Another Chapter Turned...

Another birthday goes by....

These days there's hardly the feverish anticipation..It comes at its own sweet time, quite late in March, but early in the year just as you are beginning to get the feel of the new year... and then vanishes before you can soak in the day...

It's like every year you shovel some amount of mud out of a pit...Some years you work harder - abuse your soul and body more - and then during some other years, you try to repair the damage, the wear and tear left behind by merciless living...And when you feel really tired and weary, you can lie down in the pit you dug...Dark thought? Hmmm...somehow the image is comforting...

You learn to conserve your youth, use it wisely. Maybe the years have made me wiser.....

Now I know all that buildup towards the D-day is all that will remain....The rest as they say is a nasty anticlimax...

Over the years, the gifts you get dwindle to a trickle - most people look at you and wonder how you can be childish enough to smile like a kindergarten kid when extended the rare gift...they don't know that the excitement is an often well-wrapped junk in shiny paper...How do I say it's not the junk, its the shiny paper that still appeals...I spend more time unwrapping a gift than in using/appreciating the gift itself...So when an unwrapped one comes my way, the first thought is how thoughtless....is that bitchy? Well, so be it...my pleasure in unwrapping gifts got shortchanged, didn't it? 


For long, I went around on my uppity little horse proclaiming to the world and its dog and anyone who happened to be in the vicinity that Age is a number...I will always proudly reveal my age and age gracefully. Well then, I ask my hypocritical self, why do you not have your date of birth on your facebook or anywhere where the little lines appearing on your forehead are not visible at all? Why do you smile that well-practised mysterious smile when people ask you your age? Vanity ensures the capture of the last bastion of honesty...

This is to announce that from henceforth, the new age attained shall be denoted by a single candle only...And if there are more than I can count of my fingers, they better be artfully arranged...

But this has been a day long cherished....One where the first thought on waking up was not having to hurry to get ready for office...But then again, the time difference ensured that I celebrated for a sum total of 29.5 hours - the birthday that began in India time ended as per my UK watch...And as I adjusted my new watch - my shiny new gift to myself - I also mentally wound back my age, now I also chant, age is what the mind tells you....

My father used to say that, he hates being called old, now I know why...Like father, like daughter...


Perhaps winding back time is also a way of giving myself more time...after all, if I were to make my life an objective type examination with multiple choices, many questions would still be unanswered...But then, that's because many more questions that are never generic enough to be put down in the exam have been successfully covered....


Do I sound like a shrivelled old prune? Heck no...I have some jolly good years left to do some lusty living....But then, when your favourite cricketstars start looking like those snotty wannabes who filled up Standard 6 when you were in high school, then you know, it's time to retire the tiny skirts and pink t-shirts..


Thank God for Indian film heroes, especially the South Indian testerosterone displays...most of the big names have been around the film world, longer than you have been on the face of the earth....So there you have some sense of continuity...


This has to be the most random post I have in my blog....But every year, just about this time, I end up doing some spring-cleaning....disused parts of the thinking brain tends to rust...now can't let that happen, can we? the only part that is allowed to rust and RIP is the one which does simple maths...as years go by, my counting skills have atrophied...its plain atrocious now...Counting change out is a mortal embarrassment for me...I tried blaming it on the advancing years, only to be put to shame by my agile sixty-something dad....


Dad appears again in this post...What's with the thought of age and dad? Perhaps someday I'll figure that out...

How I was treated on my birthday, that hopefully will be the next post....waiting for some photographs to pep that piece up....But I already have a working title..."A TART FOR A TART"...something said very fondly by a dear friend, as he went about creating an apple tart for my birthday, knowing as he does my total disinterest in things sweet....


Till then, I shall peer into the mirror in my room and try to fish out any grey hair I might have sprouted...Twenty two year olds shouldnt have to deal with greying hair -  that's the new age my mind has arbitrarily thrown up...


( illustrations: Marilyn Monroe from Flickr and the Lady in the Mirror by Rubens)

'Oh These Indians, I Tell You!'

Yesterday, I spent the whole day in London - at the Indian High Commission to be precise...

The Job: Getting a notarised copy of a Power of Attorney Document.

The Intent:  Dilution of autonomy over my financial affairs so that my parents can make my life more easier than what they have already made by also taking over my financial mess and straightening it for me in my absence...

Getting a two minute job done just took an entire day...and thats thanks to a very sluggish bureaucratic procedure and a massive congregation of Indians - making the India House's Consular Affairs office look like a Kumbh mela pandhal.

By the time my train arrived at London Victoria and I tunnelled my way through to Covent Garden by the tube, the clock had struck 10.30...And then, there I was, in Central London, a little lost child with my heavy backpack ( my backpack even when not packed is heavy and does a credible job of making me look like I have the burden of the world on my shoulders)- trying to figure out where exactly I was standing (in general) and the way to India House(in particular)...Google Maps had given me precise directions, including the minutes that it should take me from the station - when I was still not where I should be at the said time, I decided to ask for directions...After all, if I could read a map, I'd have some sense of direction to where my life was headed!!!

That's where I stumbled on 

Revelation 1: It does not matter how long you have lived in London, ask anyone on the street who looks self-assured and you can see the rapid change in him into a confused, blubbering soul - who first attempts to make the GPS on his mobile phone work to help him locate himself, then fishes out his London map from the leather attache and when all fails, looks at you blankly and says, Well..this is Aldwych..the India House must be somewhere nearby....

Well, thanks buster, I thought to myself, as I scrambled like the White Rabbit of Alice in Wonderland, worried about making it to the High Commission in time to get my dirty deed notarised...

Revelation 2: Just because you are in London, don't expect the Indian embassy to look regal and royal, like how you tend to glamorise India when not there...The location is 'very tony' like the Brits call it, and it's bang behind the stately and palatial Australia House- where you can see a lot of comfortble sofas and cozy cushions through the tall glass windows - the India House is all stone too, with different enclosures for 'Private Visitors', a 'Main Entrane' and the entry to the 'Cattle Shed' as I will henceforth call the Office for Consular Affairs, PIO and other similar abbreviations...but that's where the difference between the Western World and Third World kicks in...

Revelation 3: A cattle shed is what a cattle shed does...The lines for a token to enter the hallowed cattledom was five men deep and nearly a kilometre long, just that it was organised to look like a wriggly serpent...Near one of the outer windows, by which the queue snaked, you notice copious amounts of plastic waste - supermarket bags, discarded foil wraps of potato chips, sandwich bags- and even tabloids...truly Indian, isnt it - especially when there was a pristine looking trash can, barely used just about 50 steps away....


Revelation 4: No two Indians can stand next to each other without one thinking that the other is trying to get a better deal out of a rotten situation - so there is fierce distrust of anyone's motive to chat the other up..


Revelation 5: Never trust an Indian to follow the rules of the queue, not try to coax someone two rounds ahead of him to pick up a token for him too...and brazenly cut across all the stupid cattle assembled there and make a beeline for the token counter as if his Dad set India House up...


Revelation 6: 4 and 5 are self-explanatory, 6 is where the Gujjus decide to make snide comments about the Punju couple standing ahead of them and the Sardars deciding to share some jokes across two rounds to someone they just nodded a greeting too...In effect, utter pandemonium in about 10 languages and already small camps emerging within a group waiting for a small piece of chit that tells them they are the 85th person to want similar service on the same day..


Revelation 7: The UK-born Indian will treat the entire experience of standing in a queue waiting for his turn to be a fate worse than being sentenced to life term in Guantanamo Bay and will proceed to make a nuisance of himself by talking in his 'Oh-so-unbearable Northern (read York and beyond) Twat' accent to his buddy- who's making him 'jealous' by bragging about his second beer by noon...

Revelation 8: The woman at the token counter couldn't care two hoots if you missed the 12 oclock deadline by 1/10th of a second, she will still look at you sourly as if you were the fishbone the cat dropped on her priced carpet...and fling a badly torn and printed token at you and expect you to whimper with gratitude


Revelation 9: At no point of time, will anyone tell you what is expected to be done. It's a Blind Man's Bluff...You can wait in the queue for 3 hours before you get to the end where you speak to some low minion of the Ministry who thinks he's the Ambassador's Private Secretary...by the way he also takes particular sadistic thrill in rubbing your nose in something you overlooked...and double pleasure in making you run two blocks to get one photocopied document..


Revelation 10: No place in India or abroad, with Indians in the vicinity can be a disciplined, smoothly functioning place....There will be loud shouts, fierce arguments and rude shove and jolts as people move towards their token call...If you are polite, you are considered 'retarded'.

Final Revelation 11: The India House was exactly two building away from where the London Dork sent me on a wild goose chase for the only mistake I committed - ask him for directions!!!!


Needless to say, my experience at the Indian High Commission was less than Sterling!! And I so empathised with the British woman in the line behind me who had 'ambitions to help her company do business in India'. She didn't know that it would require three visits to the High Commission, and all she prayed as she waited to collect her signed documents, after spending a whole day to get it signed was that she didn't ever have to return...

The magical Indian experience, tasted abroad is just as sweet!!!

Inquilab Zindabad! For What? Do We Care!

This post, I admit is very late, it has lost what we journalists call the immediacy of  it, but it has been niggling me for a couple of days now...So it needs to be exorcised.

Most Universities in the UK are going through massive funding cuts. So with the UK government deciding that the benevolence flowing from the exchequer into the coffers of Universities can be substantially reduced, the University in turn has deciding to go intelligent and cut 'lard' out of the system...So out goes courses that don't bring in the moolah, Departments are being downsized drastically and Pay Cuts and Pink Slips are in the 'Most Searched' list on University Internet.

My University - The University of Sussex seems to have a quite active Union..I remember a friendly warning as I was heading for foreign shores - to pack up my activism along with my unsuitable Indian clothes and leave it back in my cupboard in Kochi - for the Universities of Britain are the erstwhile bastions of Left activism and few wanted to see me return as a Card Carrying Member with what is now seen as a Utopian Conviction to rid the scorn off the Capitalist Bosses!!

I have taken the advice pretty literally, I have rarely joined protest marches, I just relish being a fly on the wall listening to how Socialist zeal manifests itself in the halls of a University.. So now, let me introduce the characters of this post


Prof. Michael Farthing: The Vice Chancellor of the University of Sussex - portrayed more viciously than the Dark Knight

The Sussex Six: The fierce warriors fighting for the 'voiceless students and staff'

The rest of the roles - 'character artists' as we call them in India - performed by the police in riot gear, Uni security guards, as well as other staff on the University...
 
In a nutshell, push comes to a shove, activism goes into an overdrive, and six 'masked' intruders 'attempt to break into' the University Vice Chancellor's office, as stated by the press release that followed shortly, literally 'terrorising' the University Staff and holding the office under siege. Now the VC flexes his muscles, suspends six out of a group of about 100 who had been part of the demonstration protesting outside, but also calls in the police, who appear in riot gear and proceed to wield the stick on the students...

Interesting progression so far? The Indian junta reading this would think...so what's new, isn't that how all demonstrations end up in India - we would have had three damaged buses, some classrooms rendered completely useless by damaged desks and benches, graffitti ruining lovely stone walls....and all in the name of righteous ire...

But in one thing, the group mentality is the same. Wonder how many actually understood the issue that they were campaigning for? Couple of girls who came to my university residence to mobilise support for the campaign, could only talk about the 'brutality' shown by the University in having their students arrested in such a 'ghastly fashion' - not caring for their futures, suspending them - the repeated phrase was 'And we say we are living in a democracy!'. That's the phrase that seemed to have stuck in everyone's mind...For anyone that I asked about the demonstration and picketing repeated the same line to me..I wondered if activism was fashionably bohemian for many or whether it was the cause that was the mobiliser...Like a couple of students told me - 'Nice to see pretty undergraduates out campaigning for support. Normally it's just the weird looking hippies who sit with banners and posters at the Library Square'

But I did sign up...I believed in the cause, I hate the thought of professors being made redundant so that young new recruits who will draw considerably less salaries can replace them, I hate the thought of a UK University downsizing their English Literature Department because the 'international cash cows' are more interested in Media Studies..

And on D-day that was last Thursday, I walked up all enthusisatic of shouting a couple of slogans, being part of a student surge to protest against 'atrocities' perpetrated by the University led by the Dark Knight- like the Suspension of Sussex Six ( which had by then been temporarily lifted and altogether revoked later)and the Cuts proposed....What I saw where about 20 people at two entrances to the University, some boards and banners and hardly any buzz in the air...There was a Facebook page seeking active participation, of the roughly 2500 people I saw on the invite list, roughly about 50 had agreed to participate, while over 1200 had promptly refused - That's at the time that I had logged on to check the Event Listing. And I remember thinking, maybe we should get some Asian imports to teach them how to assemble a buzzing picket and an active demonstration...There is more democratic permissiveness as far as individual rights go in the West, but then years of taking things for granted had atrophied the activism too...Or so I theorise..

The caveat is: I'm now thinking like an academic, looking to organise a truly effective picket/demonstration...In India, I have been on the other side, viciously spewing venom against this kind of activism, hating the disruption in the name of flimsiest reasons like 'Oh, did the Professor have to look me so hard in the eye when he was giving me my report? Maybe that's because he's a Social elite' The Banners would have read 
'Tanashahi Nahin Chalegi ( This Autocracy Won't Work', 'Professor Maafi Mange' ( Professor Apologise)  

The comparisons are perhaps muddling my head and my rational thinking...I know not which side I stand...I see reason on both sides...I don't want the porters and the other helpers to have to take a cut and departments being scrapped completely...But can't a more logical solution be drafted if the University Board went back to the drafting tables? 


But one thing is for sure 'The Inquilab Zindabad' in an Indian atmosphere is more electric than any of the Western equivalents I have seen here...Capitalistic traditions have perhaps eroded ideological zeal a bit too much in the West perhaps...

But I still think Britain could be the last bastion for red-stained University leanings in the West...After all, Communist revolutions were exported to many countries in the Third World from these hallowed halls of education about fifty years ago...


As I write this, I hear about other protests across UK Universities...Aberdeen students abandoning the Occupation of the halls they had done...Murmurs of Support for Sussex protest is being heard from Universities across UK - the Union website is filled with information about this.. Cambridge University papers full of admiration for the Sussex Six and the ire at the police brutality against the students..There's mobilisation of opinion for sure, but I wonder if in Britain, this level of participation mounts any pressure on the powers that be to consider their demands favourably...Hmmmm....

  ( Photographs taken from the Uni Paper The Badger and assorted Strike Blogs of UK Universities)

So Who Said What's In A Name?

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)

 Hmmm...Does this new post require a poetic beginning..No it really doesn't..But that's the first thing that struck me as I sat to write it..And I remember in school beginning an essay quoting Shakespeare was supposed to show your command over literature..So there.....


Ok, now I must give you a little background...To sustain the excesses of a debauched student life, I try to fit in some extra work to 'pile on the pounds'. Didn't I hear a snigger there? Don't go cheeky on me, I mean the Sterling Pound...the holy Brit currency that keeps me checking the foreign exchange rate in shrewd calculation to ensure my rupee pounds a little longer! So that brings me to the part-time job that I have managed to find...

Romanticise my work place a little, will you and imagine this wonderfully chic place that transports me to a Supergirl-ian world from my Plain Jane student avatar...Hmmm...my life is just so exciting, isn't it?

Ok, now that you have made me feel good by imagining such a wonderful alter-life for me here, let me tell you, my workplace consists of an abandoned computer that hardly ever boots without two kicks and shoves, a work table that has 6 pens, a paper rack and nothing else and a really really old and grimy window, that can time and again be coaxed open, so that I can say hi to the occasional seagull that takes pity on me and flies by my dirty window...

Now that does not mean that amidst what is often mechanical, quite literally ctrlc + ctrlV work, I don't find my guilty pleasures. Amidst reams and reams of lists with names of people from all parts of the world that I juggle, I look for those which make me laugh, sometimes wince, very often groan with empathy for the burden of having to live a lifetime bearing your parent's sudden whim or fleeting fancy...

So these days as I write personalised mailers - Hi Godgift, Hello Queen Elizabeth, Hey Darlington - I observe a minute's silence in shared empathy. How many before would have laughed a tiny wicked laugh( like I confess I did, before the nobility in my soul told me not to snigger at a person for their parents' fault)when they wrote the very same words? I wonder, I wonder...

Then again, what right do I have to snigger at these names when the land I happily claim as my own has been singlehandedly responsible for some of the weirdest names to be inducted into the Dictionary of Indian Names? I'm from the land of Blissmols and Beautys( Warning: It's not a spelling mistake...How else do you refer to two girls named Beauty?) and Happymons and also the assorted Gandhis, Nehrus, Stalins and Boses who keep the flag of the politically active Malayali flying across the world...

I went to a Convent College, where ragging was merciless...And drawing blood from new 'arrivals' began with asking them to introduce themselves...And there would be enough grist for the ragging mill....Out would pop 'Pretty Thomas' and 'Jane Beauty's - almost whispering their names out lest the seniors hear it clearly...I particularly remember one poor soul who admitted to the latter name, only for a Cruella De Ville senior to sneer at her about whether she had chosen the name herself...And with an audible wince, the poor girl had very candidly wondered if she would inflict the torture on herself...Point to be noted, my lord!!

A friend and I have an ongoing exchange of emails over just strange names that we have encountered...This mail chain has been going strong for over a year, I think..Every new mail assures a chuckle for a good day...This post is my mega-bumper contribution to our growing list..

I still haven't understood what moments of insanity trigger a parent's decision to permanently scar their children's life by imposing their eccentricities on them. And I salute the children for respecting their parent's wishes and not changing their names despite constant provocation to do otherwise.. I also know a certain Ms.Hole who has a name that begins with an A..(And in England, most of your correspondence is addressed as the initial of your given name followed by your surname)I wonder if she winces as much as I do on her behalf at the thought of receiving no less than five letters in a week addressed in that fashion...

Now if Shakespeare were alive and if he were to croon, What's in a Name, I'd ask him to please re-consider!!!

(P.S : I mean no offence to anyone...Those who have names that resemble any of the ones stated above are requested not to send out hit-squads to avenge this post.)

Random Ruminations and Conclusions...

I received a strange message today from my new blog world buddy, who often comes up with some insightful but mostly really fun comments on what I scribble in this space..The Analyst sent a cryptic comment saying that I had been tagged in one of his new  posts and that I should visit it...Some curiosity and basically the tendency that Malayali 'Commies at heart' have to turn up to show solidarity prompted me to follow his linked route...

And I stumbled upon blogosphere's latest time-pass...I'm no 'social pariah' like The Analyst defines himself..but then that's one of the side-effects of being a journalist...inadvertant eavesdropping, routine networking and the search for new is always on...And so, time and again, I get tagged into 'Use the colour of your underwear to show support for a cause' or 'state a colour to indicate your relationship status' gimmick...

But I'm interested by this tag, because it gives me a chance to reciprocate and pick five( not 7) of my favourite blogs, that I really like reading..and tell you why I like them...

So before I do that, I shall copy paste what I understand is the soul of the game, before I do my little post-mortem...

Tagging v. A gripping game played in the Blogosphere where bloggers link with each other for no apparent reason. From The International dictionary of Blogosphere.

Dear fellow blogger,

You have been invited to join an ominous cabal of bloggers who wish to pass their time by tagging each other. The encumbrance of this task lies upon you to continue this revered tradition of tagging 7 people in blogosphere. We are in the process of creating the fourth Reich in blogosphere, so tag along.

Regards

The Oracle

Rules
Reveal 7 random things about yourself.
1) You have to tag 7 people.
2) You have to link their pages in your tag post
3) You have to leave a comment in their comments section telling them they've been tagged.
4) You have to say who tagged you.

As a creator's tribute you might have to copy paste these rules on your blog enforcing the tag on innocent bloggers who visit your post. Also note that you should reveal random things about yourself.By tagging 7 people you are in process of creating a cult of bloggers thus forming the fourth Reich in the empire of Blogosphere.


Ok now that you know the rules, I hope you understand I'm tweaking it a bit...you don't really want to know too many random things about me...and 5 is my favourite number...so 5 it is...

Let's start with five random things...


1. I hate rice...If I didn't have to eat rice in any form for the rest of my life, I wouldn't miss it a day..Ask me why I had to make that my first thing on the list, and I'd say it popped into my head randomly..


2. Cheesy songs, Cheesy movies are all right up my alley, though I will die before admitting it..and by the way, I'm not too fond of queso myself..

3. Queso brings me to my new found love for Spanish...These days Im elbow deep in Spanish and my ever-present journo notepad is filled with notes in Spanish...from how to give instructions to basic phrases...So next time I begin a post with "Que tal" remember that it means How goes? in Espanol..

4. I am happiest when I know that soon I shall be off and away...I am wary of settling into a routine and finding no way out of the mundane and the inane...Picking up my bags, uprooting myself and settling down in a totally new place appeals to me most of the time, except when my biological clock or near family begins tut-tutting about my aversion to 'settling down' anywhere.


5.I love random conversations, instantly created conspiracy theories and impulsive decisions...I have lived to regret some but never regretted living through them...

Now that brings me to the favourite part of this post..

The five Blogs that I read and are in my pick of 5..( Could you please open the hyperlinks in a new tab...it's somehow not automatically working, try as I might...So unless you are bored with my rants and want to click out, please open a new tab!)

1. Joe's blog: My professor who taught me the importance of good copy...the practical importance of the 5Ws and 1H and even more importantly, the need for an irreverant and fearless approach to journalism...Eggs me on when I flag, ticks me off when he sees things he doesn't approve, generous with praise and patient with mistakes... 


 2. Paul's blog: Love the moaning English expat git...Paul's moans are a lovely antidote to my rants...somewhere the moans and the rants build up a wonderful cacophony in my head...I stumbled on it when he wrote an irreverant piece on Indian broadcast journalism's cerebral lows which I had to grudgingly agree with...

3. The Ketchup Girl: She has multiple blogs and the one she keeps for her little daughter has a special place in my heart...But her food blogs often have me drooling and the best part are the photographs that she takes of the things she cooks...Yummy says the eye, drool goes the tongue..although like everything in the blog-verse, this sensation too is not tangible...

4. Primitive Lyric's blog: Another blogger who was one of my first inspirations to try to keep an online diary..I have been reading her since she began to jot down her thoughts, or so I think and now there are new characters in her life, her outlook to life has gone through a 180 deg change - and her blog remains a refreshing mirror of a life that branched out beautifully after flowing with mine for roughly two years.

5. Satish's blog: He is a journalist whose blogs reflect his varied interests too. Every post has something new to whet my appetite. From photography to films, Satish's interests are as varied as his love his words.

So there you are...my pick of five...And with that, we come to the end of this soliloquoy..Thanks The Analyst for sparking it off...This was an excercise for me too..so for today, my blog shall look like my notebook, quite literally...hastily jotted...no finesse...

Hasta luego, till next time!

Do you know Lisa Ray?

Do you remember this face? For those familiar with Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan's music, she was the face of his really popular album 'Aafreen' - that ethereal beauty walking through the sand dunes of Rajasthan. Some also remember her in what I think were eminently forgettable films. Want instant evidence? A die-hard Bollywood enthusiast like me can't remember any without launching a google search. Oh..just another trivia - She was the Helen of Troyish face that launched the Evita soap in India and also the face of Garden Vareli, if I'm not mistaken. If I am, don't sue me.Right now, that's beside the point. A few months ago, I read about Lisa being diagnosed with a very rare kind of cancer that had no successful cure. My first reaction was, Oh what a tragedy. Years of addiction to the world of Grey's Anatomy, primarily to ogle at McDreamy and McSteamy had given me enough medical trivia to atleast pretend to understand the medical details listed...She was 36 or 37 and struggling to come to terms with her mortality... And somewhere along that time was when I think she started blogging. I remember reading her initial blogs filled with how she came to realise that, the warning signs her body gave her with increased bouts of lethargy and lack of energy as she describes the feeling of her world caving in when she heard the diagnosis. The blog was informative for me, but I put it away with a quick prayer that hope she finds her peace in her last days. Today a friend posted her latest post on her blog on facebook. And I revisted her blog. And what I read there had me in tears, literally. There was one of the prettiest woman laying her vanity bare - making light of it, for she had just been through a stem cell transplant..Her description of how she felt like explaining her bald appearance to a Customs Officer ( to say that Shampoo was proving to be very expensive)deserves a big Wow in my book. No pity me please, No hiding her plight. In fact, I gather from reading her blog that she even made a public appearance, with a wig on...and Indian news junkies would have probably caught Barkha the Barracuda interviewing her...I didn't and I don't really think I want to. But I would like to read this edition of India Todaz that talks about the path breaking cancer treatment that is being tried out on Lisa. To quote Lisa, Someone brings me the India Today. On the cover is an image from my blog. I’m thrilled- and puzzled. This is a surprise. I’ve always wanted to be featured on this cover but somehow the Indian version of Time neglected to let me know. Kinda like your friends organising your Birthday party, in your neighbour’s house. You hear the commotion next door and wonder why you weren’t invited- and isn’t it weird no one’s shown up to wish you on your big day? Infuriatingly endearing. And thanks.Because mostly it strikes me: This is an image that doesn’t manipulate. At least I hope not. Thank you India Today for urging people to see and feel. Illness is alchemy. I thought Lisa was extremely eloquent. She sure caught my attention.I wanted to leave a comment for her, but that just did not feel enough. Maybe it was her last line - Illness is alchemy - that made me write this post. Lisa, I wish that you heal completely from the bottom of my heart. Your blog does your spirit justice - the fight that you give your own disease-ridden cells...And the more people who are made aware of the gritty fight that you are putting on, the better will it be for the Fight Against Cancer. I want to do my two-bit too. And I'd encourage whoever happens to pass by my blog to take a moment to read Lisa Ray's experiences. For once, here is a face that launched a million products sharing her private ordeal in a way few have, with her head held high, choosing not to die in seclusion, but live like a fighter spreading awareness about a disease that is fighting her every inch of the way! A prayer for your health and a toast to your spirit, Lisa!!

These Inglorious Bastards...'Truly Indian?'

Ok, No one is allowed to groan....It's another post on food...But I just had to write it....This post is open-ended, hopefully it will bring more dishes to your memory - do send them to me, the most outrageous of them shall find 'meritorious' mention in the annals of my blog. Thanks The Analyst for setting the ball rolling so far as thinking about this post goes... India and China may not have much love lost when it comes to Foreign Relations...after all they are thought of as the Sneaky Chinese, aren't they? Supplying Pakistan with weapons to fight us with when the Indian intelligence has been distracted by squatters sent across the porous North-East borders so that the map along the far flung boundaries in Arunachal Pradesh and Kashmir can be redrawn with red colour pencil and called Chinese territory!! Now I have developed a theory that I might put dub 'The Indian School of Action'. Theorising might be a new addition to my repertoire of skills, thanks to the vast amounts of academic calisthenics that you pursue that while you 'read for your MA'. The question framed: How does India deliver a sucker punch at the more powerful-more prosperous-more enterprising Chinese for their 'outrages'? Basic Premise: Attack them at what they have become famous across the world for, and mutilate it out of recognition!!!! Atleast that's what a lot of 'Indian Chinese' cuisine would have you theorise...It's 'authentic' Chinese food cooked in Indian spices, with soy sauce and loads of corn flour to gag an army with as the ingredients that make them Chinese bastards. And that's how Gobi Manchurian was born. And if the Chinese see it on the menu and think its a tribute to the Gobi desert that stretches barren through a great part of China, well, the ycouldn't be more mistaken!! It's the Revenge of the Indian! Gobi has nothing to do with China, but all to do with how the humble cauliflower is called in Hindi. So you batter fry florets in corn flour till you don't know where the congealed dough begins and the florets end and then dunk them in an unholy sauce made of more cornflour and soy sauce and green chillies with bits and pieces of capsicum and spring onions as floating survivors of the massacre. Now that's the first version that I tasted, later I realised that depending on the Indian cook's particular mood and also his regional location at the moment he was tossing up the dish - the Gobi Manchurian could be red with generous dollops of schezwan sauce also adding to the bastardisation process and instead of capsicum and spring onions, you might be assaulted with huge lumps of soggy cabbage - and all this in enough oil to ensure nothing sticks to the stomach, just uneasily floats around...And then there is the final insult upon injury - garnish with Coriander!!! And there are more bastards living on the innumerable menus of restaurants big and small across India. How about Schezwan Masala Dosa - (gag, you Chinese devil, gag on what we produce in your name!) Chinese Bhel ( that's the humble bhelpuri where the rice puffs are replaced by fried noodles which are called chopsuey and served by all self respecting Udupi hotels who pride on providing tasty Chinese takeaways) And then there are the Chinese soups which have massive dollops of ingredients non-Chinese including Tamarind and Turmeric.... Ohhh and did I mention Chilly Paneer? Paneer or Indian cottage cheese (very often rubberised as well in South India where they still haven't figured how to make it yet and rely on the ugly little bricks that come frozen in packets) deepfried ( can Indians have anything any other way?) and then smothered in enough green chillies to turn your ears red like the Chinese flag... Thankfully, since Indians take a rather mild view of tossing up the innards and the entrails of animals and totally look down on frying those pesky grasshoppers that find their way into the house from the garden, many more authentic Chinese food got left alone. Only the bastards managed to thrive successfully here... But if the Indian massacre of Chinese cuisine made the Chinese gurus wince in pain, then they will take pleasure from the way the Indian gurus are yelping in agony at the British carnage of Indian cuisine...Our pakodas taste here like sawdust batterfried with limp onions, the lamb korma is as sweet as kheer or payasam with as much coconut milk also in it...let me not even mention the Chicken Tikka Masala...the list can go on and on... Thats my Global Story of Cuisine Massacres... (P.S: This is not to say that you don't get great Chinese food in India...There are many good restaurants that must make the Chinese feel that there is still some chance for peace talks without filing cases for the genocide of their cuisine at The Hague)

Spring is in the Air!!

In India, especially in Kochi (where I grew up) and Mumbai (where I have worked most) there are essentially two seasons in a year - summer and monsoon... When the sweltering sun makes life muggy and your clothes stick to your skin, a collective prayer rises for relief...and by June or July, the monsoons stomp their way through India... My land, Kerala turns a very pretty shade of green in the monsoons...The rains bring with it lovely contrasts of green against the red soil that cool the eye....and there's this particular smell that rises from the parched earth when the first drops of rain re-seal the dry cracked surface of the earth... Catching the first drops of rain remains a fascination for me...though I must confess, the mad Mumbaikars take this craze to a totally different level... From being soaked in your sweat to standing drenched to the bone in the monsoons, sipping chai or biting into corn cobs, liberally sprinkled with lime and masalas...those were my seasons, those were what I looked forward to... I came to Brighton in autumn and immediately decided this was the prettiest season...Many warned me about spring stealing autumn's thunder...I refused to budge....But after braving a rather harsh Winter and the unprecedented snow it brought along for the visit this time, this sight that greeted me earlier this week brought a smile on.... The Sun shines more these days, that's not to say that Winter is ready to give way so easily....the nights are still brrrrr- cold and in the morning, the grass seems frosty white....but these bulbs daring the winter chill tell me its Spring Time...Beware: The Sun is deceptive, if you leave your sweaters behind at home, miscalculating the meagre warmth on a bright sunny day, then you can cuss yourself blue as you walk back frozen to the bone...But then after the bland wintry landscape, its time for a riot of colours... In the time span when India's coastal climate progressed from relatively mild to warm to hot and muggy weather, I moved from autumn to winter to spring....Now I know my seasons...They aren't just what was taught in Geography classes and understood by internalising Byron and Keats' description...Now I have my sights and my words to share...There's a spring in my step too these days as I head for the final classes of this term, and Spring is in the Air!!! ( P.S The pretty pictures of rain in Kerala: Courtesy my brother Anand's wonderful eye for photography. Prettier pictures of English Spring shall follow..These ones are to just herald the arrival of Spring!!! )

I Spy with my tiny eyes...

On a recent trip to Leicester and back, I entertained myself by doing what I love the most - watching people and trying to figure why they are doing what they are at the moment I saw them...The narrative is extremely personal, and my poor protagonists have no clue they are being featured on some obscure page in the reams and reams of content on the internet..

I wanted pictures of each of the faces described below, just to let you in on my experience, unfortunately, I couldn't gather the courage to embark on such voyeurism. So mine shall be merely literary...But each character is someone I saw, their predicament or feelings attributed. 

Feb 27 Falmer Station, 12.15 PM  

A very well-dressed man in his mid-twenties. Tall and in a long charcoal black overcoat, came to the tiny shelter on Platform 1, sitting close to where I was, oblivious to everything around him...His focus: on the conversation with the unknown other over a slim mobile phone that was buried somewhere in the cavernous interior of his huge palm. An interview just got over, I presume, for he was very satisfied with his answers. And not too modestly he smiles as he adjusts his black tie with tiny red diamonds on it and declares, I think I gave some pretty smart answers, and they have said they will call back soon. Wonder if he was as smart as he thought he was. He was Well-dressed all right...Dandily so...
 
Falmer Station, 12.25PM  

Four grunge dressed undergrads ( I could wager most of my meagre bank savings on it) One girl stood out in the group in her short black worn but smart overcoat, lycra tights, smart boots and enough mascara to weigh her eyes down into a half-lidded stupor. The rest of the gang had on T-shirts and my obsessive eye indulged in a game of 'catch a stain while overhearing the conversation'.. managed to catch atleast one stain each on them.The only boy in the group had an irritating nasal drawl and he kept repeating how he can't believe they were making the train, for 15 minutes ago he was still warming his bed. That explains the dishevelled look, but then with reverent fingers he pulled out four tickets from an envelope that had his girlfriends doing a little war dance. An impromptu tribute to Lady Gaga followed- they were off to London to watch her perform. But the Stained T-boy's comment that I'm only worried about a nose bleed was greeted by blank stares. Clarification ensued that our seats are so high up!! The torture of having to explain your joke - I empathised!  

The train arrived and we all made our ways into separate compartments. I could hear the nasal drawl somewhere at the back...  

On the train to Brighton, 12.30PM  

Two young kids sitting opposite me at the table car. Can't have been out of school yet, pretty to the point of painfully fragile. Looked like a pair of china dolls that aren't sold individually. Holding hands and talking in whispers about the party they attended last night and the friend who had Punch dunked on him. The guy giggled and the Faded picture of 'Happy Feet' jiggled with him, I'm sure the Minnie mouse on the Girl's batted her eyelids in response. 

Brighton Station, 12.40 PM 

If I could have taken a surreptitious picture of her with my camera, I would have. But my sense of not invading her privacy kept my itching fingers under control. She was a picture in contrasts.Girl of Sixteen hardly. Had the most powdery blue hair that I have seen to date, standing perfectly teased in all directions, without the evidence of any sticky gel producing the effect. Her Yellow Pokemon backpack looked like there was a little Japanese monster plastered on her back, her bright lavendar coat clashing against her blue hair. Ripped denim jeans showed off the shocking pink tights she had on underneath, with bright orange canvas shoes completing the ensemble. Talk about stereotyping teens! I didn't manage to catch her face, wonder if she had piercings too and if so how many places. Didn't get to see her ears as well..  

On the train to London Victoria, 12.50PM 

The ticket checker on the train, dour portly man with an eyebrow that seemed permanently raised. He had a comment for everyone but wonder if anyone followed what he said, as he clipped tickets with the raised eyebrow firmly in place. My turn came, I handed him my tickets and the Railcard that allows me concessional travel with my one eyebrow raised in unique acknowledgement. Don't think he got the message, or maybe it was lost in translation!!  

On the Metro from Victoria to St.Pancras, 1.40 PM  

The train as usual packed tight. I squeeze past and wedge myself in the little space between the doors and the seat. Opposite me, resting against the rod was a lesbian couple. (Now comes the feministically inappropriate description). It took me a while to figure out that they were lesbians. The man in the relationship looked like a slim effete young man with a rolled cigarette stuck behind a multi-studded ear. Nearly flat chested, with short cropped blonde hair and a waistcoat over the plaid shirt. It was the hand that was fondling the girlfriend's face that made me check her face closer. Surely a woman, I concluded, sweetly trying to console a very sad girlfriend. She had the biggest eyes and coarsely cropped black hair hidden by a leopard print hat. A black coat nearly swallowing her till her feet. They could have been the muse for a struggling French artist living in a garrett surrounded only by his canvasses. They had a Frech Cinema feel to them.  

On board Train from St.Pancras to Nottingham, 1.55PM  

Two girls deep in conversation at the table diagonally opposite mine. Students evidently - one from my part of the world, going by her accent and the embroidered denim kurta top she had on. Next to her was a Cambridge Companion to the Quran. Busy coordinating with her more stylishly dressed friend who had a faint American accent, I thought, about presenting the story of how Nasser found God in her class. Strange hearing intensely religious talk in an academic and clinical tone from girls that young. The conversation moved on to hunger and comfort food, and there were clues of their lineage. The embroidered kurta was from a small town on the outskirts of Karachi in Pakistan, her companion a Canadian Asian, with East African roots of Pakistani origin...As mixed an identity as you can get - but their bond in common - Islamic studies and a shared laugh over parents who never thought they would ever secure a degree in anything!!  

I got off at Leicester. And left behind me many unknown characters, I didn't have time to peek into. I resumed it on my journey back...But the fun in the game was gone, all I remember vividly is a young couple with a baby girl 
 
1 March East Croydon Station, 2.30PM  

This is the only station that my train was to stop at on route to Brighton. And as I peered out of my window seat, there they were. Standing just by one of the 'East Croydon' name boards. The mother was a slim blonde girl with close cropped hair, in a pale blue shirt. She had her hands tightly around the father, an African man with pale skin and tightly braided hair that fell past his shoulders. He had his chin rested on her head, as they watched their young girl, hardly a year old running in circles around one of the poles of the name board. She had her father's tight curls but was as blonde and blue eyed. First the mom and then the dad joined the little one in her game, I could hear her little mouth opening to squeal, but the sound never reached my ears through the thick glass. Wonder if they were parting in different directions. The girl had all the luggage, on her side, he carried just a backpack slung across his back. And the hugs were urgent and too tight to be that of a couple travelling somewhere together. I tried looking away, conscious of invading a private moment.  

The train moved on, I looked at my mobile phone lying on the table before me. The scene itched to be captured. But I am a voyeur. I can watch but taking pictures would not be right, my mind says...But then, I have words...and Word Sketches do keep the picture alive, don't they?