The Indian Melting Pot

Goodbye Ganeshji

2011-09-11T21:57:00.002+05:30

Ganesh goes back home today. To wherever he came from. Kailash, where his mum and dad live maybe? And considering that while I write this, he is most evidently going back from Mumbai, he sure should be highly relieved.

All things God and spiritual ring back into silence. None of which you get when Ganesh comes to visit us. There are blaring loudspeakers, there are drums being beaten skinny, there are people chewing bits of banana and strewing them on the roads, dancing while throwing a particularly stubborn powdered colour on everything they can see, and shouting Ganesh related slogans.

I am not anti-celebration. Ganeshji comes to my home too. He is brought in by the men, who mostly chant Ganpati Bappa Morya. And mom and I decorate the pedestal he will sit on and prepare modaks. Aartis happen with fire and tinkling bells four times a day and most cooking is free of onion and garlic. When a day and a half are gone by, we soak our Ganeshji amidst much sentimental sadness over the going of such a cute god. He is put into a bucket of water in our house. Since our Ganesh is made of mud, he dissolves in 1/2 hour and we then drain the water near a tree.

Done. During aarti, we chant Athavashirsh and play some Ganesh bhajans on our PC. No, we do not blast the volume.

So it pisses us all off royally when we have to put up with loud processions and shouting and eve-teasing and being generally harassed. It is especially more pissing off when one of us decides to fall sick during the festival and yet another member of the family has an exam coming up.

When that happens, you wish Ganeshji would individually smack every loud, apparent-follower of his so some peace prevails. So, don't blame me if I feel thrilled that some billboard fell on a bunch of shouting devotees on a significantly clogged road that falls on the route of Visarjan. A route that has been taken off the traffic map for this particular day so an overlarge bunch of drunk and howling people can carry and drown a huge statue of Ganeshji into the sea and thereby pollute the sea further. Sewage and chemical pollution are definitely not enough, eh? Bring on the plaster of Paris.

May Ganeshji similarly liberate more menaces to the society.

Mumbai, Please.

2011-07-15T21:45:00.005+05:30

Enoughhas been said about Mumbai and the bomb blasts it has faced fromanti-national forces. Often aided by people who live within itsborders. People with no religion to fear or follow, with no moralityto hang their burdens on, with no conscience to keep them up at nighthearing echoes of the screams that tore through the air.

Enoughhas been said about the government and its various lacks and follies.The less said, the better.

Enoughhas been said about the spirit of the Mumbaikar, who, a day afterevery tragedy, trudges back to work. Not in a show of spirit, but ina state of hopelessless. The living cannot afford a day's worth ofsalary loss. Those luxuries are for the dead. Don't pity the dead,pity the living. Because the Mumbaikar is in Mumbai for the money.

Butnothing has been said yet about how the name Bombay strikes fear deepinside of me. I have always believed words to have an inherent powerof their own. Like little fairies, they are expressions to ourdeepest wants and desires, our deepest strengths and fears, and wepump all that intangible into a word.

Bomb-ay.I wish we would all stop calling it that word. Not because Shiv Senawould be happy, not because Mumbai is more 'traditional' and notbecause it is official. But because a part of me is screaming thatit's living up to its name.

The Ultimate Drawback To Being a Vegetable Vendor in Mumbai

2011-04-28T13:29:00.002+05:30

mage: Simon Howden / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I never buy vegetables from supermarkets. I feel they came out of the cold storage and are in less than healthy condition so they definitely are not fit enough to go into my body.

Besides, I am helping the unorganised sector - I like fresh vegetables, I like a bargain, I like befriending the vendors because they are full of brilliant recipe ideas. Well, not all, but most of them are. And once they know you are loyal, they give you the coriander and curry leaves and ginger and lemon for free.

Good thing for me.

My brother, as a young boy, used to spend hours at the potato basket, with a ladle and stir them around. Evidently, he was copying what my mother was doing at a real gas over a real vessel just behind him - we used to think he might become a chef. He surprised us by saying he wanted to be a vegetable vendor. I could understand that, I myself have always loved a fresh display of colourful edibles at the market. And my parents, being the ideal kind that Khalil Gibran describes in 'The Prophet' were quite alright with him becoming a vegetable vendor - only one condition - become the best vegetable vendor. You cannot be a Banerjee and be less than amazing at whatever you do, was the family motto. My brother thought it was an okay condition and declared himself at the tender of age of four.

But I digress...the point to telling you my brother's secret ambitions (which at the moment involve getting into an engineering college and engineering his own master computer...so much changes by the time you are 18, no?), was to draw your attention to the acutely distressing disadvantage you face if YOU become a vegetable vendor. Especially in Mumbai.

The vendors on the roadsides, have no legal permit to be there and sell their veggies and fruits - I know that ideally, they should be getting their permits but I doubt that if they go the legal way, they will ever come anywhere close to really selling much on the road, forget about turning into a business. But the residents want them, the vendors needs the residents and we both survive in great camaraderie, right next to each other. Its almost part of the city culture. And I wish for them, that the municipal corporation made it easier for them to get their permits.

There I was, telling the guy to pack me Pau Kilo (250 gms) of baby potatoes when a boy came shouting.

"Bhago! Gaadi aayi!" (Run, the vehicle has come!)

How odd, I thought. The place is full of vehicles everyday. What's special today? I peeked, on tiptoe, to catch a glimpse of some monster truck. My eyes fell on the municipality towing van, armed with police personnel. Everything fell into place. The municipality van was here and all these vendors, including the fruit seller, the CD seller, the 'chhipkali ka tel' seller, the ear cleaner, the sandwich wallah AND the gola-guy, were running pell-mell in various directions. The guy I had bought potatoes from hurriedly stuffed my purchase into my green paper bag (reusable-recyclable) and said he cannot pack the big potatoes - no time for it now. He packed off his huge cart and ran off.

The flower seller also rattled off, dropping a couple of gerberas on the way.

I still had to buy a watermelon. The fruit seller told me that I should wait until tomorrow - my 40 bucks of business was not worth losing a cart and a load that cost him 4k. Fair enough.

You know the odd part. They were all, uniformly, nervous, excited and laughing their heads off. Like there was some sort of an internal joke. I was clueless, a bit astonished and trudged back home with whatever I had managed to buy. I found the vegetable vendor a couple of minutes later, deep in the alleyways of the township I live in, where no shops are allowed on the pavements. He was walking off in a huff with his cart, vegetables loaded and gleaming, a couple of residents hurriedly buying a kilo of tomato here, a bunch of spinach there.

I asked him why he was here, inside the township.

"I am not going to sell here madam but people are coming to buy so I will give them what they want and go. The van isn't allowed inside the township either so I came here to save my cart."

Poor guy. However, he was beaming too.

" Aap has kyun rahe ho lekin?" (But why are you smiling?) I enquired.

"Arre madam, it's just a break from routine for us. A moment to laugh and find out who got caught later, when we return. I think the CD wallah got caught, good for him, stupid fellow."

Indeed. And I could not agree more with him. That life lesson, then, would be the advantage, hidden in the midst of the disadvantage of routinely getting chased down by the establishment.

The Cup That Matters

2011-03-10T21:43:00.000+05:30

I am not sure I am going to say something that hasn't already been said about the World Cup and cricket in India. So let's spare the rant about the spirit of Indian cricket, lousy fielding, weak bowling and defensive approaches, also the rant about how we have the best front this time, how this is the master blaster's last chance to get the World Cup home...

I am just going to remind you all of one standard joke we all grew up hearing, which sort of sums up just how seriously we take our sport.

Once, the Indian team lost a World Cup match, came back home throttled from the Quarter Finals. The team was scared of what would happen to them after they went back to India and landed on the airport. They were scared about getting home safely. Worried and frightened, they landed and went off home quietly.

A week later, Sangeeta Bijlani was appalled at Azhar. He had been hiding in the house for a week and now they had run out of groceries. She needed him to get out and buy some vegetables. And so, very reluctantly, Azhar agreed.

Dressed up as a woman in a saree, the pallu pulled over his head, he tiptoed into the local market. As he stood picking out fresh tomatoes, he felt somebody tap him on the shoulder.

"Arre Azhar, tu hai?" (Hey Azhar, it's you?)

Azhar turned to face a woman, dressed in a saree, staring at him from under her veil.
"Tum kaun ho?" retorted a positively horrified Azhar. (Who are you?)
"Arre pehchana nahi? Main Sachin!" (

How Hindi Cinema and Indian Politics Work

2011-02-08T10:11:00.000+05:30

In a very simple way - possibly the two biggest successful examples of businesses that have got their market research firmly in place. they know EXACTLY who their target audience is. It's labelled democratic and other nice and intelligent sounding things but in two words, its just called, THE MAJORITY.

The majority in our country are very simple people, with a basic level of education and a basic understanding of life. Refined things like making intelligent and long term choices are not understood as inclusive of everyday life. It works in a simple way, this mechanism.

The majority, is presumably, poor. At least, they are legally poor. So there are daily rations that are delivered to them at throw-away prices. Rs.2 for a kilo of rice, for instance. Our common man buys this rice and comes back home with a colour television, which was gifted to him by the political party after it came to power, as they had promised. This makes a big impact on his mind and leads him to believe that they delivered on their promise. Electricity is stolen from the electric pole just around the corner so of course, he possibly hasn't seen an electrical bill. The food and entertainment are taken care of.

Then there is cheap spurious liquor easily available, and if not that, there is government approved tobacco to chew and cigarettes and beedis to smoke so the evening passes pretty quickly - of course there is a statutory warning but those are read and ignored, or possibly not read at all. You must consider that possibility with a literacy rate of 68% as of 2007. The government mints its money, regardless of what's happening inside your body. Your body, the body of the voter and why? Because our majority, our common man, is ensuring some pretty strong ways of making sure he leaves behind a legacy of majority once he has kicked his bucket. They will continue voting of course.

Enter the Hindi cinema - a typical Hindi movie, the kind that Russell Peters makes fun of, and I assume, he has been exposed only to such kind in his entire-very-hep-very-funny-Canadian lifetime. Standard storyline, boy-meets-girl, boy-cannot-marry-girl-because-of-evil-forces-who-often-manifest-as-her-family-members etc sort of a story. No brainer. There are variations of course. Boy is a wastrel. Boy is a corrupt police officer who reforms eventually. Girl lives in compromised conditions. But the formula is standard. These movies are what we call 'full-timapass' for our common man, who gets to see them either in a cinema hall with very cheap tickets OR on the colour television he has been given by his minister.

The movie is a hit. Wins best film award at the Filmfare, an award ceremony compromised to the point that it can only be compared to the Oscars, both of which affect only the minority, who waste several hours glued to the television woefully regretting the fact that the Hindi film industry is heading for confirmed doom.

Good films do badly, bad films keep the vote-bank guys engaged and busy and entertained and enthralled; meanwhile, the political party comes back to power, repeatedly, if not every successive season, at least every alternate poll, and the stone rolls, gather no moss and the minority? We figure other ways out to keep ourselves entertained and download foreign films illegally from the internet, which is free beyond our wildest dreams, in this nation particularly, despite constitutional laws that govern what content Indians can be safely exposed to.

Meanwhile, the actor who played the big hero in the best film, decides to leap into politics because the people truly believe he will solve all their problems in a jiffy, just like he did in the films. They vote, he wins, he comes to power and you, dear minority, are left wishing he had left it at the film he did, at least you could ignore that by NOT seeing it at the movies.

This is highly simplified you know. I don't think I will ever see the end of it if I start writing how the whole convoluted formula works and plays out in the real world.

Two Lions, Three Tigers And A Bus Mostly Full Of Idiots

2011-01-15T23:34:00.001+05:30

P and I decided to 'do something different' with our weekend, apart from hunting into our large movie collection for an unwatched movie, or shopping or playing badminton. We decided to go the animal national park close to our place - Sanjay Gandhi National Park. Nice, green place, the usual crowds of what I thought was children coming for their mandatory picnics (which most necessarily include this place) and hopefully the green-conscious. I could not be more mistaken.

So while I chided off people for littering, like I normally do, ignored the many happy couples for behaving in expected ways, walked two miles in badly selected shoes for a day comprising of a near-nature work, we waited in a long queue for an hour to get into a lion-tiger safari that would last twenty minutes. I braced myself for seeing neither of the two because:
a. lions and tigers are more active nocturnally and may be snoozing in some dark corner, far from the prying eyes of the visitors.
b. it is a national park after all, not a zoo, you can't expect the animals to skulk around near your pathway, right?

But we did see them, I was wrong about the second bit. The safari was well-laid out, the animals were well-cared for, none looked ill-fed and the best part about the white tiger, two tigers and a lion-lioness pair was - they exuded such determined arrogance - they slept - refused to respond to jeers and cat calls from the people on the bus, and slept on, twitched their ears a couple of times, pawed at the air and turned their backs on us, refusing to grant us the privilege of looking into their feline eyes. The morons on the bus that were hooting at them deserved every bit of the animals' indifference. I was proud of them!

Which brings me to the point - why did the people on the bus act that way? Here we are, a bunch of people who are lucky enough to be looking at animals that may soon become extinct, in as close to their natural habitat as possible, in good health, such royal, beautiful, majestic creatures in their full glory and all we can ask is - So kyun raha hai, mar gaya kya? (why is it sleeping, is it dead?) All we can do is hoot and scream and imitate the sounds they make - the same people who, if they were not in the confines of a protected bus, if the animals were not caged, would have shat their pants at the sight of those animals...what gives us all that privilege of disrespect?

That we are human and we are not in a cage and we are in an apparently safe bus? That there are thirty of us and five of them? They could rip us all limb from limb in a few minutes if they wanted to. And then, am I surprised that this country now has a headcount of just 1411 tigers, and that was before the Corbett poaching scandal was exposed? It is more important to people that we have the ability to mock one of nature's most ferocious creations and hunt them down so we can show it off, apparently.

I came back disappointed, and hoped that all the people that hooted and screeched and leered at them, at some point in their lives, face these animals in the confines of an untamed forest. It would be fun to listen to the sounds they make then. Be a man. Or a woman. Show some support.

Yahaan Thukna Mana Hai

2010-12-24T14:38:00.001+05:30

Image Source: http://www.randomlicious.org/categories/silly-signs/

India is a very fascinating country. Every state is a mini-country in its own right, each has its own cuisine, each has its own state language, each state has its own well defined tourist spots and activities and festivals. Which is one reason why you needn't look outside of India for a varied terrain - we have equatorial forests, snow, mountain ranges, plains, valleys, sea shores, deserts, rocky ledges, the works...

We also have a very diverse people - attitudes, culture, opinions, popular beliefs...all of them differ from state to state. But there are some subtle threads that bind us together as essentially Indian. Our superstitions, our attitude to elders and sometimes, our inexplicable habits. Habits like littering, for instance. Most of us litter. Then, there is the habit of most men picking their nose in public. Scratching their vitals too. I am not forgetting women because I am one though. Indian women are genetically apt at bargaining in shrill, high-pitched voices.

But there is one particular habit that is trademarked Indian. I cannot imagine a non-Indian ever doing it (but that may be because I haven't stepped out of this country even once) - Indians spit. Which explains the presence of several spittoons all over the nation. And bold Devanagari and Graeco-Roman script shouting - Yahaan thukna mana hai - or - Do not spit here.

That doesn't help though. Because, despite those warnings and despite those large spittoons everywhere, despite a large part of our population being affected by tuberculosis, we spit with fervour. And we enjoy it as well as a game of darts.

Spitting is a national pastime and you will see many corners of public places smattered with colourful spit. Mostly red, because we chew paan, which is a betel leaf wrapped up with a variety of nice tasting things and sometimes, a dash of tobacco too, all of which make your mouth a vivid scarlet. The government makes tremendous money of out tobacco and handles its conscience by simply printing 'Tobacco is injurious to health' on all packets.

The new sky walks in Mumbai are not pretty anymore - people have spat all over them and they have spat on dustbins too - wonder who would want to touch those dustbins now - and how will they ever clean them up, in that case? I feel Mumbai is particular has a pronounced problem of spitting. Its everywhere, even on heritage structures, wall paintings, election campaign posters (although that bit may be fathomable) and art graffiti, and god forbid you stop your car in the way of a perfectly aimed bit of spit that would actually have landed on the road had you not intervened. I know. It's happened to me.

And we blame the poor foreigners, who are anyway delicate and suffer from low immunity levels, for drinking their mineral water and not daring to touch anything with a ten-foot bargepole. Tut-tut.

Mumbai. Again.

2010-10-25T23:06:00.001+05:30

Bombay, whoops, Mumbai...Mumbai is a funny kinda place. It's supposed to be home to me and when I came back here, I was fully confident that I would be met with familiarity. It would be like home coming. Like going back to a place you know.

Guess what? None of that happened.

Mumbai is possibly India's most unpredictable city. Of course, there is the obvious that stays the same: slums and high rises co-exist, the crowds press thicker with every passing day to the point that I now agree with Mr. Thackeray and his clan about Mumbai over populated, although I still do not agree with the logic of throwing non-Maharashtrians out - I would rather they hold off the unemployed and let people with definite means of livelihood enter - but of course, none of his clan reads this blog so they shall remain forever unenlightened.

What I was trying to hint at, more so, was the tenor of the city. It's..umm...you never really know how it will sink in within you when you are back no matter what you may have expected. When I first came back to Mumbai after a one year stint in Bangalore, I was stepping out of a Mumbai bound flight - I ran out to greet the city, waiting for the feeling of belonging to break all over me but slap! All I felt was the humidity fling itself on my face, the heat mocking, almost asking, "why did you come back?!?"

This time, I am back after three years in Hyderabad - I felt I never would come back to Mumbai, I thought we were done, over, broken up for good, save the occasional visit home. But here I am, feeling the humidity precipitating on me, loving the familiarity and hating how Mumbai just doesn't seem to stop to look. That hits you only when you are an outsider or have lived outside for a while. Mumbai races and races and people are always moving, people are always impatient and always on the edge.

How great can that be beyond a point, really, especially for somebody like me, who has slipped off the time track? I don't even clearly remember what day it is and I don't have clocks in the house. Why? Just...I am trying to not let the city dictate my mood.

Does it feel good to be back home then? Sure. Until its time to move on again. I am not the wandering minstrel for nothing, am I?

Driving Back Home

2010-10-09T10:28:00.000+05:30

We recently moved to Mumbai. For me, it was all about going back home, at least as far as telling people was concerned. I never had a concept of 'Mumbai is my home'. Home was the few walls my family stayed inside and I couldn't care less about where the four walls were situated. Home was inside those four walls, period. But Mumbai was my first city and shaped me up to a great extent. And its a lot easier agreeing with people with a nod than launching into an explanation every time they said 'Oh, so you are going back home."

Nodding is wise. Mostly.

So well, I came back home to bad weather, bad roads, but not as bad as Hyderabad roads, good traffic sense and a respect for lane discipline. When we set out from Hyderabad in our car, who is called Baanke Bihari (he hates being called just a car, like calling your friend a human being), we were told we would love the ride. smooth, no traffic roads that take you straight to Mumbai.

Perhaps we took the wrong highway or something, although we did get 'home' eventually, but what sad roads! Did the rest of you Indians outside of Mumbai know that our radio stations in Mumbai never miss a chance to rig the establishment about Mumbai's bad roads? Now I am guessing Mumbaiites have only travelled between NY/LA/SF etc. and Mumbai. Because if you are like me and went to Hyderabad instead, you would bend down and kiss the Mumbai roads. Far fewer potholes, sensible people who do not cut lanes and do not honk the smithereens out of you should your car suddenly stall. Driving in Hyderabad is definitely something I do not miss.

It suffices to say that the Hyderabad Mumbai highway sucked, very often, we ended up holding onto Baanke Bihari for dear life while he swerved and rushed and sped past like lightening. There were narrow lanes, two-way traffic, cows on the roads, people on the roads, who think showing a palm will halt the world's most powerful forces, cars cutting into lanes, traffic jams because of railway level crossings, and...oh, and the heat. It deserves it's own paragraph.

Such insane heat. The prime characteristic of Mumbai in October, the famous season of receding monsoons, when it gets suckier than ever. You perspire until you forget if you ever had a bath. You feel flushed and dehydrated and you want to slap anything that remotely shows signs of life. So, its hot and dusty and the roads are bad and you reach home late but you arrive looking sane nevertheless. Because, in the final stretch, the roads redeem themselves. You get on the Mumbai-Pune expressway and life is perfect again :)

How Indian Airlines Lost Two Flyers

2010-08-24T10:18:00.000+05:30

Like you must have guessed, I am abandoning the Manali series. I sat over it for too long and so much happened in the meanwhile, Bake You! launched and I got all swept up by chocolate and all purpose flour and sugar and cream and butterscotch and what not. I also shopped like mad. I also flew like mad, attending weddings. I was in four cities in a span of a week and one fine evening when I was flying SpiceJet with the man, I remembered another time and place when we were flying back, similarly, from Coimbatore to Hyderabad, on an Indian Airlines flight.

It was my scariest flight ever. It made me promise over and over to P that I was never flying IA again. And this comes from an IA loyalist. We both try and use Indian products and promote Indian companies to a great extent. We prefer a Mahindra over a Hyundai, a Videocon over a Haier or Samsung as much as possible. So naturally, we prefer an IA over a Jet or whatever it is. That is as Indian as it will get (and I have no idea about stake holders in these companies, so excuse that bit of lack of information).

Then there is also the fact that IA had once put me on the wrong flight and I suddenly realised I was on a Chennai bound flight instead of heading off to Mumbai and scrambled off the plane 2 minutes before the sealed shut. And ran across the tarmac with an IA ground crew guy who carried my hand baggage for me. And he put me in the right flight where an air hostess aunty smiled at me and gave me a glass of water and told me to relax, I was on the right plane after all. I like motherly people. I love IA air hostesses. They are not Pretty Young Things and I don't want pretty young things - I want nice people who know their jobs and can handle situations and if they want to do it wearing a saree and don wrinkles, I have no problems.

So, going back to my Coimbatore Hyderabad IA flight. P and I sat, sharing an iPod between us, fighting for elbow space on the hand rest when the flight took off and the usual buzzing started in my ear. Air pressure always affects me for the first two minutes of the flight. So I shut up and closed my eyes and waited it out.

Mid air, our seat belt signs were still on. More waiting. Suddenly, the craft jolted, swayed sideways and growled. I gulped and clutched at P. I have no dying plans, I told him. he patted my hand. "Air pockets," he mumbled. Whatever, I thought. The jolting and swaying continued and I kept peering down at the clouds, wishing they were solid enough to break our fall if we fell. Which is pointless of course. most likely, the clouds would electrocute us all. After what seemed like forever, they announced that landing would take some time because we were going to generally stay up because of traffic. P and I tried to identify the Hyderabadi landscape and spotted several large boulders thousands of feet down. If we fall now, we will smash over those rocks, he observed. I tried to pinch him. He ducked.

If we crash now, we will fall into that dirty lake, he noted again. I wondered if it was Hussain Sagar, the most polluted man-made lake ever. It's the city's largest sewage tank too. Soon, we managed to see the Shamshabad airport. I spotted the taxiway and sensed another screeching sound as the craft lowered its wheels. We were going too fast and we were too low. P started predicting the distance between the craft and the airport building and how soon we would crash if we continued at that speed. I have no idea how anybody can be so calculating about their own crash but he managed it, looking petrified all the while.

We landed with a sharp jolt, everybody bounced in their seats, all the kids inside the craft were howling and somebody spilled coffee. The plane screeched to a halt after forever and we scrambled out of the plane as fast as possible. A week later, the Mangalore bound Air India plane crashed. We saw it on TV and thought about our own flight.

Perhaps they let me run on the tarmac with the crew helping me carry my luggage, perhaps the air hostesses are really sweet people, perhaps they are very homey and perhaps they have the most experienced pilots but that is it. No more IA flights for me. It is enough that we now get off private flight services, cast a quick glance in the direction of IA flights that are waiting to take off and say a quick prayer for the passengers inside.

The Manali Diaries Part 1

2010-06-14T22:53:00.000+05:30

The whole point to the trip was the result of Hyderabad touching inhuman temperatures this summer, leading me and P to make the decision that we HAD TO get out and get out fast. We saw it coming in March, the mad heat, and it was then that we planned out our trip. Well in advance, which is the reason why this turned out to be sensibly-priced journey.

We left Hyderabad on a Saturday morning, catching the 7.50am Rajdhani from Sec'bad to Delhi (Hazrat Nizamuddin to be precise). We decided to try the first AC option, an option we haven't extensively explored before. It suffices to say that the price was totally worth it - they include full meals in that cost, right from a pre-breakfast mean, a full fledged breakfast, soup before lunch, a heavy, power-packed Indian lunch, evening snack and tea, soup before dinner again, and dinner. Its a lot of food but of course, remember, P and I aren't proud owners of great appetites - some of you may actually be able to do justice to all that food. Oh, they also let you choose between Indian and continental :P

The express reaches Hazrat by 6.30am tops, and you arrive on a station with no retiring rooms, so if you were thinking about hanging in there until your next move, forget about it. if you have friends and folsk in Del, great. Else, you have the option of doing what we did. We checked in to a hotel about 2kms away from the station. Ideally, it should cost you anywhere between 1k-2k INR for a day. Most hotels near Hazrat are priced in that range (if you plan to stay at a relatively safe, clean place). Getting to a decent hotel from the station can cost you anywhere between 40-80 bucks.

The thing about staying at Hazrat is...there aren't too many eating joints so its safe to stick to whatever your hotel has to offer. If you are okay with roadside food though, go ahead. Just play a bit safe - in my experience, street food in the north can get bad enough to knock you out for 1-2 days. Which also reminds me to tell you, please carry strong antacids. Like a Gelusil or Eno. You will need them somewhere along the way.

We took a bus from Delhi to Manali. You have the option of taking government buses (I did not want to try those, personally) which leave from ISBT. Or you can take private buses, most of which leave from Palika Place in Connaught Place(also called CP). BTW, CP stays closed on Sundays. Remember that :)

From Hazrat to CP doesn't take more than 15 minutes in an auto - fare should stay within 80-90 bucks. CP is an awesome place, and you can keep walking endlessly there, getting nowhere eventually. And you will also end up spending a lot of money because it's shoppers' paradise. But perhaps, it may be worth it. The best eating ot places in CP according to me are The United Coffee House (bit upscale and you might end up waiting in a Q before you get in, but its well worth the wait) and Piccadelhi. Piccadelhi is just under PVR cinemas. The two places are far apart. I would trek to The United Coffee House :P (you can see what I am leaning towards!).

Most private buses will leave between 4.30pm and 6pm for Manali from CP and some will also take a halt at Janpath. Most are Volvo semi-sleeper and fairly comfy (unless bus rides make you nauseous, like I get sometimes). If you suffer from the bus sickness syndrome, follow my advice and skip lunch and don't eat at all on the bus. Max you can eat bananas and before you attempt sleeping, pop in half a litre of soda or Limca (if you don't get soda). It will help you survive the nausea. Perhaps you can try Glucose biscuits. Drink water - private buses give you a bottle per seat.

We went with Swagatam Holidays because from what we heard, they are pretty decently priced and punctual. Which is very true. We had seats for 1300 per person and they were on time both ways. The buses are new and clean, the drivers are experienced and as such, there are no issues. The bus will get you to Manali by 9-10am, and from Manali, they leave at 5pm and bring you back to Delhi by 8.30am next morning. The bus halts twice during the journey, for dinner and in the morning for breakfast and for you to freshen up.

We will get into more details in the next post!

Introducing The Manali Diaries!

2010-06-09T09:26:00.001+05:30

Guys, we are going to go through a series post after a long long time. A travel series packed with very grass root information on planning out a trip to Kullu Manali, minus the fancies of a tour or package deal. We are tracing here, a trip that starts from Hyderabad and winds all the way to Delhi, leading up to Manali and going back to Delhi before hitting Hyderabad back.

This was my second time to Kullu-Manali and P's first. Obviously, the idea was to get P to see this place that had enchanted me a looong time ago, in 1998, a few days before the Kargil war happened - we got lucky enough to see Rohtang before it was hurriedly evacuated by the army at that time.

A lot has changed in Manali and Kullu ever since I last visited it and I have very mixed feelings about these changes - of course there are more eating joints today, more things to do at Rohtang and Solang, easier ways to get around the place...but there is the obvious commercialization of the place, insane amounts of crowd, roads teeming with people, places that were untouched by humanity once where now there are thousands of people. But Manali still is the Manali that I once saw and loved, albeit with a few changes that are inevitable. None of those changes and my observations of the same should hold you back from making a trip to this place.

Most people from Hyderabad, who have been suffering from extremely hot weather conditions were elated at the news of this trip. Some of my friends from the north wondered why I wanted to go to Manali, when I could possibly go to less commercial places like Dharamsala (which btw, is on my list next) or Mcleodganj, or Leh-Ladakh even. Manali holds a special place in my life, for several personal reasons and it was necessary to share that space with P. Perhaps its a usual/weekend getaway for a lot of my Delhi friends but planning a trip from any non-north part of this nation to the Himalayan foothills is an effort and therefore cherished.

This post will be followed by a series of posts talking about the people, the food, the roads, places to visit, living in Manali, travel plans etc. all of which will help you with handy information should you ever plan a trip to this place. I am going to do it up with photos and quotes, anecdotes and a dash of things that I came across, which is primarily from my point of view.

So hold on, read on, and write back to me, or leave a comment if there is something you feel I should know or add.

TIMP's First Blog Award - From Mehak

2010-05-19T17:18:00.000+05:30

A blogger pal and avid reader of my fiction blog, Flashback Forests, Mehak, who writes here, has presented me with my first award - ideally, I should be posting this on Flashback Forests, but you know, TIMP is my first little darling (okay, okay second but its still up there) so I am posting the award here...

Presenting to TIMP,

Thanks Mehak for liking Flashback Forests. Only, I am declaring it here. I will put up the award on Flashback Forests though, promise. I, in turn, present this award to five of my favourite blogs. Winners, post this award on your blog and tag your favourite blogs in turn!

Here's What Sucks About Indians

2010-04-27T11:26:00.001+05:30

I am very angry today. And it's not personal anymore. For all the great things about us Indians, there is some pretty crappy stuff too. I know a lot of people are going to jump up and add their point of views here. Go on, be my guest.

I have never left this country - so much so, I have not even been to Bhutan, where apparently, you do not even need a passport to go. I have never been to Sri Lanka. Heck, I have never been to the Andamans! But I seem to be surrounded by people who have had several foreign trips stashed away in their list of experiences. And from what I hear, a greater part of the developed world is not just developed materially, but they are also developed mentally.

There is an inherent respect for the pedestrian, shop owners are not painful when it comes to returns policy and exchange, people are generally very helpful. P wondered aloud this morning, why its that way in developed nations. Why is everybody behaving in the right way, why does everybody have civic sense instilled in them. No, he does not mean that they do not have crime rates, that they do not know petty politics or that they are doing everything right.

But the basics? Here I am, paying taxes, walking on roads full of potholes, following all traffic rules just to have my car dented by a moron who has a license and thinks that therefore, the road belongs to him, and still goes scot-free. Here I am, working for a greater part of my working hours where it takes forever for merit to get recognised and rewarded. Here I am, putting up with power cuts, erratic water supply, slow internet speeds, phone lines that go dead and pollution so thick, I can hardly breathe. With all these basic problems that I face everyday, who would want to be helpful and content and kind?

Why is this happening? Because we have people in positions of power that are too busy filling up their own treasuries, because we are too tired after earning our daily bread to bother protesting, because we flout rules and feel proud about bending them, apparently, it makes us seem cool. For these short term gains, here are the questions we are forgetting to ask ourselves...

How much brain does it require to see that pollution kills so it needs to be curtailed this way or that? How much brain does it take to realise that if we all followed traffic rules, we would get to our destinations faster and in one whole living piece? How much education does it require to understand that littering is a heinous crime against the earth you occupy space on?

How many grey cells does it take to understand that petty politics may get you favours from your current boss but you are going to be a nobody capable of ass-licking alone anywhere outside of your current job roles? And really, how much intelligence do you need to see that a business is not about numbers, it is about people?

I am making a serious allegation here - I THINK INDIANS IN GENERAL NEITHER HAVE CIVIC SENSE NOR DO THEY EXHIBIT A DEVELOPED SENSE OF WORK ETHIC.

Officially, from today, I am declaring myself. I no longer blame educated Indians for settling down abroad. Essentially, it is easy to debate and say, hell, where did your patriotic streak go, be the change you wish to see, etc etc. My primary argument right now is this - with all the awesomeness I and my friends are exhibiting, what guarantee do I have that in this very lifetime, I will be able to live and breathe in a cleaner, greener India, where merit is recognized, where great work is rewarded, where the earth and its issues are taken seriously? Where I will not be part of the minority that is putting in efforts? Where people will finally wake up and see that things need to be done together for a system to work and move ahead?

Until then, it is okay for all of them people to fly away, find themselves lives that they feel are rewarding and fulfilling and enriching in every way. Be it in the US, in Tel Aviv, in Dubai, in Singapore, in United Kingdom, or anywhere else. All of you are selfish individuals, which is the final truth about all of us - at least, you have the guts and knowledge to acknowledge it and make your life out into what you want it to be.

Unlike this complaining lot of uncouth, educated vermin that breeds here, eloquent and well-read and therefore very dangerous, for it is this species that is going to sap all life out of this nation that has the potential of otherwise being so much more than anybody ever imagined. These people are dangerous because they can give you hour long lectures on exactly what is wrong, all the while being clueless about how to fix it. Even worse, sometimes they know how to fix it but will not take one step towards the right thing.

And before you jump up to say - but you can join politics, you can become the CEO and change work ethics, and you can join an NGO, stop a second. I am not saying those efforts are worthless. I am just saying its going to take forever, it is not going to happen anytime soon and baby...some of us are just too impatient to wait around. Some of us want to live NOW. Some of us do not want to live hoping for a better tomorrow.

Dear Indians, living in India - you have over-evolved and now it is just plain decay. You have no civic sense, no sense of professional ethics, no sense of importance for what really deserves attention, you think you can get away with anything but unfortunately, it is you who pays everyday for being the lesser mortal that you are choosing to be. It's just plain unfortunate. And I really, really feel bad for you.

Cricket - My Personal Genetic Disorder

2010-04-20T10:10:00.002+05:30

I think I chewed up my most significant thumb nail a few days back. I was baking at home, and waiting to go out for dinner. P was, meanwhile, watching the Chennai Super Kings VS Kings XI Punjab match, IPL, happening at Dharamshala. This was a significant match, and would decide if Chennai Super Kings would qualify for the semi-finals.

As you can already predict, P was on the edge of his easy chair and kept yelling for me to come and see the shots. CSK was poised at a very uncomfortable 29 runs required in two overs. I saw that, decided they were going to have it really tough and gave up, going back to my baking. It gives me a certain sense of relief when I know the outcome. I cannot take that nail-biting suspense.

And then Dhoni hit the ball like it was his personal enemy and it kept bouncing off the stadium. CSK won. P jumped in joy and I could hear his heart beat right out of his body. Oh, in case you haven't figured it out, P worships the ground on which CSK and Sachin step. He is like that. I just deal with the reality of it.

What's with this silly game? I have always hated it. I find it slow, boring, nerve-wrecking and I hate how it makes men useless for over 3-4 hours. I hate the super short commercials, the commentary, the crowds cheering - it gives me a headache.

Until of course, a revolutionary match like this happens. Or when Sachin scores a double century - I chewed my nails off even then. If I hate it so much, what's making me go watch it when it really matters? What made me watch the first IPL, the last match that India won and got home the trophy? What is it? Is it the Indian soil? Is it saturated with cricket? Am I prey to gimmicky advertising and believe that cricket is a religion just because the media says so? Am I falling for it? Is it a disease?

So now I have this love-hate relationship with the game. Of course I do not like it, of course I do not understand the finer details and Prasanna has tried drawing diagrams to get my terminology clearer to no avail but heck...I know a two and a four and a six and a LBW and a wide and I know that I want Sachin to score a triple century too (lol, right, like its human, but isn't He god?) and I know the next time a Dhoni hits the ball like his life depended on it, I am going to bite all my nails and toe nails off.

It's just cricket. Its contaminated my brains and I blame that entirely on being Indian. It's genetic. It pollutes the waters, the air I breathe, the food I eat and the man I married belongs to that faith too. I guess I can't help being converted, much as I hate saying so. Hmpf.

Talking About The Archaic

2010-04-09T11:41:00.000+05:30

I am talking about myself here - my lifetime is about a lot of things, but its also about learning Tamil from my husband, who doesn't realise yet that there is a lot I do know how to say, apart from the lot of stuff that I do not know how to say.

So he is surprised when I can confidently rattle of something like 'I like this Dosai very much' in perfect Tamil. He says 'Wow!'

However, he tells me I should call the 'night' ratri. Not Iravum. He says that if I say 'Naan seriyaana nerathakka vandarivain', the whole neighborhood is going to laugh - but if I say 'Naan correct time la vandarivain' it is accepted.

That means, if I say something 'archaic', people are going to laugh. Which makes me a bit mad because I think the archaic stuff sounds more exotic and nice. And that got me thinking about Hindi...

People have laughed when they hear 'Hum aapse vartaalaap karna chahte hain (meaning, I want to talk to you said very formally). People, I am sure would laugh, if they heard Victorian English too. Unless it is in a play.

Perhaps it is funny to hear language from the yesteryears but all that laughing is going to discourage people from even thinking of using it...and eventually, it is going to die out. Or worse, we will forget what those words mean.

Hararat for fever, vahan-chalak for driver, prem vivaah for love marriage, anukul for apt...and words like erstwhile, nevertheless, indeed (its going out of use fast!), deem...I am going to make it a personal quest to use words that I am afraid will soon disappear and sound 16th century, when they are actually still 19th century...times are passing by a bit too fast for comfort lately.

Yeh vishay mere mann me kafi dinon se hain, aur aaj iske ullekh dwara, main yeh nishchay kar paayi hu ke sirf apni bhasha ka upayog karna hi nahi, purane shabdon ka istamaal karna bhi bohot zaruri hai - hum avashya yeh nahi chahenge ki humari bhashaein dheere dheere bikharti jaaye aur ek aisa din aaye, jab use 'dead language' ka chhapa lag jaye.

Aah. That felt really good :)

How Long Is Thirty Years?

2010-03-31T10:39:00.003+05:30

It is story time again.

Long, long ago, there was a little girl who wanted to swim in the lake near her house. For all practical purposes, her family owned it - they cleaned it, bred fish in the lake, planted trees around it to provide shade to a tired traveller, and they also had bath in the same lake.

The boys would go first. At 7am in the morning, they would be woken up by their mothers, given a bit of neem to chew on (so much for oral health nowadays), and spanked off to the lake with a bit of charcoal and mud mixture for scrubbing (again, so much for shower gels and bath salts).

The girls went at 12 noon, when the boys were done and the women of the house were done clearing up breakfast and had lunch almost ready. The would wind their sarees around them, step into the water, scrub themselves and laugh in groups. Small boys of the family would stand guard to make sure bobody took their fresh clothes away. They would also keep lookout for animals.

The women would step out of the water half an hour later, drape their wet sarees around and laugh all the way home.

Lakes were clean enough. The little girl noticed that the water was so clean, it cleaned your hair and scalp out too. No need for a shampoo.

Thirty years hence, a rubber factory stands where the lake once was. In the middle of what is now Kolkata's busiest street. Smog is thick and it is difficult to breath after sunset. There is, of course, no lake anymore - they filled it up with gravel and concrete.

Today, that little girl's daughter would not dare to step into a water body for fear of contracting something fatal. The only clean lake she has seen are the pristine Gangetic waters at Rishikesh, where you still don't need shampoo. Water you can drink should you feel thirsty while bathing.

Thirty years is, apparently, enough time to alter a landscape permanently. To make lakes poisonous. To clog them with plastic so the fish die and there is no longer any aquatic life to clean out the lake naturally.

Thirty years is, apparently, long enough time for the little girl to say "It feels like a different century altogether."

Strange Love

2010-03-19T09:30:00.002+05:30

I am obsessed about this country. I love it to the point of hating it and then tumbling back into loving it all over again.

I hate the callousness. The chuck-a-plastic-wrapper-outta-the-window attitude. I hate people spitting all over the place. Wonder if they would spit on their dining table...

I hate the chalta-hai (anything goes) attitude too. Everybody is so ready to adjust that beyond a point, they are tolerating things they should never have been caught dead tolerating. Nobody takes responsibility for the environment, the politics of the nation, the crime rates, the situation of women and children, the particularly bad attitude towards alternative cultures.

I hate the way people run away from the nation to other prettier, greener places and refuse to come back, and when they do, they carry around a bottle of mineral water, just in case they contract somehting ugly from the water and food that their cells are made of.

And I love it that some of them come back and change a small part of the world for better. I love it that when I was about to slip under the train and lose a limb, a hand pulled me back into the train. I love it that an old uncle sits and chats with me and tells me that life is so short, you hardly realise when you turn 60 and you have wrinkles so I should be having a lot more fun than I already do.

I love it that people still feed cows and stray dogs and adopt little kittens. I love it that people celebrate festivals and draw rangolis, make amazing festival food and give it to their neighbours. I love it that women are fasting for their husbands' long lives. I love it that husbands secretly tell their wives that despite what the mother in law says, it is okay for her to wear jeans. Its good on her.

Its stunningly awesome that mother in laws tell you to 'keep cooking easy and not sweat it out so much over food, there is so much more to do in life'. I love it that a son still wants his parents to stay with him, long after he has his job, his woman, his children and so much more.

Its beautiful that children can stay with their parents as long as they want - even at 40.

Everything is so contradictory that it makes perfect sense. There is so much chaos that you are bound to give up one day to just sit back and let things unfold so you can focus on being happy and taking care of the world you live in.

If surrender in the spiritual sense of the word is enlightening, this is it. In India. Here. Now. What a breathtakingly insane and beautiful country.

True Realities - Irritated Commentaries On The State Of The Indian Journalistic World

2010-03-08T06:50:00.008+05:30

I have been wanting to say this for a while but decided not to, mostly because I felt I did not have the right to. This is a post about the Indian media, at the moment. That I was a journalist once upon a time may have affected, to some extent, how I perceive the journalistic world - with some amount of contempt and awe at the same time.

That I am not a journalist today makes me feel like, maybe, just may be, being one may have given me the right to say all of this. How easily we forget that we live in a democracy sometimes. So here's what I have been noticing and hating, possibly every time P turns on the television. And yes, this is ESPECIALLY about our television media.

A policeman beats up an alleged sex worker in some remote part of UP. It makes that day's breaking news. Which is lame, to say the least - not that the news isn't news, but breaking news signifies something that has a significant impact on the country/world or changes the course of events in big ways. But you know what's worse? The headlines say - Dalit woman beaten up by policeman in UP.

Why is it important for the population to know that she is Dalit unless it has been proven that the policeman hit her BECAUSE she is Dalit? Or a Dalit sex worker (alleged) specifically? Are we really trying to incite the already delicate sensibilities of this nation's people?

There are many such instances. A minister's missing dog is found - it becomes breaking news. My Name Is Khan hits box office records in record time is breaking news - it can be big Bollywood news, but breaking...? On national TV, prime time, cover story?

I don't get it - I thought that this is satellite TV, anybody in any part of the world with one dish antenna can plug in to see what's showing in Indian channels. Heck, I know the world's USA and China and Pak and the rest are also plugged in to see just what we are broadcasting and how they can use it or misuse it. We KNOW that we are monitored, we KNOW that the world is watching, we also vaguely remain aware that those news reels may well be the electronic chronicles of history in the making and we record such absolute nonsense. A hundred years from now, if somebody decides to go over news reels to write down what this century was like for us in India, what the hell are we going to see?

Missing dogs, a man who survived a mighty electric shock and the likes? Seriously?

Clearly, uneducated people seem to have more sense that educated elite that run these channels. Of course, we do know they are owned by large corporations that have political inclinations and favours to pay and redeem, but just how completely inane is it going to get?

Yes, this is a debate where one likely response is to just turn go back into the field and do some 'serious journalism'. I don't think we are in that age any longer though. Nobody is paying a serious journalist. Nobody is hiring a journalist who knows what makes breaking news and what the public needs to know, which includes a healthy amount of good that does happen in this nation.

Does that mean there are no great journalists anymore? Maybe there are. Maybe they are busy earning some money because they too have families to run and vacations to take. I don't blame them. Maybe they are too old. Maybe they are telling other stories because they can't take the hypocrisy anymore, reporting on art and education, on pop culture and travel, which are things that fascinate us a lot too. But maybe, they are just too tired now, or maybe, their boss is not going to let them write that story. Maybe the sponsors do not like it.

Maybe they are writing and nobody is running ads on their channels and papers and they are about to shut. Maybe they are saying things people do not want to hear.

But you know the biggest problem? Maybe, the people don't like it either and would rather watch heated debates that get you nowhere (literally, if not figuratively), useless pieces of information that keep them entertained and watch a few more ads instead of what's changing the course of history, in good ways AND bad, presented in the right way.

Maybe, we are too tired at the end of the day to go back and face the truth. Or just maybe, they are dying before they even tell their stories.

A Saree State Of Affairs

2010-02-19T19:21:00.002+05:30

Before I get to the point, here's my own personal disclaimer. All the things I am going to talk about below, I am equally guilty of each 'almost' all of them.

Saree. Chudidar. Salwar Kameez. Ghagra Choli. Chaniya Choli. Kurta Pyjama. Sherwani. Dhoti. Veshti. Angavastram. Mundu. Lungi.

And perhaps I am missing out on more costume names but all of them are quintessentially Indian. Indian attire, to be precise. They come out on traditional days, on special occasions, weddings, mehendi, engagement, festivals. And once that's done, they get conveniently packed into the wardrobe again, dry cleaned and crease-free.

Perfect.

When exactly did this mighty shift happen? Of course, we shifted several things, right from the language we are most comfortable in (not being our own) and the kind of food we eat (lots of junk?). But clothes? Second skin, literally? When did we get comfortable strutting about in jeans and a t-shirt and saying,"The kurta is too inconvenient", or "The saree makes me feel really hot", climate change notwithstanding?

I am not sure if this is a very good thing. I wonder how western countries perceive us. Wannabe? Dumb? Copycats? What do they think when they see hordes of Indian dressing up in their clothes, getting those sarees and chudidars and kurtas out on special occasions only.

Maybe they do not think much...maybe they feel that we are finally in hold of our senses, because we are dressing down, not dressing up anymore. I am not sure. I have not bothered to ask any of my friends from the occident part of the planet. I am scared to hear what they may have to say.

I have a short incident to narrate here. I once had a friend visit Hyderabad from Singapore. She wanted to shop, "buy something nice and very Indian" she said. She was indecisive about a grand pink and gold chudidar, and a plain cotton kurti with the Kashmiri Chikankari work on it. Guess who helped her decide? An American colleague that decided to tag along. She just had to say one sentence and the decision was made.

"Why would you want to wear something so dressy that screams LOOK-AT-ME? I would not wear something so dressy for my own wedding!"

Decision made. White kurti bought. I thought she wanted to buy something "very Indian", and excuse me here but I had nothing against the kurti. I love white. And I love Chikankari. I just don't think "too dressy" is the reason why you would not buy something as gorgeous as the pink-and-gold number she really liked, and just needed a bit of moral support to buy.

I have nothing against the western thought process that lives by beiges, greys, peaches, pinks, blacks, whites and murky browns. I am just trying to say here that that is NOT HOW WE HAVE ALWAYS BEEN. We have been about reds and greens and blues and purples and mauves and golds and silver and yellows, if you will excuse me.

I hope that one day, soon, we are comfortable in our own skins AND second skins, that we can wear dressy and colourful clothes every other day without looking for an occasion, that reds and greens and blues and yellows raid our closets and homes, and may we be the populace that adds colour to life.

Indian Summer Tales

2010-02-15T13:54:00.003+05:30

Summer is here. I can feel it. The ghee in my can is no longer solid. Curd sets faster. Things spoil faster. I don't need a blanket anymore. And I have been putting the fan on full. I am trying to hurry up and finish the remains of my winter moisturizer.

Ugh. Summer. Is. Here. What could be more wrong with this world right now?

Indian summers are painful to say the least. I dread them more than I dread cockroaches. They drag. They are very hot, sticky, icky, humid, scorching, they make me want to run away to cold places. I live in a penthouse that feels like an oven during the day. Water runs hot in the tap...this would be welcome in winters. Who wants to roast alive in summers, having bath in hot water?!?

And I am in Telangana/Andhra Pradesh/whatever else the impending status of my city is to be...and that makes it worse. Of course, I do know Kolkata, Chennai, Mumbai, most parts of Kerala are worse off, what with the heat being accompanied by humidity, the kind that makes your clothes stick to you in miserable ways. Hyderabad is drier than a petrified bone in summer and you get heat strokes. Nowhere as bad as what Delhi and Rajasthan do to you but still...it's bad, you cannot step out, you cannot step in, so you are miserable and you make everybody else feel miserable too.

I have been begging for a while now, telling P that we NEED to live in a place that is NOT so hot in summers. Bearably hot is okay. Or may be he will make us shift to the mountains. Where summers are pleasant. Oh, how insanely I would love that.

P is of the notion that there are no such places in India. I quickly quip that there is Uttaranchal and Himachal Pradesh. I conveniently miss mentioning J&K because we can, under no circumstance, buy property there. Not yet, at least. Thank you, miserable little law in the constitution. P is thrilled though; he thinks everybody is dropping bombs on everybody else and the army is hiding practically everywhere. Fine. Maybe he is right. Try saying that to a disgruntled me that is feeling hot.

Which reminds me...is there any particular agenda behind increased water and power cuts particularly in the summer months? Everything cannot be drying up, can it? And if it is, why are we not saving for summer in advance?

Of course, I am trying not to resort to extreme measures like air conditioning to beat the heat. I have my cornucopia of jeera golis, buttermilk, khus syrup, khus sheets, air coolers, sprinkling water on the roof etc. all handy. That is because I have a very active guilt-ejecting gland in my brain. And it is connected to all parts of me. If I do anything that will further and actively pollute the atmosphere or add to global warming, I feel miserable.

You know the scary part? I really do not know how many of us have that guilt-ejecting gland in our brains. And I am scared there aren't many.

The Tiger Story

2010-02-04T16:47:00.005+05:30

Long ago, when I was only 13 years old, I remember hearing a story from one of my rifle shooting instructors. He was a chef with the merchant navy - he cooked on water :P - but more seriously, he said his uncle was a forest ranger.

His uncle loved tigers. His forest reserve, situated somewhere in Assam, was a small reserve and they had to fight off poachers and illogical government rules on their own. He ended up treating the reserve like his home, the tigers on his reserve were his family. He slept every night to their nocturnal prowling and woke up to find their muddy paw prints on his porch. He smiled at those and always wondered what it would be like to have a pet tiger.

Life decided it was time to do some wish-fulfilling. He chanced upon a litter of cubs on evening during his patrol. They were alone and hungry. They were tiny and they bit whatever they could lay their paws upon. Of course, it did not hurt. They hardly had any teeth yet.

The rangers marked out the areas, keeping armed guards to see if the tigress would return to feed them.

She did not. They found a tigress' remains within the range of the reserve two days later. Most likely, she had been poached - who would, after all, prey upon the greatest predator they knew of.

So this uncle carried the cubs home. Three of them. Two of them were sent to the shelter after they were declared healthy. They would try to look for foster parents for the cubs. It was next to impossible but they decided to take care of the cubs until they were ready to handle their own lives.

One little cub stayed back with uncle. He had hurt his paw and limped. Uncle took care of him, telling himself that he would return him to the reserve shelter for release soon. But as it goes with humans, attachments form faster than ideas and before he knew it, the tiger had a name, had sleep times, walk times and a fixed diet that would take care of his nutritional requirements.

Uncle had found his pet. Prince walked with him, bounding between his legs and tripping him when he went for his strolls, Prince would jump up on his lap and lick uncle's nose vehemently until his tummy was tickled. He drank milk every morning and one day, came back home with his first kill - a baby rabbit.

A few months and Prince was unbelievably large and tame. Stretching to about five feet with shiny, glossy fur bristling in the sunshine. He slept at uncle's feet, just under his bed. Uncle could not have been happier. He was increasingly getting confused that the largest predator he had known could be tamed. Actually.

Until the day came when uncle went for his patrol one evening to find two hyenas tearing down a deer. They had barely caught the deer and uncle, in a moment of thoughtlessness, fired a bullet into the air. The noise scared the hyenas and they ran for dear life. The deer was taken by surprise and it nearly ran into uncle's jeep. The jeep came to an abrupt halt and uncle's outstretched hand rammed into the rearview mirror.

Crack. Blood and bits of mirror. Uncle hurried home to fix his wound. Prince sat, undisturbed, on the porch, licking his tail. Having cleaned his wound, uncle gave it a shot of ammonia to arrest infections. He sat down on his chair, and before he knew it, fell asleep, his gun by his side.

Prince sauntered in eventually. He found uncle on his chair. He went to sit by him and smelled his ammonia-damp hand, cringing at the bad smell. A small drop of blood trickled down the flesh and Prince caught it on his tongue.

It tasted nice. Rusty and salty. He licked some more. The ammonia rubbed off. Uncle stirred awake. He felt Prince's sand-paper-rough tongue clearing out his wound. But Prince did not stop. He had kept licking until the wound had scraped raw again and fresh blood oozed out. Prince had forgotten that the wound he licked belonged to the hand that fed him everyday.

Uncle shot him. There was no way he could have stopped Prince from snapping his wounded hand off. There was no way he could have wrestled a large, young and energetic tiger and escaped alive.

Can predators be tamed? Can they be petted? Do instincts win out over achieved behaviour?

Perhaps not. Perhaps some stories require this end. But most others do not. Poaching does not, hunting does not.

While I write this, several more groups of hot blooded men, with bottles of liquor and packs of nicotine will have paid bribes to gain access to Jim Corbett, one of India's largest tiger reserves. Just to hunt illegally. While I write this, reserve officials will have placed artificial pug marks on the pathway of tourist jeeps to tell them that a tiger had passed that way.

How long are we going to wait until we take legitimate action?

Join The Roar Now. Go to http://www.saveourtigers.com/

The Indian Melting Pot's First Ever Tag

2010-01-27T23:30:00.003+05:30

All thanks to blogger-pal Meenakshi, who is uncannily similar to me in many ways. This is TIMP's first ever tag...mostly because I didn't know where to put tags...I have a cooking blog, a fiction blog and this blog. My lame excuse behind putting this here is I am Indian and post republic day, I am feeling it even more so, so here goes.

8 TV shows/News Channels I like to watch:
- Dekh Bhai Dekh, Sarabhai VS Sarabhai, Hip Hip Hurray, Different Strokes, Small Wonder, Baywatch, Shri Krishna and Mahabharata. I don't like watching news. I read it on Google News. Faster and better and no clutter.

8 Places to eat and dine:
- Chutneys (Hyderabad)
- Kairali (Hyderabad)
- Desi Tadka (back home in Ambernath)
- Murugan (Chennai)
- The Chocolate Room (Hyderabad)
- Not Just Jazz By The Bay (Marine Drive...okay Bombay...oops, Mumbai)
- My college mess (St. Xavier's Mumbai)
- My kitchen. Tehehe!

8 Things I Look Forward To:
- Cooking. I live from meal to meal.
- Driving our new car cross cities with the husband.
- Owning our own home some place quiet and green and not hot during summers and cold during winters and rainy during rains. Sigh. Is that called being realistic?
- Farming my own vegetables.
- Finishing my Masters and then my research.
- Publishing my works, especially that novella of short stories.
- Having my own dog, a labrador to be specific, without freaking out the four people who most matter to me.
- Travelling across my country.

8 Things That Happened Yesterday:
- I did this tag.
- I went to work and carried bhakarwadis from Bambai for friends at work.
- Longest girl time in 2010 with Mea Culpa and so much fun that was!
- I got the most awful cold-cough infection I have had in a year.
- I slept badly and had a nightmare I do not remember now.
- I tried a new recipe with beans and it's now part of my make-often list.
- I missed driving classes because the stupid instructor was too busy. Wish I could say I am too broke right now and not pay him the minuscule LLR fee. Hmph.
- Decided to give freelancing another shot.

8 Things I love about Winter: That I have fewer bad hair days, that I am not sweaty-sticky for a greater part of the day, that I can wear my woollens, that I have an excuse for making and eating paranthas, that I can wake up late and blame it on the weather, that I can travel to places that are otherwise inhuman (Kolkata, Delhi, Mumbai, parts of Rajasthan etc etc). I love it that my birthday is placed strategically at the almost-beginning of winter. And that winters remind me of cakes and muffins so I end up baking them.

8 Things on my Wish-list:
- One thing is already coming: Google's Nexus One!
- An E63 for my brother.
- A Head or Wilson Advanced tennis racquet for P.
- A cruise for mum.
- My own home...oh, I think I said that I mentioned it already...
- I want a bigger kitchen. Badly.
- Financial independence. I don't think working for an employer beyond a point makes psychological and spiritual sense to me.
- A greener planet.

8 Things I am Passionate about: Writing, reading, cooking, farming, painting, cleaning (yep, I am a bit obsessive-compulsive about this), jeeps and most importantly, my subject: Indological Studies.

8 Words/Phrases I often use:The first one isn't entirely family-safe and I am trying to get over it. Apart from that, I say - Crap! What the! Whatever. Oh god! Shiva! Peeps (don't ask about that one...I just say it a lot), and I say Naasama Pochu. I know I should not but I do. Accept it.

8 Things I learnt from the past:
- Death has a way of telling you what matters in life.
- You cannot be a saviour.
- If I think I can, I can.
- You are bigger than any situation you are in.
- Sifting flour before you bake is very important.
- Never, ever try to blend anything that is hot enough for you to not want to touch it. Never.
- Mum's just know things. Accept it.
- If the milk's on the flame and you are waiting for it to boil...stay right there and don't look anywhere else until it happens.

8 Places I would like to go /Visit:
Leh-Ladakh, Paris, Kashmir, Rajasthan, Punjab, Kerala, the North East, Anand (Gujarat).

8 Things I currently need/want.....:
Olay Total Effects (latest cosmetic fascination), baking sheets, a new cooking range with four burners, a bigger wardrobe, a waffle maker, a place to hang my new windchime (can't seem to decide on the place yet), a holiday and the book 'Eat Cake'.

8 Blogging Buddies I want to Tag:
Mea Culpa
Pinkpants
Prasanna
Nags
Vikrant
Garfield
Goli
Alice

Hai Baaton Mein Dum? (On Behalf Of Google)

2010-01-21T10:04:00.001+05:30

Sharing your thoughts in Hindi on the web has never been easier! Google and LiveHindustan.com bring you the 'Hai Baaton Mein Dum?' Contest. If you've ever wished that there was more great Hindi content online, here's your chance to spill your heart out about the things that matter the most to you: entertainment, sports, travel, health and politics. Brick by brick, you'll be building the web in Hindi, sharing your knowledge of these topics and showing your flair for this beautiful language. So, go ahead and visit the 'Hai Baaton Mein Dum?' Contest Site and click the 'Submit your entry' button next to the topic you want to write about. You stand to win some amazing prizes like laptops, gift vouchers and free internet subscriptions! There is no limit to the number of entries per contestant. Let your imagination run wild and spread the joy of sharing your thoughts in Hindi on the web!

GD Bole To Guru Dakshina

2010-01-18T12:40:00.004+05:30

P and I just bought a brand new car. There are some unusual things about us. Like I want to farm my own vegetables and he says, 'Wow, that's great.' And he also took me to an organic pesticide and insecticide shop during one of our short travel breaks. He takes me seriously and I love that. Coz I am serious.

So the unusual thing we did about the car...we got a brand new, first hand, fully gorgeous utility car and we do not know how to drive on our own yet. We are learning. We have been through the acceleration-break-clutch routine and steering. We are learning gears. Why are we taking this chance? Because I have never believed in second hand things unless its part of the family. I am like that. And P believes me so he let's me do my thing. We know we are fast learners and we do our stuff perfectly so we know it's going to be the same for the car too.

That brings me to our driving instructor. On the sixth day of our classes, as I hopped out from the driver's seat after successfully managing to park the car...as soon as I was out of earshot, Trainer turns to P and says - Sir, we have a ritual here, after the 5th day of classes, we do a small formality called GD. It is voluntary and you can give what you like. GD is Guru Dakshina.

I didn't hear any of this until we got back home, when a still-surprised P narrated the incident. My mouth was one big O all the while.

Why am I writing it here? Well...because I am faced with the eternal Indian dilemna. I am anti-bribery, and what else is this if not bribery, considering the fees have been paid in full. Why should I give Guru Dakshina? And why if I refuse, will he not teach me well? Will he conveniently skip teaching me how to reverse? Or to read the indicator correctly? I think I have options here...I have friends who drive like pros and are ready to teach us anything the Trainer misses out.

I also thought...Guru Dakshina is a primarily Vedic concept. My Trainer is not Hindu. Should I tell him - Hey, how come you believe in Guru Dakshina? Then I realize I am bordering on making closely communal statements and think some more.

Should I tell him that in my family we only give Guru Dakshina in kind and give him some of the macaroons I am planning to bake? Should I tell him that I can give him Dakshina only at a certain time or date because all dates before that are crappy and if I give him money, he will lose three times the amount according to my astrologer? That way I can put off the bribe for as long as I want to.

I considered complaining to the HQ of the school. Then I remember that the guy at the HQ was no different...he wanted a free ride on P's bike to take us to the RTO office, suggesting I come in an auto with the other women. I promptly refused, since I already have a reputation for being difficult on whim...let's make full use of that, right? And I went with P and the man had to pay 80 bucks of fare for his ride. HE would be no help.

Should I threaten him and say I am from Google and I will not give a reference to any of my colleagues in this area and tell them to go to his rival school after verifying they don't demand Guru Dakshina? Or worse, that I will put this transgression on Google itself...that isn't possible but then, people will believe anything! Google is God :P

Mum suggested I say that we will give Dakshina as soon as we are confident of our driving skills. But that still does not save me from completely doing away with the whole idea of giving him money.

I think I will bake macaroons or buy sweets and give those as Dakshina and then look at him very innocently. "Like this only we give Dakshina, sir. In kind."

Any other suggestions, dear readers?

Loo-ney Tales

2010-01-04T12:20:00.005+05:30

Well yes. That IS a commode I put up on my blog. It is silly but I was grossed out looking at more realistic photos so just be happy with this one. Why are we talking about the commode on this blog? Well, because this is one of the biggest invasions on our intimate Indian commode. We all know the thing. Simple, basic, hygienic because nobody will ever make direct contact to the thing with their behinds.

But not the erstwhile western commode, herefore addressed as the WC. The WC is flaunted nowadays. P and I had the fortune of travelling to a resort some time ago where they proudly told us that one of the features of the room was it had a bath with fully western commodes and showers with curtains.

We nodded, like normal people do, and set about finding our room in the dense reserve that was to be our home for the next two days. Me...I am not very normal, so I thought of the cultural implications of the statement. Why is it an 'added feature' to have a WC? If it is added, then why is there no Indian commode in my bathroom? Never mind...why is it a 'good thing' to have an equipment on which all and sundry may have squatted before we came and I really am not sure if the staff wash it well enough.

Where is my good old Indian thing where all users have had their behinds far from the surface, done their stuff, flushed and moved on?

And what of the health implications? That the Indian commode facilitates the best position for excretion so your pancreas and intestines are not under pressure to perform? While the WC leaves you feeling like you are not done?

I am sorry about how gross this may sound but its true. If I want a WC, I will ask for a WC. Or give me both and I will take my pick in my own privacy. I am Indian...why is it funny to assume that an Indian would want an Indian-style commode? When did this western stuff become so fancy? Just like our clothes did and just like speaking in English on a normal basis did...well, those are bigger topics and for later but this...THIS intrusion into my bathroom is way too personal.

In any case, I have a crew of family members and friends who have had their revenge on their WCs. I know people who climb right on top of them and and sit on them, squatting Indian style, sort of like the child-birth position, treating the WC like an Indian one. And I have seen WCs that have footpads for people to specifically climb on. Muahahaha! Sweet victory.

I also remember reading articles by Indian women...who are mortified at the thought of using the WC in a public toilet. Why? Nobody wants to risk exposure and contact and take the chance of getting infected by god-knows-what. So they are all trying their hardest to do their thing, managing purses and carry bags (you know how big our bags can get), wrapping their dupattas around like nooses so they do not touch the floor and still managing to not sit on the WC for the love of life.

Aah...well...there are issues we live with. There are some emphatic places that give us the choice. And some that do not. And we complain in that moment and forget the next.

But hey...perhaps the only good thing that came off the WC, besides allowing old people with knee issues to still independently go to the loo, is the ability to read in the loo. Not that my family approves of it, its considered positively gross...but still. We are having an honest discussion here and I can still admit that some good did come of it. I would never have finished the voluminous 'Gone With The Wind' while managing college assignments, a freelance job, social life and sleep requirements without this contraption. Which is where all my reading mostly happened :)

Hyderabad Ranting

2009-12-21T22:17:00.002+05:30

No, I don't mean Hyderabad is ranting. I am saying this is my ranting a bout the city I live in. Let's make some quick confessions here so our perspectives are crystal clear before any more misunderstanding happens.

I love this city. I didn't like it much when I came...I mean, which sane human being from Mumbai/Bombay/Bambai will like leaving their city behind and coming to a place they think is uncool. Whatever. I made that choice. And I cribbed about it and I still came. Well. But now I like it. I recognize the roads. I know some good shortcuts. I know where to go for the stuff I need without spending an embarrassing amount of money. I know very bad Telegu but it gets me through. Anyway I know Hindi and the people here do not look at you funny just coz you do not know Telegu. They sort of know you are from their own country.

So I like this city. But I still cannot get over its traffic sense or rather, the lack of it. And I do not like how paranoid that makes my husband. We go test driving cars and almost decide on buying one and he stresses about dents. Dents on a car that is still not in my building's parking lot. Stresses about bumps and scratches. It does not help that a man we hold in high esteem says that it hurts like mad (on your heart, not on the car's body, duh!) when your car gets its first scratch. Your heart bleeds, you sleep badly and the next day at work sucks, you yell at your colleague and your manager hears you, you send emails and forget to attach the..er...attachments.

Then on, life looks up and the second scratch doesn't hurt that badly.

Of course, it led me into scrutinizing every scar I had earned over twenty-four years of living and how bad my parents must have felt the first time they saw me come home with a scar that would stay...well, comparing a car to a child may not be very kind of me but then, nobody pays lakhs for a baby and definitely, nobody takes loans before they even have a baby.

Sigh...so I blame Hyderabad's road sense, mostly the lack of it, for all my postdated worries. Mad city. I love it. But mad city nevertheless. Most motorists are colour blind so nobody can identify red from orange from green. The traffic cop is human therefore unethical. The new cameras they have fixed at all the signals, I heard, are actually working and sending out challans to people who are clicked breaking a rule...the camera clicks every few seconds. Some hope there and I hope that lasts.

We were also told by this friend we hold in high regard that his first dent came from a two wheeler. Our man was following road instructions and is not colour blind so he stopped at a red signal. And got rammed by the biker. Who also hollered about how 'this signal is not for this road' even though it looks on to 'this road'.

I considered if it is legal and okay for me to attach those sirens on top of my car. Just to scare some people. Apparently it doesn't work. I saw a bike overtake an ambulance on Necklace Road not too long ago.

The only thing that works I suppose, which also happens to be the only fuel this country runs on, seems to be faith. Therefore prayers shall be said, registration numbers matched to our own lucky ones, bought on a supremely auspicious day and driving shall be perfected as an art (not science, science is too exact) and maybe...that will let me sleep minus worry every night. May the car live long and remain dent-free. Amen.

By the way...there is no picture to go with this post...I saw some dented car images and the images disturbed me greatly so we shall skip that part for once. Amen again.

In My Opinion...

2009-12-11T22:04:00.005+05:30

I was working from home a few days back. The reason? Most of us at work were a bit worried about stepping out of the house. Why? Our state split into two suddenly (okay, not suddenly, the issue has been around for a long time now), and there was a national debate on what should happen to our city, Hyderabad.

Should be turn into a Union Territory? Should we stay with Telangana? Of course, Telangana would love to keep us, we are the only city worth any mention in this state.

I told my North America colleague about this, to explain why I was working from home. He had visited us a while back and he was closely following the politics of the state. I told him how easy it had been to finally get this debate to blow up into a breaking news-national issue and get the state in 11 days of fasting by a senior leader of the party that was demanding the state in the first place.

So easy to hold the centre at ransom. And we spoke about the Pandora's box the centre had opened up - fast and get your state. Gorkhaland and Bundelkhand and god alone knows what other state was up against the centre, demanding statehood.

A cab mate said that all major metros should be declared union territories unless they are capitals of states that aren't demanding separate statehoods. Somebody also said fuel is cheaper in Union Territories (Really??). Somebody said booze is cheaper too. That doesn't matter to me, unless of course, rum is cheaper too, so I can glaze cherries more often, to top my cakes with.

Chandrababu Naidu and a colleague said that people wouldn't invest in Hyderabad anymore. Except of course, the IT etc guys. Why? Major resources are still vested in Andhra region. Where does Telangana source its resource from? Foolish leaders, remarked an anti-Telangana friend. All they want to be is the CM of some state, who cares how decrepit its condition is.

A friend at breakfast today said that we are going to be like Jharkhand is to Bihar. Another friend said, hey, I would rather be Jharkhand than be connected or governed even remotely by a Laloo or a Mayawati. 92 crores on a statue?? Crores on fodder?? Madness! I laughed.

Which is when the spotlight turned on me.

"What do you think about the Telangana issue?" I nodded, chewed on my food, and said, 'Let's see, maybe something good might come out of it, although it currently looks rather bad, we don't even know what's going to happen to Hyderabad."

Safe answer no? In all frankness, in the big bad corporate world that I live in, it hardly makes a difference. But...it's a crime in today's opinionated world to not have an opinion, no?

Chal Baju Hutt!

2009-11-25T16:28:00.003+05:30

Leaving Mumbai and moving to another city, Bangalore (Bengalooru for you, in case you are hyperventilating about the usage) was a life altering change for me. Culturally, spiritually, mentally, academically and physically.

Let's talk about the culturally part.

I came face to face with the following facts:

- Footpaths are not meant for pedestrians alone.

- You are equal to a low society disaster if you are walking on your feet on tarred roads.

- Traffic signals are pretty light posts that add some color to otherwise dull roads.

- Motorcycles are super-machines with the capacity to support three adults and two adults with four children too.

So guess what? Most of the times, I would be looking on, in stunned horror/fascination/etc, when I would see families of six pass me by on a Pulsar 150cc. I would be even more surprised when people in cars would bypass the signal red and drive on, expecting people to freeze on their zebra crossings. And of course, pedestrians who would show the hand to riders, walking on as if the approaching car, speeding at 60kmph would just bounce off and allow safe passage.

Hyderabad is another culture altogether. People are laidback and the traffic reflects that. how else do you explain being stuck in traffic for 40 minutes in exactly the same place and find out, when you reach the jam junction, that the only reason we all got held up was because three vehicles were wedged diagonally, each wanting to go in different directions, all men unready to back off and they fought for 20 minutes before the traffic cop stepped in?

And I remember my short trip to Delhi long ago - everybody worth any mention would stick their head out of the car window to holler - Tu jaanta nahi main kaun hu (You don't know who I am) - to all and sundry.

Am I glorifying Mumbai/Bombay? Well no...we do not have traffic that halts for aeons. We do not holler at each other. But we honk. Like our life depends on it. The traffic keeps moving, slow and steady, and you see the world pass you by in slo-mo, vendors manage to sell you pirated copies of expensive magazines (Esquire, The Time etc) and you manage to get out.

You know what's sad about Bombay? Totally? The thick smog you are going to inhale as you slowly move out of the jam. And the little street children who will come and beg at your feet. The women in rags who will try to sell you flowers that they gathered form the nearby graveyard, fresh and still not wilted. The beggar who will ask for loose change and spit on your windshield if you hand him a 2-rupee coin.

But the worse part? The worse part is when the news travels down the jammed roads that you and hundreds like you are stuck here because the railway station close to the road you are on is under high alert. When you hear that explosions ripped apart trains and people and lives. When you hear that members of a well known radical political party burned down buses and went on a public hooliganism rash to prove their point: no non-Maharashtrians in Mumbai.

The worse part is when you are stuck because politicians from the opposition party are lying down on the signal crossing, staging a rail-roko for some inane demand that doesn't affect lives in any significant way.

But of course, it is Mumbai. The best part about getting stuck with bad traffic is not always about a devolving culture and decaying ethics. Sometimes, its the victory march of the national Indian cricket team, driving from the airport to Wankhede stadium, to meet their supporters.

It is then that you don't mind being asked to hurry up and clear the way, when the heroes come marching in.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorders Of A Filmi Kind

2009-11-11T10:26:00.003+05:30

Heard of that 'an itch must be scratched' phrase? Pretty interesting it is. Indians have many such itches :)

Cricket. Politics. Films. Film stars. Views on religion. Food. Sentiments. To name a few, serious!

This itch is about our movies. Across all the languages we speak in this country, officially or unofficially, the movie mania describes a typical Indian. We take our movies very seriously, we cry and laugh and quote them, we worship the stars, build temples in their names, pile to the temple if they injure themselves, sell tickets in black (although the movie script WILL NOT change if you see it on day 2, 3, 4, 5 etc, but what the heck?!), and of course, we have hello tunes that are popular songs, we hum them, we have reality shows and singing contests that run on the fodder that the film industry provides.

But is this post about Indian cinema? No. It's about Indian people.

Recently, I had the fortune (good, bad, etc.) to visit an Indian village - you know, those kinds they show in Swades, where dirty kids run in mud and dung and are fit as fiddles, their immunity levels super high, while we sneeze with allergy, and end up with food poisoning and viral infections. Despite sanitizing and all. The kind where there is no dispensary, no post office, but there is a liquor shop tucked in a dark alleyway.

The kind where there are no bathrooms and toilets in any house, where the lakes swell up with sewage, where children play all day and ride buffaloes to the fields.

Where there is no potable drinking water. But they all have a radio that plays the latest numbers from the regional movies. Where there are no good streetlights to save you from stepping on something fatally infectious looking. But the TV is a household companion and families cluster around it every night to watch Nagarjuna kill twenty people in one sweeping karate kick.

We city people, we are no less. A couple of us jumped out of the cabs we took to the village to dance in sunflower fields, Yashraj style, and some even broke into 'Tujhe dekha to yeh jana sanam'. Most of us took photos. Most of us played Antakshri. Most of us sang ourselves hoarse. Most of us wanted to go see a recent mega hit Telegu movie in a shady cinema hall for 50 buck tickets...although 15 out of 18 people did not understand Telegu. Big deal, they said. "Just laugh when the crowd laughs!"

This is a movie obsessed land. Above all arts, above music bands, above reality shows, above sensational news, above tragic news stories, above milestones achieved by the ruling government...above it all.

Show us one good movie, with some killer music from a Rahman, a Harris Jayaaj, an Ilayaraja, a Nadeem-Shravan, an Ismail Durbar, a Pritam. Some sappy story that reminds us of our mother/brother/father/sister/long-lost best friend/wife/girlfriend/husband/boyfriend/pet dog/stray cat. Get us to laugh and cry and that's it. You have a hit and we are followers for life.

Of course, there are those Kamineys, those Wake Up Sids, those Wednesdays. The genre isn't important - touch our heart and we are sold.

I am so freaking proud to be part of such a mad, mad, mad land where nothing makes sense but still falls in place all at once. Kahani thodi filmi hai!

Diwali Ya Diwala?

2009-10-23T21:27:00.002+05:30

You got it right. I hate Diwali. Of course, I am a self respecting Indian, Hindu etc etc. but I abhor this so called festival of lights. It's more like the festival of smoke and explosions, methinks.

There are various reasons why they celebrate this festival - in the northern parts of this country, they say that Lord Rama came home after fourteen long years of exile with his wife Sita - to celebrate his return, the people of Ayodhya lit the city up with lights - diyas and deepams. Beautiful, that sight must have been, if you ask me. I adore diyas, little clay lamps with oil and a bright flame dancing on the wick, often set on rangolis, those floor designs with colours that liven them up.

In the south, primarily in Tamil Nadu, they celebrate the slaying of the demon Narakasura by Lord Krishna with lamps. Diwali also marks the beginning of the winters. My grandma says that the real reason why they light all those lamps at this time is to kill insects. Apparently, a lot of swallows and other insects are born in the season of receding monsoons and become quite a menace - come Diwali, we light lamps and these insects get attracted to the flame and hurl themselves, in a final act of impulse, straight into the flames. Dead. I love my grandma's stories.

Somewhere down the line, some idiot invented fire crackers - don't get me entirely wrong now. I love those chakkars and anaars (fountain...?) and those phuljharis etc. They are fun, look pretty, mostly noiseless too. I also adore those fireworks in the sky and I can look at those for hours.

But fire crackers...those inanely useless bombs, Lakshmi bombs and Gorilla bombs and the likes, just what use are they? Narakasura is dead so the sound isn't going to kill him. Lord Rama would go scuttling back into his quiet and peaceful exile in the forest if he heard one of those bombs explode. And no insect is dying to high decibel levels I am sure - I don't think they can hear either - blissfully deaf.

So what purpose are those bombs serving? They are heart-wrenchingly, ear-splittingly, nerve-wrackingly painful when they set off and I am sure if I were old and suffering from hypertension or heart disease or one of those things, I would by now be on my way to heaven or hell or wherever it is that we go to when we die.

I hope those monstrosities are officially banned - they contribute to sound pollution, they can make you go deaf too, and by the way, they almost shattered my window with the impact.

Which is why, I have a new agenda. Every Diwali, I will travel to either Jammu & Kashmir, North East of India or Kerala. Apparently, these places aren't big on celebrating Diwali and while other parts of my nation spend time welcoming Rama and worshipping Krishna and killing monsoon flies, I can go grab my share of peace and quiet and come back once the pandemonium passes.

Banana Skins

2009-10-10T18:04:00.004+05:30

Let's clarify the headline right away so you can choose to either read this, openly or skeptically, or just move to the next blog on your reader. Sri Sri Ravi Shankar says that religion is like a banana skin. And spirituality the banana itself. The problem with this era is, people have thrown away the banana and are holding on tightly to the banana skin.

I agree. Now let's talk for a bit about what this made me think. Normally, when I hold a banana in my hands, I look at the skin. If I see a smooth, untarnished, fresh skin, it gives me some idea of the fruit inside. I take it that the fruit inside will be good to eat too. The skin is important, but secondary, nevertheless. The inside is all that matters.

But I still see the skin. Although I will remove it and throw it away later. I still see it. And I see around me, increasingly, people my age, people a little older than me, a little younger than me, are no longer proud of their banana skin-religions, or of other religions either. Religion is viewed as unnecessary, as a malady. Apparently, religion is a way to disguise fear, preference etc. It's sad, in a country like India, where its various religions are the ones that have added colours to its diversity.

Be it the colours of festivals, the sweetmeats, the clothes, the cuisine, the practices. Most of these vary from religion to religion, each diverse and beautiful in its own way. People are increasingly proud of saying they are atheists or agnostics, without even bothering to look a little deeper into the religions they were born into, the religions they are surrounded by. Without asking persistent questions.

Or I see fanatics, people ready to thrust their religions down others' throats, for various reasons. There is very limited balance, a healthy balance of respect for other religions and integrating them into our own lives and at the same time, following and understanding one's own. There are reasons of course...religion has been politicized and used and misused and abused.

Which is why, when a Muslim friend, travelling with me in the company cab, informed me on Ramzan that she was waiting to break her fast so she could go dance in the Dandiya Raas with her friends, I was thrilled. It sounded like a breath of fresh air after a long and tiring journey via a polluted road. Okay, sad analogy that but you get it.

Maybe there's some hope. Maybe more people will start becoming spiritual and wise and love their religions and respect others' too. Maybe my friend will be accompanied by her entire family one day. Maybe, my Hindu granduncle will understand his son's need to do the Roza every year. Maybe they will start letting my Sikh friend attend the mass at the church she so adores without demanding she convert.

Maybe we will all turn human one day. And maybe, that day, there won't be questions about man's Godliness.

Ek Khiladi, Ek Hasina Aur Pasina

2009-09-29T23:28:00.007+05:30

Disclaimer: The name of this post should become obvious ONLY towards the end of the post.

I saw this Tantra t-shirt in Bombay/Mumbai on a recent visit to my 'home-town'.Here's how it looks (with due respect AND credit to whoever took this photo).

You know what's awesome about this T? It's mind-numbingly, heart-breakingly, gut-wrenchingly true. We do travel like that, day in, day out, packed in like sardines - Shashi Tharoor

must travel in a Mumbai local once and then tweet about it. I hope the Railway ministry wakes up and does something...

But more importantly, I hope they find a sensible solution to limit the number of people who make their way to Mumbai every day. That city is turning into an over flowing drain and trust me, I hate saying this as much as you have hated reading the last few words.

So, coming back to the topic of travelling with strangers everyday, sharing varying degrees of physical intimacy, can be, to say the least, traumatizing. Like this time, I thought I would give P a taste of what a 'packed' train is like. Why? Well, long long ago, before we got married, he looked into what I thought was a relatively empty train, gaped in shock and said - OMG, this is so crowded!!

I just gave him an incredulous look and decided, experience is the best teacher. So in we went, in a 10.20am local, travelling 60kms in a span of 1.15hrs and by the time we got out, we didn't look like we had bathed that day...my clothes were okay (I was wearing those crumple crepe dresses :P thank goodness) but P looked like he had wrested the ocean (salty and wet).

One particular episode, I remember with stunning clarity. There was this old uncle-type who got in, and stood right above where P was precariously perched on the fourth seat. Nice man. And he perspired profusely. A big drop of perspiration sat on his elbow, threatening to plonk right on top of P's head, while I looked at it, a look of fear and revulsion on my face.

I kept nudging P to dodge or tell the man to wipe it off. P being a very decent, gentle soul, felt it would be offensive. But he gave in, asked the man to wipe himself, very very politely. He obliged, but before he could dab at his sweaty elbow, another man brushed inside and did the honours, wiping it off with his own shirt, happily unaware of his random act of kindness.

Personally, I think its a great lesson in very lofty spiritual values, such as oneness, equality and acceptance, to be able to participate in this means of travelling everyday. Can't believe I did it. And most likely to never do it again. After six years of such painstaking 'tapasya', I am highly enlightened.

Chai Piyo, Kaam Karo

2009-09-15T14:40:00.003+05:30

And that means, "Drink tea, do your work." Lame sounding in English when translated like that but I am just being direct!

This is an ad that has been on air for a while, the Jaago Re sequel, to put it straight. The old ad asked us to wake up, drink tea, and go vote on the election day.

The new one says that if anybody asks you for a bribe, refuse, give them a cup of this tea, ask them to drink tea and work. Why tea? A bribe is referred to as 'chai-pani' in Hindi. 'Tea 'n' water'.

Nice ads. My husband (TH/P) adores the ad. So when the police official decided to pay us a visit (to verify my address, for name change, post marriage etc), we were a bit worried.

Would he ask for a bribe to verify my existence in this house?

P immediately suggested we make him a cup of tea and say 'Chai Piyo, Kaam Karo', full-on styled after the ad. I laughed. Sometimes, he is adorably innocent. Nevertheless, I wondered if I have tea leaves at home, considering that we are not great tea drinkers.

The policeman arrived. And I realised I had no milk at home. Black tea?? Ew! What a thing to give! So I got out my Khus/Vettiver/Poppy seed extract and tossed it into a glass of cool water and set it in front of the man, while he scanned through my documents.

I replayed the scene in my head while he scanned.

"Khus piyo, kaam karo"...? Didn't sound too right.

The man lifted the glass, sipped on it, while P looked on too.

"Yeh kya hai??" (What is this??) he quipped.

"Khus, isse sharir aur dimaag thanda rehta hai." ("This is khus, it keeps the body and mind cool.") That was P's reaction. I wanted to giggle so I went inside.

The man verified and confirmed my existence and made me put a thumb imprint in place of the signature. I told him I could sign. He said I still needed to give an imprint. I did. i never thought I would do that and I wondered how people who are not literate must feel while doing the same - highly vulnerable.

Apparently he liked the khus. And we did not have to say 'Khus piyo, kaam karo".

Positive stories never seem to get reported, do they? Here's my bit. To the policeman that did his job, without chai, pani etc. And to the security system that i still, hopefully, and hopelessly, trust.

"Don't Ask Why"

2009-09-02T16:25:00.002+05:30

It's Ganesh Visarjan. Idols of Ganesh, all over India, will be on their way to the ocean/river/lake/pond, for the final immersion, the annual goodbye.

Roads are being blocked. Traffic has been diverted. Our company has an email from the traffic police department, telling us what roads are blocked. A lot of people are working from home. A lot of people are taking time off to go immerse their idols into the water, requesting the god to 'come back fast' (pudchya varshi lavkar ya).

A few visiting foreigners recently went to Mumbai and witnessed the seventh day immersion and found it 'crowded'. The tenth day would simply mean 'a stampede'.

I find the whole mob thing a bit too much. Diverting traffic and jams, delays and stampedes. But of course, that is my personal opinion, I am not really aware of the great flowchart of faith that unravels itself behind the act of gathering in mobs and taking the god for an immersion while trampling several fellow beings in the process. It's okay, really...maybe it is karma unravelling itself in its myriad ways.

In India, karma unwinds itself in several complex ways because we are also a culture that, although highly scientific and intuitive, are given to say "Don't ask why". I want to believe this is a recent phenomenon. In the yesteryears, a 'why' would get a rewarded look and the questioner would get packed off to a Gurukul to understand the finer dynamics of life and living.

But now...few people really know the right answer but they still have egos bloated enough to pretend to know but disguise it under a resounding 'don't ask why'. ugh. How it irks me. And given how I am, I go, "Well, that is EXACTLY what I am going to do unless you tell me why."

But off late, I have become a more believing soul, trying to tell myself that there must be some, some, some reason why things are done in the way they are done, we just don't know them right now. We should find out why they are done...like here's an instance.

We don't comb our long, flowing hair in the evening. I never bothered with that because I had short cropped hair, but then, my friends had long hair and they would disappear for a good twenty minutes in the middle of evening playtime to get their hair plaited. So I found out, from my grandpa, who made perfect sense, when he said, "In olden days, great saints would come to our doorsteps for alms and we would serve them whatever little food we had. To make sure stray hair di dnot land up in mouthfuls of succulently cooked food, we made sure women had their hair tied before they arrived."

See? Simple. I love my grandpa. I like those answers. They make sense to me, so although no saint comes to my doorstep begging for food, I make sure my hair is tied up at home. Nobody likes stray hair flying about in their house anyway.

So yes...I still ask why. But I am patient with the answers. Some answers unravel themselves. Like they used to say that we must not eat certain foods during eclipses. Onions especially. I didn't buy that. Until I did eat onion pakodas during an eclipse. I got violently sick with acidity. The food had gone bad within one hour of preparation. So maybe when they tell you to not do something or do something...give it a minute...figure it out. And follow it if it makes sense :)

Not everything is backed by sense though. I will talk about that too. But I must end this here. It's time to go light the evening lamp :)

Cover Me Up

2009-08-18T14:09:00.005+05:30

Near Hi Tech City in Hyderabad, there is a crafts fair that runs year round. It's called Shilpa Ramam and I end up there at least once in two months - mostly end up buying furniture and wooden stuff and other home requirements.

Of course it is a pretty place. And there are great bargains. And all the rest that you assume about a crafts mela.

So before a colleague finally quit and packed her bags to head back home to Cochin, she decided to make one last trip - as it goes, without saying, I ended up buying more than the people who plan the trip, I ended up buying something I 'needed' for the house - no impulse shopping for me. I am being a good girl off late.

So I bought a TV Cover, hand embroidered and fit to synchronize with the colour of my living room: deep and rich brown. I launched into an eloborate description of the colour, texture and style I wanted - the shop keeper, who by now knows me by my first name, spread out cover after cover, patient, because he knew I would not leave wihout taking what I 'needed'.

I found a cover. Pretty brown, deep and knitted in wool, satin stitched. I showed it off to my colleague - friend. Who looked at me quizzically.

"Why do you need a TV Cover?"

I opened my mouth and repeated what I knew was true.

"To protect it from dust."

"Top floors are not dusty."

"In Hyderabad, they are."

"Your TV needs to be open to ventilate and cool down."

"I will open it when it has to cool down."

"You will forget."

"I won't."

"You will and your TV won't survive as long."

"I like this cover."

"That is a different story."

"I need this cover."

"No, you don't."

"Stop sounding like a typical husband."

"Oh, please. Ew. But seriously, why do you need this cover??"

I shut up, looked at her for a minute.

"I need a cover because I am Indian and Indians cover everything up."

She beamed. "Right. That's okay. Let's go."

And we do cover everything. The TV, the washing machine (for which I need a cover still), the mixer-grinder, the music player, the computer, the car, the motor cycle, the bike, and we also cover the shelves with paper so dust doesn't settle on them and mar their shine. So what that we never get to flaunt that shine we so carefully preserve.

I thought about it for a while and decided to leave my shelves unpapered. I will dust them when they get dusty. I am only going to cover my TV and washing machine (I mean c'mon, I promise I will worry if I don't) and leave all else to the mercy of the soil that formed this world, this body etc etc.

Oh, by the way, my friend-colleague is as Indian as she can get. She is just ...umm... kinda more aware of our eccentricities than I want to be.

On Repairs And Replacements

2009-08-10T10:29:00.003+05:30

Late night shower. Hyderabad seems to be going the Chennai way in terms of temperature - summers year around. So I walked into to my shower and guess what I step on? A stick on peg, its innards lying scattered on the floor, peg on one end, stick on patch the other end.

Guess what I did? Picked it up and went to the table, sat myself down and started to work on repairing it. Stuck the patch back with a little petroluem adhesive and then glued the peg back before the patch froze in place. Stuck it back in place soon after. And walked back into my shower. Wondering...what did the west do with stuff that is rendered apparently useless?

Junk it. Simple answer. If I were a Rosalind, not a Reema, I would mostly have taken the peg to the bin, disposed it off and found a new peg to stick to the door.

Indians repair, not replace. Pretty much everything. All that is cracked and broken and torn will be plastered, stuck and sewed back in shape before any nmore damage is rendered. Which is also why we are a repair economy. We fix stuff up and we carry that quality into our every day living too. Relationships can be healed and fixed too, so divorce rates, although gradually mounting, is still very low as compared to the same in the west, where what does not work can be junked.

Not here.

Here, we mostly marry for life. Here, you will find families that have had the same refrigerator for the last 20 years and are possibly planning to lend it to their son who is about to start his own family. Everything can be repaired. We also buy brands that can be easily serviced - Nokia, Videocon, Bajaj...we would rather not easily buy an Dopod or a Haier or a Daewoo because should it break down, we would have no idea where to take it for 'repair'.

Oh, and how could I forget? My home PC is about...umm...10 years old now? And its fine. We can still surf the net on it and do the basic. For work related usage, there is the laptop. Are we planning to junk the PC? No way. It's going to be collector's item five years from Now.

Which reminds me, you must see this movie called the Story Of Stuff by Annie Leonard - a free stream that will run online or on Quicktime if you download it (free again). It is a 20-minute animation film that tell syou just why the US is a bane on planet earth. And further prove my point too :). You will find it here. Happy watching!

Firangi Illusions

2009-08-04T11:05:00.002+05:30

So, if you are not an Indian and in India for a while, you will hear the word 'firang' uttered often. Yes, you are right. It refers to you. Un-Indian white-skinned (no we are not racist, a lot of us simply adore fair-skinned people, what with all the crap our media feeds us about fair being lovely) individual, speaking in tongues that we do not exactly understand, or have a hard time deciphering.

Of course, some of us find you weird. Why? Well, that question is a bit like opening a Pandora's box. We are a colorful nation. So we find it odd that you should be dressed all the time in whites, greys, beiges or blacks or light blues. Where did you lose your colors? Red and green and purple are not dressy. They are everyday - just like tomatoes, spinach and brinjals...uh, eggplant, that is. So we also do not understand when you insist that you have to find an 'undressy saree'...what is the point of wearing an undressy saree? Undressy sarees are worn when you are spring cleaning the house or when you are in mourning. Period.

And we have English names for our vegetables - chances are, you will be gaped at if you call our ladyfingers okra, our curds yoghurt, our brinjals eggplant and our Paneer cottage cheese. Paneer is about to enter Longman's, and you better know that.

We find it odd that you go on Blitz trips to the Taj (I mean, that is okay but it isn't exactly the end of the world you know...maybe you should also go to the red Fort and Qutub Minar). We do not understand it when you stop to take photos of beggars on the road...it is ridiculous - human life caught in a moment of art for you, everyday reality for us. We smile because we are mostly humoring you.

We don't understand why every 'firang' we have met so far goes to the same places, in the same order. Mumbai-Goa-Kerala-Bangalore-Hyderabad-Udaipur-Jaipur-Pushkar-Delhi-Agra-Khajuraho. Umm, there is more to India you know, and one day, if we meet a foreigner who says they are open to exploring places in India, we are definitely going to be surprised!

Please understand that every place has some sort of a dress code - anything doesn't work anywhere. So dress with caution - it's just for your own safety.

we find it even more funny that you clutch a lonely Planet in your hand and haggle with cabs that anyway charge you ten times what they charge a local. So, why don't you just make an Indian friend before you come and use their help? makes life simpler for you and in a lot of ways, for us too.

Indian food is spicy. Our weather demands it. Accept that and stop cribbing about not finding bland, tasteless, hygienic food on our streets. Eat what you find and don't complain. Or simpler, cook your own food. Or go live in a Taj or a Hilton's. In any case, you will still find Indian flavours. It is just plain unavoidable, like pig lard instead of oil being used in every hotel made food item on the streets of Singapore.

Know that we are an ancient culture and very diverse, very contradictory and a mini universe in our own right. Leave your ideas behind when you visit. It will make enjoying the place easier for you. And yes, it is true that this country is run more by faith than by a government - try changing that. It's been that way for several millenia now.

And yes...under all that baffling realities you see, we are really nice people - we may not understand you but that will not stop us from not helping you when you are in need. Just keep your mind open. Yeh India hai, meri jaan.

India Vs India?

2009-07-10T15:51:00.003+05:30

We hate supermarkets. Yes, you will see you thronging into them and standing in endless queues and glad to finally have access to things that were once limited to TV screens a few years ago. But we hate them.

We hate that the vegetables are sodden and oh-so-huge, which means that they are hybrid and mostly genetically modified. We hate that you have only 4-5 vegetables of which we probably need just one and they are overpriced. They are wilting and dry and sad. We hate it that you assault us with tinned and canned foods that we buy because our children egg us to buy them but we know they are cancerous and have no business being in our bodies.

We hate it that you have everything on display in places that we can reach, unlike the local kirana store where you don't touch anything, you just read out a list of things you really need and you get them and you leave. We hate that you have made such consumeristic brats out of us. We hate that you make us think that garlic bread needs garlic butter which needs to be bought and cannot be made at home. Of course it can be...mashed garlic in butter blended together with salt and oregano and chilli flakes and refridgerated. Simple, no? But no...you tell us we must buy it.

We miss walking through our local weekend markets with cows sauntering by, children tugging along, dedicated shops for different kidns of begetables, loyalty to select shops and mostly food grown normally - not blown up with injections from some inorganic nonsense. We miss the bargaining, the bumping into friends from around town, the casual jokes and the haggling over price rise by two bucks.

We miss being greeted by vendors who know us long enough to pick out the best vegetables and eggs and meat for us. Where is that market, and where are those people? Why can I not find a single local, huge, unending, messy, smelly and beautifully colourful market like that in Hyderabad?

This India of my local subzi mandi, which one is it? The one straining on the leash to leap out and show the world what she is, or the one that forms the leash, holding the other India back? If only everything was painted in black and white...

Culinary Junk Yard

2009-06-15T10:47:00.002+05:30

I thought about writing this yesterday evening…and now, today morning, when I actually sat down to write it all out, I could not remember what I had to write about. It took me a colleague who strolled by eating a packet of chips to remember what I was so vehement about just a few hours ago.

Junk food. The bane of all things considered edible in this country.

I was watching a movie on Star Movies the other day and there was this scene where the guy is picking up a packet of bread rolls from the store. And a packet of hot dogs. Instant food. And then he picks up some mayonnaise and stuffed canned olives and something else that is also canned. Marmalade I think.

This is a country, the US I mean, where most of the food that is consumed is packaged, processed, genetically modified, canned and floating in preservatives. Is my country going down the same route? I also notice that the guy at the counter in this movie is…obese. And now, apparently, the word obese has become equal to a swear word. You can get sued for calling somebody who is obese…”obese”. Interesting.

And I see what is happening in this country too. Kid wailing in the car? Shove a bottle of coke into its mouth. Child not eating home cooked food? Coax a burger into him. The reward for finishing homework is a packet of chips. Tiffin cannot be the regular stuff I ate and grew up into what I am today…not upma, poha, not chapattis with some subzi, but sandwiches stuffed with mayo and cocktail sause, coleslaw with cheese…and sedentary lifestyles.

Are we heading towards becoming obese…sorry, supremely and unhealthily fat too, as a population? And that will all be closely followed by blood pressure problems, joint aches, cardiac problems…

Maybe we are heading there though. There are so many people working out and gymming and dieting but collectively, few are happy with their fitness levels. And this is bad for a nation that already has healthier and tastier options. Unlike the US, where I suppose the food habits are almost a part of the culture by now. Mostly junk. Its unbelievable what we have allowed globalization to do to us. It’s okay adopting the good. But the rest definitely belongs in the dump yard.

Udaipur Chronicles III

2009-05-15T10:37:00.002+05:30

And here’s the final piece folks. Food and food and food J

So Udaipur…is sort of disappointing if you are lazy, foodwise. You will have to hunt and ask and go round in circles. For the first two days, we pretty much lived on omelettes (for P) and Aloo Parathas (for me). Then we got really fed up, what with all those high hopes about finding the streets flowing with desi ghee and dal bati churma. Tough luck.

So we hunted and walked into every little nookie and were assaulted with firang food smells – scrambled eggs and pancakes, toasts and marmalade. Eyuch…I mean, after two days, every Indian is going to be fed up of it, especially when it happens in India. So the hunt went on until we ran into a rickshaw wallah, who said we need to go try the ‘Classic Vintage Car Collection’?!?!?! I was a bit taken aback – isn’t that for cars? We are looking for food.

“Nahi Madamji, andhar ek hotel bhi hai.” (No madam, there is also a hotel inside.)

Aah, sweet discovery. Next day, we were at the Car Collection, deciding to eat before looking at the vintage cars. Lovely. A vegetarian unlimited feast for about 100 bucks. A little over that if you buy the lunch with the ticket to see the cars, with a guide. Although the food was not entirely and only ‘Rajasthani’, it was brilliant. Two different lentils (dals), four different subzis (vegetables), paneer, two sweet dishes, not counting the Payasam/Payesh/Rice Kheer etc etc. And we were quite stuffed at the end of it. And two old uncles fussed over us and made sure we were well fed.

By the end of it, I decided I had to go for a walk – so bang opposite was the Rose Garden and zoo. We went in for a stroll, sat in a mini train and went to see the animals (although the condition of the animals in the zoo is pathetic – caged and miserable).

Two more days of lousy food followed, counting out the trip to my uncle’s place, where we got stuffed again (post wedding ritual in every part of India). And then we went for the Udaipur sight seeing trip, a one day affair…where we asked the rickie again where we would find proper Rajasthani food, minus all the fanfare. He took us to Surajpole area, to New Santosh Bhojanalaya. Easily missable place but famous in Surajpole so just make sure you ask around.

Two storeyed tumbledown place, messy and but generally okay clean…don’t go look for filth please, you are in India. It smelled divine though…all those spices and their smells wafting in the air, cinnamon, garlic, onions, garam masala, haldi, chilli powder, bay leaves, pepper…aah. Lovely.

And we ordered a plate of Dal Bati – depending on what kind of plate you order, you won’t pay more than 50-60 bucks. Usual start…little papad, some achar (pickle), rotis dripping in desi ghee (you want to start believing they have a cow shed in the kitchen!), some subzi (different everyday)…and then comes the main part…the dal with the bati. Loaded with ghee. Not for the weight conscious. But then you see it…you want to run far far away from Udaipur and never confront this delicious decadence ever again, its like being tempted by the Devil. And then you fall from grace.

You order the bloody thing and lick your plate clean. You will NOT BE ABLE to waste all that ghee, its so sinfully, mind bogglingly, insanely delicious. At the end of three churmas (for P) and two for me, we were unable to move much without getting a stitch in our sides. So we forgot all about ordering churma separately and went for one more walk J. Oh, btw, for the kitchen kings and queens, you will find Dal Bati Churma here.

Just one word of advice…Rajasthani food is spicy even for the average Indian, pungent and dripping with ghee (it’s a coolant and it keeps them alive in the scorching summer heat). Its unavoidable so visit Rajasthan with a pledge that you will come back and gym it all away. Then you can plunge with a guilt free conscience J.

Udaipur Chronicles II

2009-04-18T07:03:00.008+05:30

Okay, I am back. Kind of disappeared for a while but here you go, again, all that I had to share intact and perhaps mellower after so long!

There are oh-so-many places in Udaipur to see...we didn't do all because we travel more like - Do you feel like it? - instead of - you are here, better see everything there is to be seen - so we skipped some 4-5 places. I will mention those too, it might be your wow place.

So yeah...like I said, ensure you are living in the Old City. Lots of lovely quaint old time hotels, narrow little streets, very reminescent of the streets of Chandni Chowk. Lal Ghaat is where we were camping out. Most hotels have websites running and can book you on phone/email so I will not go about telling you 'where to stay'. Almost every second building is a hotel.

There are many streets, like a labyrinth so you tend to get lost. Which is great, because you will find so many places that way. We found a really nice place to buy puppets from, just outside City Palace. Udaipur is the place where Maharana Pratap finds a big mention, where he spent a lot of time too, so you get to hear loads about him. About his valour, about his loyal and brave horse Chetak...P was so taken up with this story, he wanted a statue of them. Could not find one anywhere. He suggested it as a business idea - Let's make those statues - I declined politely because I think it isn't long term.

Why was he having business ideas, you ask? I told you, we almost thought of buying a house there! And there is no Google in Udaipur yet, so you definitely cannot work there :)

So back to the topic...around the old city, you will find lots of shopping. If you need woollens, which you will in winter, head to Tibetan Market. Everything else is in and around. Buy puppets and dolls. That reminds me, we did find a Maharana-Chetak puppet that now hangs daintily in the dining room. They are lovely. And metal work, Meenakari work, silver embellishments on a steel base and stuff like that. You are going to need a separate shopping bag to carry back.

The people are really sweet in Udaipur. Friendly, polite and helpful. Most of them will not try cheating you. Most of them will go out of thier way to make you comfortable because they know that winters are the only time tourists pour in and that pretty much runs their travel/ tourist based economy.

Must sees? Make sure you do not miss The Classic Vintage Car Collection, which houses a large variety of vintage cars that the Maharanas owned, which are priceless, which can be rented in case you are a celeb/can afford it (Raveena Tandon used a lovely red-and-black Rolls Royce for her wedding). Visit Jagdish temple in Lal Ghat, a lovely and huge Vishnu temple, with the other troupe of gods surrounding him as well.

A word of caution here - there are things that you will want to buy in the new city of Udaipur (Shastri Circle, Chetak Circle etc.). Refrain. You are going to find them for lesser and better at other places. I will list them as I go.

In Udaipur, other must sees are Dudh Talai (cable car ride and temple on a hill top), Pratap Memorial (an ode to Maharana Pratap and Chetak), Ahar (votive and real marble structures dedicated to the Udaipur royal family - each king constructed one such structure as an ode to the god/goddess he believes in the most). Ahar should not take over 30 minutes to see if you are a layman. If you are a historian, you are going to be here for a while :)

Pratap Memorial reminds me...you will also hop in and see Nehru Park, an island in the middle of a lake called Fateh Sagar. We loved this island because we were among the only 6-7 people walking about on this island. Its landscaped and lovely, and although this may sound silly, its surrounded by pelicans, flamingoes, and ducks that seems to run on water (enlightened?!?) so for me, its a worth-it trip.

You can go for a camel ride at Pratap Memorial - we rode one called Hasmukh Patel - we had a permanenet smile on his lips, a nose ring and he also good naturedly threatened to start running - P wonders even now how they go to war on an animal that moves so much, you are most likely to topple off - from Such Great Heights :)

Then also go to Sajjangarh Palace - the Maharana's Monsoon Palace it is and check out the sunset there. Breathtaking! Go to Jaismand Lake, the biggest man-made lake in Asia. You will see lakes EVERYWHERE. Take your pick.

Go to City Palace - its the most beautiful structure I have ever seen and it is huge. People rent out parts of it for weddings. It has a cafe inside, by far the most idiotically expensive cafe we have ever ventured into (champagne - 15000 INR!?!?!?) but just for kicks, we did buy ourselves a mocktail :) City Palace is home to a lot of Hindi movie sets so you will find it oddly familiar - remember Juhi Chawla and Aamir Khan in Hum Hai Rahi Pyaar Ke? The song Ghoongat Ki Aad Se? Shot there. Of course, P broke into song every now and then.

The armoury, the royal kitchen, the various rooms, even the table fans of great antiquity...the place is lovely. The Jaipur City Palace is miserable in front of this structure. And yes!!! You also get to take pictures in Rajasthani costumes at City Palace. Remember to bargain!

Last but not the least - remember to hop in to Lok Kala Mandal at Chetak Circle. Puppet shows, Bhavai dance, other rural - tribal dances will keep you entertained for over an hour. Shows happen daily, once in the afternoon - 12 to 1, and once in the evening - 7ish I think. DO NOT miss that.

We missed Shilpakala Mandal because we have one already in Hyderabad that we go to often - this one is apparently no different - a handicrafts mela basically. We missed Saheliyon Ke Baari - queens would play here with their friends, a garden with fountains actually - and we missed some other places around Udaipur.

What's next? Miniature paintings, sarees specific to Rajasthan, Bandhini, food (I love this part!), and places around Udaipur that you can hop to - unmissable. More coming your way soon!

Udaipur Chronicles - I

2009-03-31T11:45:00.007+05:30

Wedding done, relatives met and touched on their feet, lots of banana and milk consumed (that P has promised to officially ban from weddings if given the chance to rewrite our cultural mores), and lots of packing-unpacking-living-out-of-bags done, lots of unknown faces befriended overnight…I guess you finally find a little time to breathe when you decide to run away for your honeymoon.

Knowing us, we knew we would end up in a touristy place that had some abstract connection with our dating days…no more talk about that now, but we decided to head to Udaipur. And Jaipur for a day. A week in Udaipur because it’s a small, not crowded place, quaint, with enough to see but also leaves you enough time to unwind and walk and explore places and people. Jaipur for a day because its sweltering end of winter, commercialized, and in one word – kind of irritating. I mean, I liked the places but I would not spend more than a day there anyway.

So Udaipur…is a lovely place. And you are going to have a post or two more about it and what to do, where to go etc etc. I am sure we didn’t do everything that every tourist should do but I will give you my fill anyway. Because we loved the place so much, we seriously considered moving there. P had some business ideas as well. But now we are back in Google and nobody has mentioned the business ideas again ever since.

Yeah so…Udaipur has one quaint little airport. It’s a shock getting down on the airport. It looks like a personal aerodrome, tiny and well kept and very homely. The weather is very pleasant, breezy and the sun does not bother you one bit. I am talking about winter here at 2pm. Cocooned by the Aravalli mountain ranges and filled with lakes every few metres, the city is virtually air conditioned in winters. The same cocoon acts as a deterrent to extreme temperatures in summers as well when the temperatures are high but not as high as what other Rajasthani cities face through summer.

Outside the airport is not crowded. Of course, considering only two airlines seem to fly to Udaipur anyway: Indian and Kingfisher. And the drive to the city is pleasant, great roads, mountain ranges and forts reaching for the skies.

P’s first reaction was to flip out his camera and click just about everything. Wall paintings, miniatures drawn on the entrance to homes (slums and bungalows included), the local corporation, a medical college that looked like a palace…of course, after a week, he knew which photos to keep and take.

Udaipur is not very popular with Indian tourists that way, who mostly spend at the max a day or two there, choosing to do a round trip of all Rajasthani cities at once…you know, those packages, Jaipur-Jodhpur-Jaisalmer-Udaipur-Ajmer-Delhi-Agra types. Not my style, I hate those Blitz trips. They exhaust me and I need another vacation to recover from one. There are many firangs walking around in Udaipur (mostly on those Blitz trips again but cannot blame them) and most choose to stay in the old city of Udaipur. The Lalghat area basically, surrounding the City Palace. Makes sense too, most of the stuff to do and see is in and around this place. The new city may as well be a smaller or bigger version of your own town. Avoid that. Visit but do not stay.

One thing we learnt very quickly…because the tourist inflow is mostly non-Indian, the food is also very non-Indian in most places. Forget trying to get your hands on South Indian food unless you are staying in a five-star. So you will be flooded with menus saying – Scrambled eggs, pancakes, beans on toast and other such unpalatable nonsense. We struggled with Aloo Parathas for 2 days before we got adventurous with exploring the place. More on that coming up. Let me just figure out how I want to put it and in which order J.

All Made Up

2009-03-18T10:12:00.003+05:30

For a girl whose make up kit is composed of three lip gels, a kajal and a small mirror, getting all dressed up for the wedding is…one very very big deal.

From putting on the mehendi, to warning the parlour woman of dire consequences if she screws up your eyebrows (there are such inept people in Hyderabad), to not trying anything very new because goodness knows how it will react with your skin, to putting your hair through extreme torture (blow dry, curling irons, daily head baths etc etc, and oh how can I forget the hair extensions that they add to make your short hair look a kilometer long), to making sure you don’t break your nail, to pedicures, manicures, to facials, to getting waxed and praying very hard that they don’t burn you by mistake…its one endless ordeal, and you have to stay patient.

They took two hours to just do my hair. Then came the face, the nails and simultaneously the feet etc etc, and this will happen back to back, mind you. Engagement, wedding, post wedding ceremonies, house welcoming ceremonies, receptions, pujas etc.

By the end of it, every bit of me that had undergone the whirlwind course was aching and tired. Of course, there will be travelling and a lot of barefeeting (my new coinage, because I cannot walk without slippers even at home), touching other barefeet feet…uhh…and a lot of people and activities that will demand your attention, leaving you no time to tend to yourself and your body.

Now, in retrospect, when people see the wedding photos and the reception snapss and go all ‘WOW’, it feels like it probably was worth the trouble.

Its much easier for men. Take P for example. He called me, asked me about good parlours in a city he had grown up in, a city I had just arrived in and had not spent more than 72 hours in too, took the address and phone number down, promptly walked into the parlour, got a treatment done and walked into the wedding looking like a million dollars. The same thing happened during all the other functions too.

I wish I could do that.

Take Goli for example…he got dragged to a parlour by Mad Angel where he was subjected to a facial and when they were done with him and done extracting a hefty sum, Goli got up and blinked at the mirror. Silence. He came for the wedding, walked into my room and asked me if he looked any different. Because he couldn’t see any difference. He looked as bad (or good) as he did before the treatment. I looked at him for a minute, sized him up and said – You are glowing.

“Who to main waise bhi glow karta hoon yaar.”

There you go.

I wish I could do that.

P Talk

2009-03-16T11:43:00.004+05:30

This is about P. I wonder if he will read this and how, and I want to see him and the way he reacts when he reads this because this has been a point of discussion with friends and family for so long now…that P looks like Abhishek Bachchan.

Now let me clarify this very well right now. I do not like Abhishek Bachchan because I find him immature and I don’t like his acting skills all that much, unless you say Guru, where I think he did a great job. Luck by chance I guess because he hasn’t done it the second time.

But when I was in school and Abhishek Bachchan was not an actor but Bollywood’s most eligible bachelor, I still found him very hot. Like he had that ruffled out of bed, messy in a very crude sensual way types…you know? So yes I did like him then. Then he did Refugee. I still liked him. Then he did Dhai Akshar Prem Ke and I retreated in horror and abandoned him, settling for Hrithik etc. Abhishek Bachchan was never considered as drool factor again. The matter ended and I banished him to the farthest recesses of my mind.

When he reappeared with Yuva, I still did not give him a second chance. Somehow, the fact that he was such a lousy actor and dancer never allowed me to consider that he still looked good, if not as good as he used to, but still very close.

Then I met P and I never compared him to Abhishek. I mean, I just thought P looked like P and the matter ended there because even when he wakes up, P looks like the best thing on this planet. Correction…not thing. Man.

So when mum and five college friends and several colleagues said – Doesn’t he look like Abhishek Bachchan?...I saw P in new light. I would sit and look at him eat and pick on his food and then debate and complain and laugh and then blush and several other things, trying to see what angle he looked like Abhishek from. P ended up thinking I was staring at him too much so he would ask – What is coming? What does that mean? Do not ask, we have our own way of mauling English and giggling about it.

But one day, we were seeing Dostana in a movie hall and I was wondering what time would be right to start suffocating because of bad air conditioning so I could leave the hall. Soon. ASAP. I could not stand a minute of the later half of the movie…and I admit that Abhishek does a good job of acting gay. Very effeminate! And then suddenly, there was this song, Desi Girl I think, and something funny happened on screen so I started laughing and looked almost instantly at P laughing away too and FLASH!

I found the angle. The Abhishek angle. I stopped laughing, looked in open-mouthed wonder at the man I was going to marry. And he did look from this one particular 78.65 degree angle like Abhishek. I looked at the screen and looked at P again, who by now, had spotted that I was ‘staring in open mouthed wonder’ at him, ‘in full public view’. A ‘what is coming’ followed and I shook my head, signaling ‘nothing’.

We left the movie hall soon after when I complained I could not sit anymore through the movie, it was too painful and the AC was too hot. So we got out.

I decided to sample P again in the parking lot. I had lost the angle again and he no longer looked like Abhishek.

I was relieved that I had finally found what so many people had. But he looked like P and I was glad to have him back again, nevertheless. Besides, when I told him I had found the angle, he blushed. Very rare occurrence, that. I still sometimes chance upon the angle, sometimes when he is brushing his teeth, sometimes when he yawns and sometimes when he is sleeping.

But I am not looking for the angle anymore. Nor am I looking for Abhishek. Because even without a reference point, P is some kinda superstar.

Jitters & Tempers

2009-03-13T11:21:00.001+05:30

Jitters and Tempers

This is a survey result. I have a sample size of about ten unbiased women who got married at different points in time. All admitting to one thing. You may be the pillar of wisdom and clarity and sensibility and peace at normal times.

But not before a wedding.

In one short line, I was irritable, sensitive, short-hot-tempered, suddenly remembered every little thing that is irrelevant, and it felt like payback time. Which obviously explains people around me started wondering what had happened. Fortunately, I have an extremely wise mother, an extremely wise best friend who also doubles up as a soul mate, and at that time, an extremely level headed fiancé.

Who is right now, an extremely level headed husband. Because when your house is sinking in…you know…you turn from an irritable bride-to-be to an irritable wife-in-new-role-for-life.

Going back to the topic…its quite normal. So don’t pinch and judge yourself so hard. You will lose your temper, the whole world will seem to be pitted against you, you will get advice that will leak out of your brain the minute the lecture ends, and you will feel overwhelmed. I considered running away without the two most important things a girl should have when running. Sunscreen and debit cards. I just wanted to suddenly get up and run out of the train that was taking me to the place where the wedding was to be.

There really is no particular reason why you would want to do so. You know you want to do this, you know you are ready for all that lies ahead, you really love this man and you want this to happen, in fact, you may have engineered the whole plan, but…the running feeling comes anyway.

You don’t do anything about it. You just sit and let it pass. You also avoid watching ‘The Runaway Bride’ because it gives a lot of unnecessary inspiration. You try and stay silent as much as you can. Watch a lot of funny movies. In fact, do a movie-marathon if you can with friends you can goof around with. Listen to John Denver. And watch a lot of cartoon. The dumb senseless kinds. Blog. Drink lots of green tea.

One thing you should do though…sleep. Like a zombie, frankly. You are going to need tons of it because you are going to miss tons of it soon. I also think that when you are being irritable, being just-awakened takes the intensity out of the shouting. My mother agrees very heartily.

But you know what…no advice is going to help much here. You will probably just have the realization that you had read about it somewhere. And you will remember every day later, post wedding, and laugh and feel sheepish and remember to tell others who are yet to toe the line. Funny how history repeats!

Foodie Facts

2009-03-11T16:11:00.000+05:30

Indian weddings are not about two people who are getting married. Its about two families getting married. And its about a lot of sunk capital. Except if you count the gold out. Its also about another kind of sunk investment.

Food.

Apparently, its very important that the food is EXTREMELY good – fattening, delicious, dripping with yellow nutrition (read ghee), sweetmeats, four course meals. Why? So the people who come to the wedding enjoy the food, feel happy, feel content, and bless you. So says a certain elder. I kind of agree.

The people getting married pretty much fast. At least in my wedding, we were fasting. Bit of food were smuggled into the room by friends. However, that did not help because I had pretty much lost my appetite. I wasn’t hungry so I wasn’t touching the food anyway. Wasted efforts.

Why do they fast? Ceremonially speaking, it’s a ceremony and its all holy and auspicious and all, so we fast so that energies are not spent in digesting but in focusing on the ceremony at hand. In very short that is.

It’s a very very good thing, personally. Because soon after the wedding, you are made to eat. All kinds of things that health conscious people like me want to avoid. The bigger problem with me is, I don’t exactly like food that is too sweet, too oily, too fried etc. I eat healthy, tasteless food because I LIKE it. Not because I have to or need to. And I don’t have a weight problem.

Ya, so you are made to eat lots of these things that drip with ghee and love and other fattening things. And you pretty much do nothing all day but slip in and out of sarees, meet relatives, touch several feet, visit some temples, meet some more people and they feed you some more. Until of course, you get off for your honeymoon and that is another pamper time, so you suddenly realize that your favourite pair of jeans…do not fit you anymore.

So…you run back home quickly, soon after you are done holidaying, and hit the gym. I did. Here’s a quick bit of advice. Lose some weight before a wedding. Especially your own. I agree that health is a choice and you should be fit generally and not by occasion but I swear this is an exception. Trust me, its miserable not being able to get into clothes you really like.

But yes…keep a small thing in your head…its once in a lifetime and clothes were made for you…not vice versa.

Say Cheese!

2009-03-09T11:18:00.003+05:30

A month before the wedding, I was practicing smiling. I normally don’t have one pasted on my face. I look fine, I mean, going about my work, meeting deadlines and targets and keeping a checklist in my head of things to do (and not do too). When I find a reason, I smile. A colleague-friend knows this and she said it’s not good at all. She insisted that I smile, even generally, look like I just got promoted, 24/7.

And so it started. Every morning, she would flash her Sony Ericsson phone out, say ‘Cheese’ and take a picture. After a week, we had another exercise besides taking the photos: comparing the photos. Which smile is better, which one is toothy, which one is gummy, which one is naughty and therefore not appropriate when you look at the groom (uhhh…) etc etc. She said naughty is nice and I thought of all the very old Paatis (grandmothers in Tam) who would suffer a minor cardiac arrest if anything remotely naughty was attempted by the bride (shy, coy etc).

Anyway…

Did it help? In flashes. Every time there was a photo opportunity, I flashed a practiced smile. I mean, I was happy and all but after a point, your jaw doesn’t understand what’s causing it this overtime. So when there was no photo, the smile went out of the window too, replaced by a look of relief. Or whatever else.

Did that help? No. We had video shooting too. And friends plan to come over and see it. Some expect soft copies couriered and all. P said its public humiliation but funny all the same (for us, yes) so we are still contemplating sharing it. The video has ALL the times I let the smile escape and looked whatever else.

But here’s the good part. The video is actually funny. I mean, we were laughing until we cried when we saw it, and I know we will laugh fifty years later when we see it again. I know they put ‘Jaanam Samjha Karo’ and ‘Koi Mil Gaya, Main To Hil Gaya’ in the background, apart from nice songs too, but it just adds to the humour. It taught me to laugh at the whole thing. And feel happy about it. Samjha Karo!

Wedded Bells

2009-03-03T14:38:00.003+05:30

There is this story about Buddha. The Buddha, I mean. And how he once met a man who said he would do anything if only Buddha would make his son come back to life. Buddha agreed to a condition. "Get me rye from a family where no death has ever occured and I will do what you wish me to."

Of course, the man found no such house and realised that death is something the living must face as an obvious natural end to things. All things.

Two things now: Had the Buddha asked the man to find one house where a wedding has never taken place, the man would find no house. And second thing: weddings and ho9neymoons get over too. Guess what? P agrees. Henceforth, P is the official name on this blog for my husband. Just for future reference. But what learning while the wedding and the post wedding days lasted. What realisations, and why blog about it here, you interrupt?

Because things like this, only an Indian is going to make sense of. The rituals, the traditions, the superstitions, the processes, the food, the clothes, everything...everything...and there shall be blog posts about it. For a long time now, you are only going to read about this, so one day if it happens to you, you know where to go on the WWW.

Silk Route

2009-01-07T09:09:00.005+05:30

The way it catches the light, glinting and shimmering, razor sharp and sashaying colours that would look gaudy on any other kind of cloth but itself, silk completes most Indian weddings. Nobody ever got married in anything but silk. Well, almost.

Red and green and blue and orange. White and black rarely, English colours even rarer. Onion shades, peaches and purples, magentas and the off white colour of cow milk ghee. Gold and silver brocades, embroidered and sequinned.

There is Raw silk, Tassar silk, Benarasi, Kanjeevaram/Kanchipuram (also oft-quoted as the Chennai silk). Of course, there are others, like pure silk, Samu, Zari, Patolas, Paithanis too. But the all get clubbed under the broad term of silk. Pure silk in its pristine smooth azure finish, raw in its terseness and dazzling glory, Paithani in its two colour variants, catching light in different hues, Orissa silk in its rustic appeal, colours of earth caught in fragments of light.

The Benarasi is a personal favourite. Every bit of the Benarasi is fit for a queen. Which is why it is reserved for weddings. When you are the bride, that is. Not otherwise. For that is one day when every woman is a queen, at least for a day. Of course, how you choose to feel about it for the rest of your life is your own call. The Benarasi comes from Benaras, or Banaras, or Varanasi for old timers like me.

Silk weavers weave these sarees of unbroken strands fo silk, never cultivated silk worms. It takes anywhere between 2 months to 2 years for one Benarasi silk saree to be made. That determines the price and value. Benarasi silk sarees, like most other highly valued silks, are not to be washed like normal clothes. They are mostly dry cleaned, lest they lose their shimmer. And of course, they become family heirloms, passed from mother to daughter to daughter-in-law and so on.

Its sacriligeous, at least in most self-righteous families, to chop a silk saree down to its somewhat lesser Indian relative, the salwar kameez or the chudidar, or what women tend to call the suit. But it is tolerated and although nowhere close to the saree, the silk bears the burden of being something less than the saree. The heirloom value, of course, disappears. Much like the sheen and value in wealth.

I have a new found obsseession with silk. Turning them into curtains. Most shopping trips to wedding malls are becoming a hunt for the perfect silk curtain, in the form of a saree, that need not be mitilated and shred to bits to fit the space between the curtain hangers and the floor. I would rather just let them loose, twisted in drapes, cascading down liek a waterfall to the floor or languishing on a bharatiya baithak lazily. Or convert it into a drape for a bed, not to lie down on, just for dressing up the bed in all its glory. Mind you, it looks awful if its an old wooden bulky creaking bed. The four post bed with an embellished bed post is a great idea, wrought iron also does an ounce of justice to such royalty. But that is about it.

Where else can you use silk? Here's an idea froma friend who actually did this. She had a pure off-white silk saree inscribed with her wedding invitation, in gold and red, all the way down the saree, and had it sent as the first invite to the groom himself. The firts invite, as you may be aware, goes to the groom first. What an idea!

But here's my hands down super idea for silk. Turn it into a wall drape, like wall paper, get it burnished with wax so you do not have to worry about dust. Or else, prop it up in a delicate metal frame and you have a work of art ready.

However, just to add, silk does have a story of curelty behind it, like most beauty and art works do. People have opted for cloth that looks and feels like silk, costs much lesser etc etc. but nothing really makes up for the real silk. Just like, try as you might, you cannot make acrylic or lac look like a ruby or a pearl. Let's not even get started about plastic. And there must be some reason behind why The Ancients believe that when meditating while donning silk under the glow of the early morning rising sun, the effect of that state of mind is manifold. And so, with due respect to the silk worms, may God give them liberatation, here's to more silkiness.

There Are No 'Last' Locals

2008-12-11T13:07:00.005+05:30

The stench hits you hard when you first enter it. If a deep dark murky brown and black and yellow could smell, it would probably smell like that. Not like the benign Metro of Delhi and Kolkata, steel glinting under incandescent white lights, the high-pitched cry of the train roaring through underground tunnels, the deep darkness of the earth’s belly flashing by, no sights to see, no human sounds to hear.

This is the Mumbai local. Home to many. A travelling, killing, transporting device. And the source of livelihood to many more. Painted burnt sienna and ochre yellow, sparking at the tops where the wires touch the electric transmitters, it rolls by, almost silently, the light chug-chug seeping through your veins. Sights and sounds travel past, people, animals, fields, marshes, hills and stations. On the way, it slices stray bodies lying limply dead on the tracks, sometimes jerking of human load that it cannot carry or bear or protect.

Muddy and soiled in the rains, dusty and sweaty on summer days. It packs in more than it is built to carry. Women and men on their way to work, children going to schools that are not close to where they live, vendors selling odds and ends, food even. Books, dresses, beauty products, under garments, even washed-chopped-sorted vegetable that working women can buy to go home and toss straight into the cooking bowl. Time saving devices. The Mumbai dabbawallas…eunuchs. Animals stay in and out sometimes. College students. Tourists. People sing bhajans, chant, sometimes play Antakshri, and chatter endlessly. They share seats too. They know how it feels to stand for two hours in one place, holding out the swelling masses of humanity.

Then there are terrorists. Gunmen. Policemen who sometimes protect, sometimes molest, sometimes guard. It all depends.

You stand packed in like a slice of cheese between strange bodies that have been closer to you than you would let your most intimate friends get, sweat mingling, all caste-class differences dissolving in them. You get off, often without trying to, because you get shoved out. And shoved in too. The train horn is the only music. It varies too. The long drawn honk to signal its arrival. The short and crisp honk-honk-honk three times to tell the station’s keeper that somebody fell off on the way to the station, please send emergency aid.

The marks of terror are visible everywhere. Mangled wire poles near Mulund, where a ladies’ compartment was shattered when a bomb blasted its innards. Cracks in the asbestos sheets across several other stops where the serial blasts happened. People walk on impassively, not trusting, not turning, ready to run at the slightest hint of unusual activity. Indicators blink on and off, the clocks slowly turn and the trains go on, 4am to 2 am, hardly ever halting, hardly ever pausing.

And hands with no faces. With no names. Disembodied. Because you never know who pulled you in when the crowd was about to shove you out, let you slip between the rails into the arms of inevitable death or mutation. You yell a thanks and in ten more seconds, the impact of having almost died leaves your nerves and you are calm again, crushed between flesh and bone but alive. It is these hands that pull Mumbai along.

A Saree State of Affairs

2008-12-03T10:27:00.007+05:30

My first glimpse of this longish piece of cloth...is still a vivid memory. Plain georgette, crumpled and billowing in the air like a flag of a nation that recently won its freedom. Pink and blue, a little damp but turning crisp fast in the hot summer sun. it had formed a puddle of water a few feet below, sashaying gladly on the clothes line.

The saree. The Indian saree. Which has metamorphosed into various styles and pleats, the folds increasing, decreasing, disappearing. The blouse, cuff sleeved once, then frock like and puffy like a cloud, long sleeve, short sleeve, mega sleeve, no sleeve, no shoulder, noodle straps, no straps, sometimes no blouse even. But the saree has remained.

No cuts, no folds, just a long, long garment, changing colours, texture, but never changing form. The Princess drape, the 70s drape, the designer drape, the choli drape, the god-knows-what-else drape...oh yes, the farmer drape, tucked in between the legs, pulled tight over the butt and probably the best thing to wear if you are out ploughing a field. And so much sex appeal.

But this is not about the saree and its changing fashions. This post is about men. Men I have grown to love, respect, look up to, admire, envy and sometimes worship. And one of the reasons why I have reached this stage is their obsession with the saree and its drapes.

One of them made me get back to my room, threatened to throw me out of the Puja hall if I did not get out of my everyday jeans and Tantra T, and change into a saree that I did not have. I walked out, angry, pissed, found a friend, got her saree, got into it, walked back into the hall and made a face at him and walked away. He left a message: I know you are beautiful. But how breathtakingly beautiful, I know only now.

The other told me I was not to wear noodle straps for a blouse because I am not Mandira Bedi and I do not get paid to show my shoulders and back to the world. He did not mention this but I could hear him say that he did not like random men peering down my back and goodness knows what else.

The other said that if I wear designer sarees, he would be happier if I bunched the anchal up on my shoulder instead of leaving it down loose. It leaves more to the imagination, he was trying to say. Of course, I heard more than that.

What I am trying to say here is...the saree is one of the most gorgeous attires ever created and worn by womankind, sensual and comfortable and so, oh so elegant. If there is one garment that oozes class, it is the saree. And I have seen the various ways it is draped now, for various reasons. But it took me these three amazing men to realise that the grace to this garment comes from the soul that is draped within those folds of cloth. A soul that realises what it does to a man to share even visually, what belongs only to him, like a private place of worhip. That realises what it does to itself when it draws unwarranted attention, exposing itself to potential harm.

And what it does to the royalty that the saree itself inherited. It is funny how some lessons are taught best by people who do not seem to live in those realities. And it is now that I realise why there was something very odd about Priyanka Chopra doing a tomboy dance in a golden saree on a dance floor in a pub in the movie 'Dostana', swaying to the tunes of Desi Girl. Was it Desi, after all? If it was, why was it an eyesore to see what has become of the saree? And now I know why my mothers and grandmothers look so benign and lovely in their sarees, with or without a perfect hour glass figure.

Like he said, some things ought to be left to the imagination.

Colaba: The Only Causeway

2008-12-01T11:19:00.008+05:30

A terrorist attack of a magnitude that has shaken the world completely is the last thing I want to write about, especially after I have gone through scrolls and scrolls of print on the matter. And TV channels that gave me and the terrorists a live coverage of what was happening, shocking me, you and keeping our tormentors updated.

And so many blog posts about how Mumbai and the nation is seething in anger and shock. And the less said about this callous government, the better.

And at a time like this, I post about something unrelated. Not because entertainment rates high during times of war and economic burnout, but because I have no more empty words on this matter. Maybe not completely unrelated, because we are still in Mumbai, post our Vada Paav tour, still lurking those majestic, sea-swept roads.

I post about Colaba. The street, the life, the shops, the place that was under siege a few days, nay, hours back. The Colaba of my college days, the Colaba Causeway. Colaba of Leopold Café that was the best preferred firangi place for alcohol and food, its legendary beer and its friendly staff.

Colaba of Theobroma, food fit for gods, in its aroma high oregano breads, rye flakes and liquor filled chocolates, its freshly baked delicacies finding their way to people walking by unsuspecting.

Colaba of Delhi Durbar, that was a non vegetarian’s dream come alive but a blessing to vegetarian’s too…they had the world’s best Veg Wonton Soup. Of Sahakari Bhandar, where office goers thronged in large numbers, eating what makes Mumbai run…Vada Paavs, Pav Bhaji, Dosas, Idlis, sabudana Wadas, Aloo Parathas…I won’t ever know what cuisine they served but whatever they made, became an instant legendary hit with people. There never was an empty seat, never a missing queue, the only queue I didn’t mind standing in.

Of Regal Cinema. Of the little quaint Barista, Sports Bar, of McDonald’s and that several paan counters where you would get a Ludhianvi, Benarasi, Plain, Masala, Tikha and …hold your breath…Kesari Paan. Probably better than where they originated from.

Of walking up Kala Ghoda and Jehangir art gallery, of walking up the NGMA to the vast roads that was a shopper’s paradise come alive, in golds, blues, reds and yellows.

Of antiques, of fashion statements that were written on the streets, of firangs (foreigners), of drug peddling rogues, of the Gothic structures, of Parsis and Jews, of the Defense forces that nestled in harmony with their civilian counterparts beyond Afghan Church. Of Navy Nagar. Of coffee with friends, long lost and found and lost again or kept safe. Little lockers of life that are tucked away in these streets and gullis, that burst into colours even now, little pockets that will no more be recognizable when I go back next. Or will they?

Of junk jewellery, of Tantra Tshirts, of silver and brass, of old LPs, of handicrafts, of Madhubani paintings, of British memorabilia, of walking for hours and buying nothing, of speeding through alleyways and blowing up 5000 bucks on Rajasthani tribal jewellery and silk scarves.

Of being mistaken for a Pakistani. Then German and then Swiss. Of saying – Tereko kya lagta hai, apun Alibaag se aayla hai kya? Of the shopkeeper smiling back and saying – Madam, to phir aapke liye 500 nahi, aapke liye 150. No bargaining. And we were proud Indians that day as well.

Of buying dupattas that were used as sarongs, of bandanas that were handkerchiefs, of Kolhapuris and jholas, of patchwork curtains that were stitched into props for college festivals. Of wannabe models. Generally of wannabes.

Of Taj, of the ferry to Elephanta caves, of Gateway of India, of straw hats and colourful ice golas.

Just like India. And just like The Indian Melting Pot.

Colaba. That rainbow of people that never sleeps, what Mumbai, Bombay stands for. The City That Never Sleeps. Because Colaba never slept. Literally.

Mumbai Food Express

2008-11-26T18:36:00.009+05:30

I had to do this. It's winter, it's getting cold, I naturally feel like eating something hot and spicy, so obviously I think of...yep...I think of the Indian prototype to the western burger. The Vada Paav. The Batata Vada for some. For the less fortunate, a Vada (pronounced vadaa) is a round, fluffy, rather large bit of some kind of flour that was mixed with salt, spices, maybe bits of some other flour too, and then deep fried in oil after coating it with besan. Besan (pronounced bay-sun) is chickpea flour, by the way.

The Paav is just bread...plain white unhealthy bread. Incidentally, I have never seen wheat bread eaters complain about the white bread paav that accompanies the Vada. Wonder why...

Going back to my explanation...the Vada Paav is something EVERY human soul in Mumbai eats and adores, worships even. It is the most inexpensive, most delicious, deliriously often consumed healthy junk food eaten in our part of the world. Often along with some chilli-garlic-coconut chutney. To describe it in this way is very foreign for any Mumbaikar/Mumbaiite.

The Vada Paav is best eaten hot. Finger burning hot, so when you hold it, your finger tips turn red, so you hurry to pop it into your mouth and your tongue burns up a bit too, then you huff-puff and stick it in and eat a bit of the chutney, only to realise that hot and pungent are a lethal combination...but...but...there is no other way to eat the Vada Paav. Wrapped in some newspaper from yesterday.

The Vada is stuffed with boiled, mashed potatoes stir fried quickly in turmeric, coriander leaves, salt, asafoetida, green chillies ground finely to add the spice. Some people also add a wee bit of mustard seeds sometimes but that is not a must. Then the stuffing is dipped in a smooth paste of chickpea flour mixed with red chilli powder and salt and a pinch of finely ground Ajwain (carom seeds). heaven. This is then dipped into a pan full of oil, boiling hot, and removed when a lovely shade of deep brown and golden.

And its eaten when it rains...and when its cold...with green chillies and the chutney we spoke about early on. One rule about the Vada Paav in Mumbai is...it never costed a soul more than 5 INR. Anything more is blasphemy. Poor man's food. Snack even.

Where do you get the world's most amazing Vada Paav? I would hands down vote Karjat railway station, a place that you cross when you are on your way from Mumbai to most other important cities. Or a local train even, that goes to Karjat. The train reads 'S'. There are too many stations starting with K therefore the S. Whatever.

However, you also get the world's second best Vada Paav at Vithal's in Fort, off DN Road, a little way from CST/VT Terminus...Landmark? Uhh...Sterling Cinema. Very close. If you are too impatient and cannot bother finding Vithal's, the snack is also available at VT Terminus. In two places...on the station and also just outside the Station, when you take the route towards the GPO. They call them Jumbo Vada Paavs. Huge. Slurpilicious! For people on the Western Railway end of the world, Marine Lines Station opens into Princess Street, where there is one huge shop that also sells the Jumbo Vada Paav.

Most people vouch that the Vada Paav is incomplete minus the cutting chai, but I am not too sure. For me, the crinkling sparkling Vada Paav with the red hot chutney and garden green chillies are a power packed combo that need no refreshing intoxicant to send you into culinary highs. Maybe followed close by another brilliant manmade wonder...the Pav Bhaji! A post should follow one fine day!

Weekend rant in a royal city

2008-11-21T16:36:00.010+05:30

Its a cold Friday evening. People are leaving for home earlier than usual, it is officially a 'Thank God It's Friday' time when people go down, eat, socialise, party and listen to updates from their offices around the globe.

The skies are overcast outside and the feeling is palpable in the atmosphere, the feeling of a long-awaited weekend that has finally arrived, but with the realisation that it will zip by all too soon.

Hyderabad stretches lazily, like it does every evening, slipping into its relaxed stance, unaware that weekdays are not weekends. That is Hyderabad. Sleepy, lazy, royal and laidback. It is difficult to believe that a year has gone by in this city, it seems like a long time. One year IS a long time in a 23 year old life, I am sure. Not very long but long nevertheless. But days and nights slip by fast enough, there is nothing slow about their pace.

A few people who arrived from Delhi a day ago find the place hot. Summer clothes and colours fill your eyes as they tell you how Delhi is positively sub zero by now. You listen to them, pulling your shawl closer as you feel the chill creeping into your skin, you of the never-sleeping-never-ceasing city of Mumbai, where one unusual winter last year made headlines for three consecutive days. People actually bought woollens! Hyderabad is definitely colder than Mumbai in winters, and drier still. And slower still.

There is loose talk about a hiring trip that is on its way to Kolkata, the City of Joy. You hear the Bengalis filling their travelling colleagues on what sweets are specific to the city during winters, not to be missed at any cost whatsoever. Moa, chhaenaar jilipi, mishti doi and of course khejurer gurr (date jaggery). You remember how the jaggery runs down your fingers, dark and sticky like treacle left open for several days, fresh with its date flavours. Grandmothers put it into kheers, rice puddings or simply boil it and serve it hot with even hotter parathas dripping with oil. Or luchis, the Bong variation of the humbler puris.

Then there are warnings of the stormy Kolkata weather, usually triggered off by cyclonic winds. "It all turns yellow and windy and cold and damp and then it rains incessantly before the damp cold settles in. The sun sets by 4.30pm and then you start feeling sleepy by 7," warns a native Bong. You nod absent-mindedly, being a migrant Bong. Not very familiar with these oddities but you have heard enough stories by now to start believing them. Probashi, they call you. Migrant. You probably stay in Hyderabad, Bangalore, Delhi, Ajmer, goodness knows where but nowhere close to West Bengal. There are words you do not understand, that they seem to start using more frequently, those natives, when you are around, but you laugh it off. It is all, after all, in jest. Plus...you learn.

This is a typical pre-weekend evening in this shahi (royal) city of Mughal emperors of yore. Of Golcondas and Qutub Shahis. You will then wander home, maybe head to a party or just spend an evening blogging, ipodding. In this city of double ka meetha, shahi tukdas and kesari phirnis, we all find bits of our own far of cities. Expensive wada pavs with coconut chutney (and expensive because in Mumbai, nobody will pay more than 4 bucks for a vada pav...here, its a whopping 10 bucks!), dabelis with peanut bits and desi ghee, paav bhaji that tastes like any other aloo-tamatar ki subzi. Puchkaas that have way too much coriander in them, and pani puris with pudinay ki chutney with bits of curd(!!!) in it.

In this city's Gandipet, Punjagutta, Ameerpet, Banjara Hills, Habsiguda, Somajiguda...I can go on...you will find your very own kemps Corner, Motibagh, Park Street, Banerghatta, Kotturpuram, Palika Bazaar...you will find it all and somwhere in some corner, at some time of the day, the week, the month, the season...you will find home.

No matter how decrepit. No matter how roofless, wall-less. A home, nevertheless.

About The Indian Melting Pot

2008-06-20T10:05:00.005+05:30

Test post. Bienvenue, dear reader. Or may be I should revert to saying Padharo! In Hindi that is.

The Indian Melting Pot, like its name says, is about India. People, places, the things Indians wear, the way they speak, the languages, the contemporary culture, the food, the drink, the lifestyles, the cities, the eccentricities...as a traveller or a tourist or somebody who explores cultures, this is where you will find your resources.

Expect other blogs, links, websites, posts, articles, stories, suggestions, pictures and more.

Expect Updates.

Expect checklists and recommendations.

Expect...because there is absolutely no beginning and end to everything and anything Indian!