it was rather cold, I took the metro to Place de la Concorde and emerged right at the beginning of Champs Elysees all ready to walk up and down and explore it thoroughly. The sight was truly amazing, tall trees lining both sides, broad sidewalks with Christmas decorations and lights which would come on in the night. It was thrilling; to say the least, to walk past the world's most famous names in fashion... I revel in doing some serious window shopping as I dare not enter these shops with just 800 Euros in my pocket!

A rather strange incident forced me to enter the Louis Vuitton store off Champs Elysees and I will be ever grateful to the Chinese gentleman who made it happen. While I was walking down, a Chinese gentleman approached me and said "Please can you help me? I am from Asia and I need some help...” I was of course well warned to not to talk to strangers so I walked on. Seeing the only English speaking prospect walk away, this gentleman said "You just have to buy a bag for me from that shop ... its Christmas and they won’t sell more than 2 bags to one person". I stopped and decided to give it a shot; I could always walk away or refuse if something didn't seem right. He showed me a catalogue and said "Buy two of these" and gave me 1000 Euro note and said that he would wait at the corner of the street.

Louis Vuitton was very impressive on the inside who obviously did not entertain riff raff like me but I bravely walked right in and said I wanted some bags for ladies. A very smartly dressed store manager appeared instantly and told me crisply that many Chinese people were asking people on the street to come in and buy things from the store who were in all probability nothing but smugglers and hence the store would not sell any goods in cash. I was rather crushed but said that I would like to see some wallets. I was led to another counter and shown wallets suiting the sizes of currency in India. I asked the price and managed not to flinch when the salesman replied. The temptation to buy was very great but I thought about all the other things I had to buy and steeled myself to resist the urge. I asked whether they had a calculator and asked them to multiply the amount by 55. The figure came to a whopping Rs 20,000! I shrugged and waved by hands dismissively and said "In my country I can buy a TV with that money" and marched out.

My next worry was to find the thug and hand him over the 1000 Euro note. Thankfully I found him right at the corner and told him politely that I could not manage to buy what he wanted and returned the money. I continued with my walk, passed several small cafes, peered in to see men and women having coffee and chatting animatedly. I could not figure out what they were eating though. It drizzled steadily and I dug my hands deeper in my pocket and walked on and finally reached the great monument - Arc de Triomphe which was a beautiful sight. I crossed the street and stood right in the middle on the road divider for 10 whole minutes and soaked in every detail, after all my dream was coming true. I cross the rest of the street and plan to walk back down on the other side.

The other side was livelier, had more shops and more people. Perhaps many people had come from other parts of France to see Paris and were enjoying a walk down Champs Elysees as I was. I see many children singing "Oh Champs Elysees" and dancing around. I make up my mind to enter the Morgan de Toi shop which promises a 25% discount. Stylishly (and skimpily) dressed women attend to me and I go right ahead and indulge myself and buy myself scraps of Parisian fashion. Pleased with my bargains I walk down to a large perfume store called Marionnaude (I think) and am tempted to buy the whole store but finally stick to 5 bottles of perfume. I walk on and buy a Swiss watch from a French store and almost bump into an elaborately dressed bespectacled Indian holding a plaque called 'Kashmir'. Apparently 'Kashmir' is an Indian restaurant which was trying to attract customers by curiosity value, placing this gaudily dressed person on the sidewalk.

More cafes and the wafting smells make me hungry but I have no time to stop for a bite. I see a long queue in from of what seems to be a movie hall and Aishwarya Rai beams from one poster - Bride and Prejudice running in French I suppose. Is there no escape from that plastic smile I ask myself and come to a halt in front of the famed Lido. Unfortunately there are no shows at that time of the day, I am disappointed but next time I promise myself to see the Can Can at the Moulin Rouge.

My walk down Champs Elysees ends and I hurriedly walk to Place de Pyramide from where I am to catch a 'Paris by Night' bus tour. The evening shadows lengthen to night as Paris comes alive with its beautiful lights. The bus slowly bends round the corner and the tour guide says 'Ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes on the world's most beautiful avenue - Avenue de Champs Elysees" The trees lining the avenue were lit up with thousands of bulbs, the Christmas decorations were lighted up to create the effect of snow and in a distance Arc de Triomphe standing illuminated in its majestic glory. It was truly the most wonderful sight ever...

Art of Jugglery

2006-01-12T12:19:00.000+05:30

It seems I am getting good at it every day! I have read lots of articles about how the 'Modern Indian Woman' has to manage house, demanding careers, maids, in-laws, parents, kids and so on. I guess the 'Indian Woman' is quite the superwoman who manages all these roles and responsibilities and usually sails through it without getting ruffled but there are challenging moments and here is just a glimpse into a 'Day in the life of an Indian Woman'...

Alarm rings at 5:30 but I am down with the sniffles so I quit the idea of going to the gym and go back to sleep and dream of osteoporosis and creaking joints catching up with me in my old age. I guess it was induced by the guilt of not going to the gym.

I wake up at 7:00 AM and tell my husband that I have an office party tonight and will be back at 11:30 PM. A few minutes later I added 'Can you send the driver to the hotel?' and I am faced with instant resistance. I am given a lecture on neglecting my son and how my continuous partying is bound to have negative effects on how he turns out as an individual.

It’s a lecture I hear every time I have to go out at night (roughly 2-3 times a year). I also listen to the various reasons about why the car cannot be sent to pick me up. I breezily shrug and say I'll catch a cab and continue to brush my teeth.

Over a tense breakfast I am told about the project that my son has to complete by the 16th which is a good few days away. I am also given a sermon on how he sacrificed various nights out with friends to be with family to which I serenely respond ..'Oh but you must go out - I can more or less manage without you'

Goodbyes are said before leaving for work, a few everyday sentences are left out for obvious reasons...

I carry on with a leisurely breakfast, read 2 newspapers, wake up my son, help him do some of his project work, run the washing machine, select a nice dress from my wardrobe, hang out the clothes to dry, get ready, put my favorite perfume and explain to my son that I have to go out with those Frenchmen (not even good-looking ones :-( ) and will be back before he goes to sleep. He understands perfectly and shoos me off to work.

While traveling I get a call from my husband that the car will be sent to my office at 7:30 and he will come back slightly earlier and take care of my son's homework!

Not such a bad day after all!

A Thank You Note

2006-01-11T14:16:00.000+05:30

Just something I discovered amongst the piles that I wrote centuries back (it seems like that now!) - it was a note written to somebody but its a view point I would like to share here....

It just sort of occurred to me that all of us so so busy with ourselves, I would say we spend about 95% of our time in running after our goals, desires. wants etc, given this situation, time and our attention are so much at premium and precious specially if we choose to give it to something or someone that does not serve our goals in any way.

So I just wanted to say that I really appreciate the time you have taken out for me, you may have done it willingly or unwillingly at times, I know I can be pushy, irrational, emotional, rude or irritatingly honest at times (but most times I am nice or naughty). As for your attention, I am deeply honored. Human attention is a very rare commodity these days and I treasure, value and respect everything that I get.

The Girls at the Gym

2006-01-10T12:45:00.000+05:30

One morning at the gym I noticed two rather young and relatively raw looking girls trying to give half baked or totally wrong instructions (in Maratthi, Hindi and a few words in English) to people who were working out. In an up market gym this was not such a welcome sight - people could be seriously injured. I wondered that is the gym really so hard up that they can’t even afford to get proper fitness trainers?

Youth always is very refreshing; no matter what form it comes in. These girls after they joined added more enthusiasm and warmth to the normally snooty atmosphere, they greeted everybody, made sure that everybody smiles and tried their level best to catch up with the various fitness jargons that they had never heard of before. The blunders still continued but they got better with each day. Their colleagues also mostly refused to explain the intricacies of how to set up the Smith Machine and the correct way to do squats but they learnt by observation.

One day I decided to find out that why they were at this gym and what were their credentials to be a fitness instructor. I struck up a conversation with the girls (called Suchitra and Pallavi), it was rather challenging as I had a tough time figuring out what was spoken in Marathi.

These girls were aspiring sportswomen and one played basketball for the state team and the other was into state level athletics. So I guess it made sense to have them around! We talked further and Pallavi made a comment about my 'I love Paris' T shirt and said that some of her friends had been there and they said it was very beautiful. She added that her friends had gone to represent India in some sports event and how she could not go as she didn't find a sponsor.

'Sponsor'? I asked, to which she replied that each participant has to find a sponsor for the team who will bear the costs - the one who doesn't find one gets left behind. Obviously it's all about the money rather than talent and ability. Suchitra too was looking out for a sponsor so that she could participate in some games in Nepal.

I was reminded about the fitness instructor at the gym in my previous organization (who also doubled up as floor admin) - he too had said that he was a national level football player but had to quit as he had no backing and had to earn a decent living.

I guess now I know why India has fewer medals at the international games; it seems that nobody can look beyond Cricket in this country. I was also reminded about Madhu Sapre's response to a question asked at the Ms Universe contest. She said that if she became the Prime Minister of India she would build more sports facilities to encourage the youth of India. This also cost her the crown as this wasn't an 'intelligent' enough answer! In retrospect I think she knew exactly what she was talking about ...

Woes of a Project Manager

2006-01-09T14:24:00.000+05:30

All my fellow IT professional would agree that this role is the backbone of any established IT firm. Of course it’s different that as a developer I felt developers were the key. So what one thinks is kind of relative to what one does or where one is. The Project Manager is a much maligned person as I have experienced. The team you lead thinks that you are a decorative accessory who just has to say a few smart words at the right time to the right people. They also think that you are a disaster technically and the poor chap/lady is around just because he/she has no chances of getting a job anywhere. What does a Project Manager have to do anyway??

1. Read and reply to mails
2. Attend Meetings
3. Conduct appraisals - only twice a year at the most

For this shit they get paid so much. Of course the developers have to bear all the burdens in this world!

Now let’s see the other side, what does a Project Manager's boss think about this great person. The typical words you hear are:

"Now that we have a full time Manager for this project, I should not hear anything from the customer - if I do that means you are not doing your job properly"

Phew! That’s loads of responsibility; you have to be answerable for things beyond your control like:

Q1 Why didn't you reply to my mail within 2 hours as defined in the SLA? (The mail server crashed :( and pigeons don’t reach where you are in 2 hours...)

Q2 Why wasn't the team member available at the desk when I called? (He went to the loo for godssakes!)

Q3 Why did you use a SELECT statement when you could have used a cursor (excuse me? are we supposed to read minds as well???)

Q4 Why doesn't the team sit together? (Blame the admin - they never give you a seat and they don’t really care if you sit on the floor with a laptop)

Q5 why did you attend training on Informatica when the project is on PL/SQL?? I will not pay. (Clients don’t believe that you should add to your skills)

Q6 Why didn't you deliver on time? Why does the code have bugs?? I will not pay

I am confused now ... it seems I am a shopkeeper who always has to make sure that I get paid for the goods I sell!

Now for any of these problems you are not going to be supported by the organizational hierarchy. After all, the project is your baby and you gotta manage if the baby falls down or the baby cries.

Sigh

I have recently found a reason to live and bear this ordeal of being a Project Manager. I was convinced that I am nothing but a punching bag who offers solace by absorbing the punch but now I have this wonderful viewpoint that another fellow Project Manager recently shared with me.

Consider this; an idol in a temple is central to the existence of the temple, the devotees, and the flower seller and so on. Take away the idol and the temple is nothing but an empty room. Similarly, a Project Manager is essential to the existence of a project without whom it will not run.

God is truly great - he has shown me the reason to continue in this role!

Defect Prevention - A perspective!

2006-01-05T11:56:00.000+05:30

This one if for the Geeks!

We all know about defect prevention meetings, for the first 10 minutes we genuinely make an effort, sit quietly, try to analyze why the defects occurred and the ideas that come out to prevent those defects are sometimes highly creative but very far fetched. What the heck, we are humans and we will make mistakes so what’s the big deal about spending so much time analyzing them? That’s the mood that sets in after the first 10 minutes. The next ten minutes is usually dedicated to analyzing the human race, the surroundings and environment that we work in and of course our esteemed customer. Let us examine what takes place in the middle of the DP meetings:

Scenario 1
Lots of creative ideas floating around but its not leading anywhere, the DPR earnestly tries to put on a serious expression and reminds us that we are nowhere close to reaching an action item and since the conference room booking will last for another 15 minutes we should cut out the crap and hunt for root causes and action items. The hunt begins for the root cause for "Copy Paste Errors", after a lot of brain storming the light bulb flashed (or was it a tube light?) and the conclusion was that the customer cannot visualize what they want so requirements come in batches where much of the code needs to be copied and pasted so the customer is at fault. But of course we cannot put that in writing, the customer is always right - that is our mantra, so the root cause needs to be carefully rephrased. Phew! So we found a root cause what about an action item - think fast 10 minutes to go, another light bulb flashes somewhere ..."Think Modular" slogans to be put up in every cubicle so we don’t have to cut and paste, we can just re-use.

Scenario 2
An earnest effort is going on to examine why on earth are there defects due to "Negligence". The 5 why analysis tool is used.
Why is there negligence? -> Lack of concentration
Why lack of concentration? -> Feeling sleepy
Why sleepy? -> Afternoon tea did not arrive on time
Why tea not served on time? -> The milk curdled and was spoilt
Why did the milk curdle -> Very hot day so refrigeration collapsed

Well some things are beyond our control it seems and defect prevention seems to have a much larger scope than we had imagined. Anyway the team hunts around for a plausible root cause and an action item which will make sense to the project managers and the auditors. No doubt it’s a tough job!

The last 10 minutes is usually a sermon, the entire SDLC process is revised, we MUST follow checklists, we MUST review, we MUST test etc etc etc. The minutes are jotted down, responsibilities assigned and back to our seats! What a relief!

A Walk Down the Street

2006-01-04T18:25:00.000+05:30

I get up bleary eyed every morning, brush my teeth and rush to the gym to shed the flab that is added due to ever increasing incomes and better lifestyles (however hard earned that may be). Saturdays are different though, I dont have to wake up at the crack of dawn, I take my time, read the paper, have breakfast and then go for my workouts. Saturdays are all the more special because I have time for other 'pamper myself' activities too. While coming back home I walk half the way, window shop, browse though the local library and buy a few things for home.

One such Saturday afternoon, all the usual Saturday activities I was feeling great about myself and thought that I would indulge in one of those delicacies that my dietician strictly forbade me to eat and went ahead and got a few things which I would gorge on (ok nibble on!) while I read a book at home.

While walking down, I pass a popular restaurant, my pace was slow, I had time to observe my surroundings and in doing so I noticed a beggar sitting under a tree, the sight is common enough to people living in big cities. I looked further and I saw that he had some half rotten discarded leftovers (probably from the plates of the patrons of that restaurant) and a newspaper from a nearby bin for a plate. I thought of the rumblings in my stomach, the goodies in my bag and the feelings of anticipation about enjoying them.

My inner voice screamed at me to give my bag of goodies to this beggar, let him enjoy his food for once. But unfortunately I have acquired a lot of flab in areas other than my physical body. I didn't listen and walked on and told myself that I will do this tomorrow. I will find the beggar, buy him a meal etc etc. I went home and tried reading my book and nibble on the stuff which I had brought which seemed to taste a lot like cardboard or perhaps it was just the taste of disgust (aimed at self).

Perhaps the inner joy of giving my bag of goodies to the beggar would have been far greater than eating it myself. Since that day I try to look out for the beggar but I haven't seen him since. I guess opportunities to truly shed the flab of apathy are rare.

An Ode to Cafe de Paris

2006-01-04T18:24:00.000+05:30

About seven years back I first heard the name Café de Paris, my husband often mentioned it whenever I asked him where he had had lunch. This place seemed to be a favorite hang out during the various sales calls he used to make in the Dalhousie area and I often heard him singing praises of the pudding he ate there. The name brought visions of the cafes one sees in Paris while walking along Champs Elysees; of course I knew that what I visualized was quite far fetched for a busy street on Dalhousie.

Though I was curious and always very eager to explore all kinds of eating joints, Café de Paris was forgotten in the midst of the daily din of existence. Then one fine morning we made a decision to move to a city with greater opportunities and better careers and the first step in doing so was to go and purchase railway tickets from Koilaghata. It quite slipped our minds that we could have purchased tickets from Ballygunj station as well which was quite close but anyway we had made the journey at almost crack of dawn to secure a position in the already snake like queue, after standing for two long hours without any food and water we did manage to get our tickets to a brighter future. In a buoyant mood we walked towards the bus stand to catch a bus back home, however we could not ignore our rumbling stomachs so we stopped right in front of Café de Paris!

All my visions and pre conceived notions crashed, it resembled a hole in the wall, and two broken steps led into a dark room with soiled brown walls, marble topped wooden tables – eight of them in all with four chairs per table. Most were in a state of extreme disrepair. At the entrance there was a cash counter with a rather sleepy looking gentleman and above him was a huge portrait of the founder (freshly garlanded) of the place who was long dead and gone. My husband informed me that this portly gentleman of the portrait was my Mother in law’s uncle. Well maybe that is why he patronized the place!

My husband was in his element, he knew the waiters by their first names and he seemed to know the menu by heart as well – I don’t remember seeing a menu card though, all items available were usually rattled off by the waiter attending the table. So the order was given with much fanfare, one kobiraji (chicken breast cutlet coated with egg whites and deep fried), one moglai porota (dough stuffed with egg and meat mixture and deep fried), one chicken afghani (I cannot describe this one!) and one pudding and a few buttered toasts. My husband insisted that this was a feast fit for kings while I waited with my many reservations, snootily turning my nose at every other thing.

The food arrived promptly served on chipped plates and slightly bent knives and forks and I started digging in with trepidation but the moment I put the first bite inside my mouth I was transported to heaven, all that I ate was equally wonderful and I couldn’t quite decide what I liked best. My husband had this ‘I told you so’ look on his face which I ignored completely. Later after boarding the bus I grudgingly admitted that it was the best food I had ever eaten.

In my mind, Café de Paris truly symbolized the beginning of the good times and when we returned to Kolkata (as it is spelt now) we did always go back and savor the taste of success and tipped the waiters handsomely who were suitably shocked by the amounts. This year when we planned our itinerary, Café de Paris had its rightful place on it and we were to stop after we visited the zoo (which again is a must do activity till the children reach the age of 10). We took a taxi from the zoo to Dalhousie peering out of the window so that we don’t miss our ‘hole in the wall’! We peered hard but even my husband’s trained eye could not locate it so he crossed the street, searched in vain and finally asked a shoe shine man about its whereabouts. We were informed that the place had shut down in late 2004 and now the shop was to be some hardware store or some such thing.

Seeing our woebegone faces the shoe shiner kindly suggested that there are other such eating joints just round the corner but we were not really listening. With heavy hearts we walked back dejectedly to our taxi and went home hungry. It was an end of an era – this restaurant (if it could be called that) had been around since World War II and fed innumerable hungry people on the move for almost 60 years. Perhaps this place was too weak to handle the great winds of change blowing across and perished but I do hope the loyal will pass the place and remember that here I once sat and enjoyed every bit I ate.

Childhood Lessons

2006-01-04T18:22:00.000+05:30

It was the first ever Asiad games in Delhi, there was a lot of excitement all around, everybody had tickets for some game or the other. Not to be left behind, I asked my Mother whether we could go and see *any* game – that would take care of the pressure of being in the club of the ‘people who had seen an Asiad even’ in school! My Mother worked in a high profile advertising agency so she did get some complimentary tickets for a game of hockey which would be played between some quite unknown teams right in front of my house at a sports stadium. Hockey was not my favorite sport but who cared as long as I could say in school that I too had seen a game.

The day arrived, the stadium looked brightly lit with the floodlights but there seemed to be no mode of transport available (I can’t exactly recollect why now) and we didn’t have a car. I did what pre teens do best, cried and howled but obviously that didn’t turn a pumpkin into a chariot (or for that matter a Mercedes) to take me to the stadium. Then I turned to my friends – called each and every one of them (being blissfully ignorant and simple) and asked them whether they could drop me to the stadium. The friends tried but their parents said NO. With each NO my heart sank a bit and by the time I finished my last desperate call I saw that the lights in the stadium had dimmed, the match was over and my Mother had tears in her eyes.

Both sights were rather disturbing but despite being a selfish spoilt brat drowning in her own grief I did manage to ask my Mother why she was crying. She did give me what I thought then to be a lecture. Strangely, I cannot recollect what words she used but what seemed to be then the most traumatic event of my childhood coupled with her words made me realize how important it is to be self reliant, self sufficient and not asking for favors unnecessarily, the importance of self worth and the importance of being independent.

Perhaps it was one of those life defining moments that has made me the person I am today, also perhaps learning the hard way has a lot more impact.