Rumia

Arrest

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 19:14:00 +0000

And so they came to my door. They didn't have to sneak upon me, they knew I had nowhere to escape. The engine rumbled arrogantly; quiet, well-repaired engines are for the powerless. And then it stopped, merging into the night's silence, as easily as it had shattered it. I could then hear them, the sweaty, nervous militia men cocking their rifles.
I parted the curtain, and there they were, barrels aimed at my windows. Fully surrounded, as only the might of state can ensure. No escape then, no terms of surrender. I could go out in the blaze of guns the bastards wanted, for their glory, their honour, their shiny medals. Or I could choose a few more days of breathing. Panting more likely; I have asthma and they know it. A kangaroo court, a monkey trial. Blasphemy, treason, undermining the revolution, poisoning the peasants. The impassioned defence, the booing rabble, the shooting squad.
It was so tempting then to consider cyanide. And yet no, perhaps the fascination of the imminent theatre - oh, the spotlights - could fight it. As could imagining the masochism of the means of torture. The death-grip of this, this fascinating horror, was perhaps stronger than death's own grip. Which was coming anyway. I began to dress.

Going home

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 15:49:00 +0000

Railway toilets plastered with washing soda,
The rasping of nylon streamers against fly racquets,
Chinese toys beating about before the vendor quickly bundles up and flees,
Jasmine garlands and incense-stick boxes
Sharing space with severed goats' heads
Their eyes staring glassily at you to match your startled glance,
The smell of fried flour and potatoes,
And of withering cabbage stalks,
Taxi smoke, gasoline and soot,
Sweat - anxious sweat - whiffing by on hurried steps,
And a quickly muttered apology on pushing you out of the way,
Mysore masala dosas frying on a street griddle
All beetroot and carrot and tomato flakes,
A promise of naked women in usb drives,
And hard-bodied nude males promising fairer skin from giant billboards,
Death of course, lurking everywhere, sometimes peering from a bier,
Suburban lifeforms in their TV-equipped habitats not peering out of lit windows;

And I - I just go home, as everyday.

Why 'Mall Culture' could save India

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 13:00:00 +0000

[Originally written for The South Reports]

Say the word mall, and there are people who will immediately start calling you names and start frothing at the mouth. This article is not aimed at them. This article is aimed instead at the common man, who stoically puts up with everything life throws at him, including such things as this article.

So why would this article talk about malls? In a time when malnutrition is the flavour of the day, mall-nutrition might be the way forward. It could make us a happier, more efficient and hence more productive nation. Here are ten reasons why:

Toilets: Entry into most malls is free (those with an entry fee are generally empty), and toilets in those malls are free too. They are also well-drained, cleaned regularly, and if they smell at all, it will be of disinfectant and toilet-cleaning liquids. A round-the-clock staff is employed to maintain them. Compare these to municipality-built 'public' toilets, which smell of urea, charge you a rupee or two, and employ some of the most rude people on earth. It is therefore a case that mall-building should be encouraged in all urban localities and rural hamlets in the interest of public sanitation.
Air-conditioned spaces: Given that entry into most malls is free (as long as you wear some decent clothes), malls make a good argument for parking a lot of loiterers. These are young unemployed and unemployable men who would otherwise be exposed to extreme weather (heat, chills or rain) on the streets and therefore wont to be hotheaded. The balanced environment in a mall would make them cool-headed, and also sequester them from political parties looking to hire goons on the cheap. After seeing the coffee bars and food courts, our young hooligans might not be willing to settle for the cutting chai, 200 gm biryani and fifty rupees they are now paid to enforce bandhs. Bandhs might become fewer, once the rate for such hooligans rises to include one cappuccino, one pasta bolognese, five hundred rupees and a pair of jeans. Wouldn't this be a good reason to build malls everywhere?
Babes and dudes: Young women (and in this era of gender equality and metrosexuality, young men) in malls are on average, prettier, fitter and more tightly dressed than those on the street. This is a good reason for the people mentioned in point 2 (some of whom are in fact pretty good-looking) to congregate in malls. Now before you begin to rail the evils of voluptuousness, pause to consider its benefits. The need to impress young women (and men) will mean you have to come better dressed, preferably bathed and shaved. This could lead to you being spotted by a model coordinator or aspiring director, and hence get you a break in the fashion or films industry (or as happens now, both). And more attractive people in public life makes attracting tourists easier. In north India this might mean sacrificing a political career, in the south you get the best of both worlds. Would you still oppose their construction? (Aesthetic architects' opinions are automatically disqualified.)
Rickshaws: Anyone trying to catch a rickshaw will know how hard it is to find a rickshaw going in the same direction as you (That a rickshaw will actually go where you want it to go, is of course, a concept that gives rickshaw drivers a lot to laugh at). But if malls were built in all localities, rickshaw men would be more than willing to ferry customers to practically any destination. This may be because their needs from point 1 need fulfilling, their friends from point 2 might be there or simply because of all those point 3 eye-candy people. They will never crib about getting return fare or want double fares, because they will always find a babe laden with shopping bags. The dude factor might also encourage women to take up rickshaw driving as a profession.
Parking: Most urban localities have few parking facilities, leading to cars spilling onto the road. This leaves the owner exposed to the risk of theft (even if it theft only of the car brand's logo, which makes your shining new car more than a tad ugly). You can keep it parked in your neighbourhood mall, as long as you pretend to shop there (drive into the parking lot, then get out of the pedestrian entrance). You not only get valet services, but it also decongests the roads, making your overall driving experience better. It also benefits those taking public transport, by opening up lanes otherwise choked by parked cars. And you are not exposed to municipal parking lots with their rude attendants and unreasonable parking fees. Moral: more malls, more parking.
Roads: Malls have been accused of increasing gentrification (This means more affluent people move into the locality). This I say is a good thing. Affluent people pull strings, whereas the common man can only cast a vote. Affluent people shopping in your are will demand that the municipality upgrade the roads. Which the municipality will do, because corporators (or councillors) need funds for the next election. Better roads means that fewer buses will break down, fewer potholes, fewer jams. Win-win for both the poor and the affluent.
Electricity: The common man lives without it. Malls don't, that's why they have power back-ups. And that is useful, especially when there is a cricket tournament to be caught at 4 AM when the friendly state electricity board is in the throes 'load shedding'. You may choose to fail an exam rather than defile the principles of socialism by studying by mall-light, but cricket trumps everything. And there is nothing like watching Team India get thrashed by an innings, along with your entire neighbourhood. Because a community that suffers together, stays together. Malls + load shedding = communal harmony. Can you beat that equation?
Teen tracking: In the pre-mall days, if a teenage son or daughter was missing for a few hours after school or college, one had no idea where she or he went. Could be in some innocuous video game parlour, watching adult movies in a friend's house or in the clutches of some sex predator. Now you have the confidence that the teen is simply 'hanging out' in some mall or the other, drinking expensive coffee at your (ultimate) expense. If you give your child's description to all mall authorities in your town, they can keep you informed of her or his movements, without hampering the kid's 'fun'. You may be drained of fiscal capital, but your social capital stays intact.
Wi-fi: This reason is low down, but still important. Several malls now provide good wireless connectivity. If you go to a mall's cafe, order an espresso and drink it over six hours (ignore the irony), you have an excuse to sit there and get all your work done – checking mails, updating excel sheets, writing articles (such as this one), tweeting, blogging, paying bills, e-banking...the list is endless. No need to buy an expensive and unreliable LAN, or even a dongle. Gone are the days when you struggled with your MTNL / BSNL modem and its amazing noises.
Boss-dodging: The best reason I have saved for the last. While wi-fi may be exemplary in malls, your avergae telephone network signal is pathetic. That is indeed one reason why the teens of point 8 prefer hanging out in a mall; you can't call them. But that opens the delightful thought of experiencing the luxury of point 9, without having your fat-faced, nosey, nagging boss calling you after office hours or summoning you to his cabin on a Sunday for a tongue lashing. Or worse – to sms you a joke he made up. Because you can always hide behind lack of signal. Which is why I think it should be a capital offence to install mobile towers with 500 metres of a mall.

A hygienic, non-violent, better groomed, efficient, harmonious, easily commuting, well-parked, un-bumped, un-embarrassed and unbossed society is what malls will bring about. Could you find ten arguments more compelling than these?

Sion Aaya

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 12:15:00 +0000

This should become one of Mumbai's evergreen classics!

The Anthropological Taxonomy of Mumbaikars

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 13:07:00 +0000

[Originally posted on The South Reports]

Abstract:

As a Mumbaikar, born in Matunga and raised in military cantonments, I have had both an indsider's and an outsider's perspective of this city in which I have made (and unmade) my destiny. This has given me a unique (and unenviable) chance to observe the denizens of this super-city very carefully, and make mental notes from time to time. For the sake of those who seek to know this sometimes bewildering metropolis, this article will lay out a brief anthropological study.

Methods:

The chief methods used in this study are listed as follows:

1. Resident observation: Like Jane Goodall who became the world's expert on chimpanzees by living among them, I have been living among the Mumbaikars to gain the best insights. This consists of

a) buying a house

b) thereby undergoing daily living expenses

c) therefore holding down a job

d) hence commuting by crushing train and lurching bus and

e) interacting with representative specimens.

At the same time, a scientifically detached mind is needed, lest one forget that one's objective is study and not sympathy.

2. Copious note-taking: All anthropological and behaviour studies consist of letting the subjects be as free as is possible, and to mask the observer effect. Therefore, use of cameras, sound recorders and such articles as may bring out the worst in behaviour (as camera recordings of parliament have shown) have been assiduously avoided. Instead taking hand-written notes, especially in the form of sms, is the preferred method.

3. Unbiased interviews: Subjects have been interviewed by the author, without their knowing that this is an interview. This has taken the form of verbal fights with rickshawmen, idle chit-chat in buses and queues, squabbles in local trains during rush-hour, eavesdropping on people in restaurants etc.

4. Literature survey: It is important to know what studies have been performed already. For this, a regular subscription to Mumbai Mirror and other sleazy journals is a must. Also reading Saamna, Mumbai Samachar, Marattiya Malar, Inquilab over the shoulders of commuters.

Observations and Inferences:

The study lasted a period of over seventeen years. While there may not be much scope to present a detailed study, a short summary is presented herein. It is thus the author's claim that Mumbaikars can be divided roughly into ten major species in three genera, listed below in terms of visibility:-

Genus Bombaicus:

This genus exists in a tiny minority in the city's population, but is nevertheless its most visible and overwhelming. Much of the city's infrastructure is designed keeping this genus in mind. Divided into three species:

Bombaicus sobo: Commonly known as the Sobo; females of the species are sometimes called Sobitches. Lives in South Bombay, and will not be caught dead referring to the city as Mumbai. Inhabits Colaba, Cuffe Parade, Malabar Hill and Cumballa Hill; ignorant of all land and life north of Mahalakshmi. Wears Armani suits and totes Gucci bags. Does not vote in elections due to lack of valet parking and air-conditioning in polling booths.

Bombaicus bandraicus: Commonly called the Bandroid; females are Bandra babes. Formerly endemic to Bandra, but now may be found as far north as Andheri Lokhandwala. Males brawny with gym-ripped musculature, females skinny with shaved legs. Brain not detected in most. Work as receptionists, models, starlets or as eye-candy in Page 3 pictures.

Bombaicus modernicus: Actually a mutant species from the below-mentioned genus, but prefers to align with the former. Lives in suburbs, and is reluctant to admit so. Will refer to Mumbai as Bombay as far as one can. Tries to follow the Sobo and the Bandroid, but not as far as Mauritius for vacations (can't afford it; so settles for Goa instead). Will regret the decline of the city; and will do so on Facebook, Twitter and blogs. Uses voting day for an excuse to go on an excursion to Lonavala.

Genus Mumbaicarus:

This is the dominant genus, making up most of the population. Visibility ranges from negligible to none. The common feature of this genus is the infinite ability to cope with bullshit, sometimes euphemistically referred to as the 'Mumbai spirit'. Divided into seven species:

Mumbaicarus maladicus: Sometimes referred to as M. occidentalis. Inhabits the region from Khar to Mira Road. Divided into two races. Race gujju is known for operating small to medium businesses, getting crushed in first class compartments of local trains, reading Gujarati economic newspapers and shouting profanities into the phone. Visibility rises phenomenally during the dandiya season. Race bhaiyya is known for operating tiny to small businesses or doing menial jobs, getting crushed in second class compartments of local trains, reading Hindi lurid papers and shouting profanities into the phone. Almost never visible to the city's planners.

Mumbaicarus mulundicus: Sometimes referred to as M. centralis. Inhabits the region from Dadar to Kalyan. Exclusively Marathi-speaking. Divided into two races - kalyanicus and dadaricus. The former is always in a rush, often younger or middle-aged and reads Lokmat; the latter has enormous leisure (to spend at plays) and is elderly with children settled in America and reads Loksatta. Visibility rises during Ganpati season; especially in lines at Lalbaugcha Raja. As invisible to city planners as M. maladicus.

Mumbaicarus mankhurdicus: Sometimes referred to as M. harboricus. Inhabits the region from Dockyard Road to Panvel. This is a poorly studied species, despite its relative abundance. Nevertheless, two subspecies can be discerned; debate exists as to whether they may be two separate species altogether. Subspecies M. m. sewricus is found in the Dockyard Road-Mankhurd area, inhabits dilapidated chawls, while susbspecies M.m. navimumbaicus lives in the areas beyond Vashi. As invisible to city planners as the above two species.

Mumbaicarus masala-dosicus: Also referred to a M. mathematicus; commonly called ‘Lungi’, though never on the face. This is a migrant species that has now made Mumbai its home. Formerly concentrated in Matunga and Dharavi, it has now spread all over Mumbai. You can see specimens of this species in the accounts departments of most offices, as well as running Udupi hotels and masala dosa stalls in business districts. Generally invisible, unless mathematics or hunger strikes.

Mumbaicarus millworkericus: Also M. slumdwellicus. The most numerous and most invisible species of this city. Gaunt thin appearance, generally hungry, but extremely hardworking. Family size of about six squashed into a flimsy shoebox. When elections come round however, this species becomes the most visible and celebrated of the city’s inhabitants. A spectacle that occurs once in five years, similar to the bamboo flowering season that happens once in 12 years. In 2012, the M. millworkericus Visibility Incident is scheduled for February 18.

Mumbaicarus manseicus: Unusually for species in the Mumbaicarus genus, this is a highly visible species; often seen with sticks, cycle chains and slogans. Commonly seen putting up posters and hoardings of chosen leaders. The taxonomy of this species is tricky. It has two races, which are utterly hostile to each other. The MaNaSe race is generally considered more radical, but the Sena race makes it up with numbers. It has been suggested that the Sena race be separated as Mumbaicarus senaicus, although this is evolutionarily the earlier race.

Genus D:

This genus, which has only one species – D.companicus –, is the strangest of them all. Although almost entirely invisible, even during election season, it exercises a disproportionate influence on the other species. If seen at all, it will be on a bike with swords or guns; else it is rarely reported except in ‘encounters’ with the police. Nevertheless, a continuing source of inspiration for Ram Gopal Verma’s badly made films. This species has also left behind a lasting image of Mumbai in other cities.

Conclusion:

This study has managed to document the major species of the city, their habits and visibility over a period of 17 years. Yet it may be said that it suffers from two flaws. Firstly, seventeen years is still too small a time to completely document all specimens. Other species, diverse in numbers and visibility might still exist. Secondly, observer bias cannot be ruled out. The observer can, for example, assert with 95% confidence limits that the incidence of M. masala-dosicus might be higher than real, largely as a result of belonging to that species and therefore attending too many weddings of that species.

Nevertheless, this may be successfully reported as the first attempt at drawing up a comprehensive anthropological taxonomy of Mumbai.

On Stories

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 08:22:00 +0000

As children, we see everything as one big story or narrative. We put together apparently unrelated incidents into a story, to make them make sense with respect to each other. It is an important aspect of learning, because children learn cause and effect that way the best. Which is why everything that has to be taught to children, whether morals (Aesop's fables) or relationships (fairy tales) or language (like Kipling's just-so stories) is best taught through stories.

As we grow into adults, we transit (not easily) from narrative to abstract thinking, when we take unrelated events to be,well, unrelated. This learning is not perfect. We fail to see the narrative sometimes when it is there (like stock market crashes), sometimes we see a narrative when there is none (CIA conspiracies).

Writers are in that sense children still - they see and put together narratives. After all, the cleverest stories happen when strange, seemingly unrelated items are deftly woven into something that shocks or delights.

The Matheran Song

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 09:16:00 +0000

The Moon in Matheran, they say is mighty fine
The Moon in Matheran, they say is mighty fine
It looks like yellow custard, or olives soaked in wine.
It hides among the teak trees and chills you up the spine.

[Chorus:
Aila I want to go,
Uima I want to go,
Show me the way to go home. (repeat)]

The Horses in Matheran, they say are mighty fine
The Horses in Matheran, they say are mighty fine
They tend to bolt in panic if you fall out of line.
Most are scared of puppies, the rest are scared of swine.

[Chorus]

The Lodges in Matheran, they say are mighty fine
The Lodges in Matheran, they say are mighty fine
Their bills are trigonometric with tangent and cosine.
All are horror stories of interior design.

[Chorus]

The Chikki in Matheran, they say is mighty fine
The Chikki in Matheran, they say is mighty fine
Some is soaked in glucose, the rest is soaked in brine.
Those that are not acidic, are very alkaline.

[Chorus]

The Trains in Matheran, they say are mighty fine
The Trains in Matheran, they say are mighty fine
They bore you halfway uphill, and take up all your time.
It's simply easier to run up the railway line.

[Chorus]

{Dedicated to all those who find Matheran very boring. Tune and rhyme ripped off from "The girls in the army", which I knew in childhood.}

Order and Chaos

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 08:58:00 +0000

Do we half mind

the splintering of dreams,

as the sundering,

often clinically,

of what we take to be

the background hum

of our soul's universe?

- me

Order emerges out of
and is absurdised back into the Chaos,
which is wrongly perceived as a Great Void.
Energies stabilise,
forms swirl into shape
as the kaleidoscope's roll slows down,
the myriad crystal edges whirl like dervishes,
axioms roll and tumble,
when eternity's coils do not constrict,
our comfort is from a calming canopy overhead.

- Balakrishnan S.

Don't Ask How, But What Cool You Want Your Brand To Be

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 07:16:00 +0000

Often someone will rush in with a brief - we want to do something that will make our brand appear 'cool' to the youth. It's typically 'something' they want to do on Facebook or other social media since that is where the 'youth' are (no supporting data given), and they want us to figure out what that 'something' should be. Fine. The target audience may in fact not be what is defined by 'youth' (another term that's rarely defined), but since every brand is running after 'youth', so do we. Fine by us again. But what 'cool' is it that you want to be?

I've seen clients (and the client servicing guy representing them) get baffled by this question whenever I pose it. So here's what I think could be a quick guide to the different kinds of 'cool' there can be, and a few example brands.

1. 'I'm-cool-and-you-know-it' cool:

This is the highest form of cool. This is the very nirvana of coolness, what everyone trying to be cool attempts to be. This is a coolness in which you (as a brand or a personality) are 'comfortable in your skin', to use a cliche. You know who you are, whom you appeal to and whom you don't. You really don't need to advertise yourself, to shout out your good points. This is the cool that comes from being a brand that has been recognised for ages, which has a reputation for delivering quality every single time.

Examples: Mercedes-Benz, perhaps the best known brands of this kind of cool.

Burberry's, the fashion brand. Blackberry. Harley-Davidson.

2. 'I'm-cool-and-I-don't-care-what-you-think' cool:

This is a step below nirvana. This is a cool that has an edge to it, a certain brashness, a certain rudeness. Not always though. Niche brands, that cater to a very discerning and demanding audience, aim for this. The brand is differentiated, not quite on price but on taste. Few outside the circle would have ever heard of the brand, and those within the circle will aspire to this very brand. The brand strongly matches its customers' personality - those who do their own thing and don't really care about anyone else.

Examples: Carl Zeiss, the lensmaker, prized among professional cameramen. Or Atlas Outdoors, the brand of choice for Himalayan trekkers. A few haute couture fashion brands would sit here.

3. 'I'm-cool-and-you're-not-good-enough-for-me' cool

This is a hard cool to pull off. It is loaded with arrogance and chutzpah, so you have to be very, very good at what you do. This needs constant advertising to be seen as extremely desirable. As a brand, you need to be associated with famous and beautiful people, be seen as hopelessly glamourous, while being very, very rare on the ground. Being expensive is not really a criterion at all.

Examples: BMW and Rolex. A Rolex watch isn't any costlier than other watches in its class, but the brand is famously hard to come by in most shops. And as the old saying goes, ditance makes the heart grow fonder. Several fashion brands would also fall here.

4. 'I'm-cool-and-you-can-join-in' cool

This is another cool that's quite hard to achieve. You're talking of an accessible cool, in that while you are easy to get hold of, it's still cool to be seen with you. You may or may not be expensive, but you have a pedigree that's not easily matched.

Examples: Those two great rivals - Pepsi and Coca Cola. No further explanation is necessary.

5. 'I'm-cool-and-I-make-you-look-cool' cool

This is the commonest kind of cool. You make products that are reliable and are fairly good looking. They may lack the pedigree of the 'nirvana' cool, but most people will buy them, because they are either affordable or widely available or both. No one's embarrassed to buy you, but no one is particularly proud either. Nevertheless, it's hard to convince such a brand that they are already 'cool' and don't have to throw money at some vague ideal of what it means to be 'cool'.

Examples: Practically every good brand.

6. 'I'm-cool-because-cool-folk-think-I'm-cool' cool

This is a serendipitous cool. You can't achieve this; it has to be conferred upon you by customers. People buy the brand because they think they look cool in it (the products rather), and because other people think the buyers look cool they also buy into the brand. The best you can do is make quality and innovative products, and hope people will like them.

Examples: Zara, the clothing brand that people worldwide have taken to. Hush Puppies, the footwear brand that was a huge sensation in the 90s.

7. 'New-kid-on-the-block' cool

This is a brand that is seen as cool often because it is a new brand. Of course, it won't work unless you've got something worth your customers' money to offer. A large part of the coolness is supported by bold advertising. In India, a well-known foreign brand making an entry would automatically fall into this slot.

Examples: Starbucks. Wal-Mart.

8. 'I-really-wanna-be-cool-and-I'm trying' uncool:

This isn't cool at all. This is often a 'cool' brand (as defined in point 6) that was cool but tried to do something to appear 'cool' and fell between the stools. This category also includes those brands that aren't quite known for quality products, or create cheesy and corny advertising. Customers of good taste would be embarrassed to be seen with them. Nevertheless, if these brands were to fall into the hands of a good and conscientous agency, it would be a fulfilling challenge.

So next time there's a brief from a brief wanting to be 'cool', you can cite them this list and ask which one they choose. That probably makes your strategising so much easier.

The Highs and Lows of Literature

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 04:49:00 +0000

What, under the shining sun, consists of literature?

Poetry does. In all the literature departments in all the universities in all the world, they teach poetry. And all the literature students in all the universities in all the world hate it, except those frizzy-haired ones with a dreamy look in their eyes who firmly belong to The Dead Poets Society. Some libraries will have a 'Poetry and Literature' section; some cleverer ones have the Poetry section completely isolated and sanitised. if you think this is an uncharitable attitude to poetry, I'm allowed. I'm a poet myself.

'High Literature' certainly does. This consists of sombre, depressing stuff like what Hermann Hesse and Albert Camus churned out. They get eternal lionisation or Nobel Prizes or both. No cheerful, happy-go-lucky soul, with a song in his heart and a smile on his lips will read them. University Professors do not either, even though they write academic papers and critical notes for the consumption of other university professors. Students of literature do, because they need to get on the pass list of their examinations. And yes, the chaps who sit on the Nobel Prize Committee, because they need to find some soul-wrenching thing that promises to change the world, or else they won't get to sit on next year's committee. But ignore these, these are the ravings of a writer who hasn't got a Nobel Prize.

They are excellent reads though, especially if you have to kill time when spending two weeks at home being diagnosed with Clinical Depression (as I did). Especially Albert Camus' Stranger, which in its English translation is quite lucid and readable.

Some of the romantic types think 'Literature' is about escaping into another world. But if you wish to escape into another world, the Harry Potter or Twilight series will do adequately, as millions of crazy fans will fanatically testify. But there is no professor of literature (or newspaper reviewer) who will willingly admit that these have anything to do with 'growing higher in intellect', which is allegedly, another of Literature's objectives. Their attitude will more often be condescending and elitist. Just see this commentary (http://www.economist.com/node/15108711) by The Economist, a paper that the intellectual types swear by.

I keep bumping into people who crib about how the commercialisation of the publishing industry has meant that a novel is chosen based on its ability to drive sales, rather than for any merit in it. I stop them in their track, put on a scowling expression and ask in a sneering tone of voice, "When was 'content', whatever it means, ever king?"

And then I launch into a short lecture which I will replicate (unabridged) here:

I don't think 'content', whatever it means, was ever king, despite being a popular mantra. In the 19th century, the English speaking world was familiar with Penny Dreadfuls and Shilling Shockers - thrillers and romances published on cheap paper (what we call Pulp Fiction now). The biggest hit of that century was Rookwood (based on a highwayman), but we have entirely forgotten it now, in favour of Dickens. Most of our own Brown Sahibs in the making (like Satyendranath Tagore, the first Indian ICS officer) wouldn't have known Rookwood, having to read Milton and Shakespeare for their papers. I guess it was this first, academically sanctioned encounter with English literature was what led to the birth of this common perspective among English-educated Indians.

Most folk I know will admit to Treasure Island being 'High Literature', in the same vein as Dickens' Great Expectations? The former is a racy thriller that was a huge bestseller in its times. I've read the full, unabridged, Victorian version. But if R. L. Stevenson was writing it today, to be published in today's idiom (and not the convoluted Victorian idiom which is used to torture us in school), would we consider it for a Booker? The list-making types, when they make a list of 'Best English Novels', will bung in a Dickens or two, quite likely David Copperfield and Oliver Twist. His own Pickwick Papers, with several parts of it in London's lower class Cockney slang, is not likely to feature. Yet it was his most cheerful and among his best selling ones. The attitude persists today, with writers who write in the common idiom (Hinglish) being looked down upon by those who write in the Queen's English. And we'd probably classify 'A Tale of Two Cities' in the twilight zone between Pulp Fiction and High Literature – too racy to be considered for a Booker or Nobel; but with enough 'depth' to be considered respectable reading.

Some literature departments that want to show that they know their stuff will include Tom Jones as literature (it dates from 1749 and is quite hard to read now). It caused quite a scandal in its time, dealing as it did, with infidelity and promiscuity among working class people; its hero is born illegitimate. Not too far off from most of the novels written today which we delight in trashing. Especially when invited to a literary meet and offered the dais.

Jane Austen is now a paragon of English literature, but in her time, writing a novel was considered disreputable. It didn't stop her from selling a lot of copies. High literature then consisted of Shakespeare and Milton and Chaucer. I wonder if apologists of High Literature would cozy up in their sofas reading Paradise Lost. Ask them in public, and they will passionately say yes. Sneak upon them when they are reading something cozily in a couch, and I'll bet my fortune they're not reading Milton. Perhaps three centuries later, when English has declined further (as every generation says of the generation following it), Shobhaa De will have the same status as Jane Austen has today. But now it is fashionable to pooh-pooh her, as Farrukh Dhondy did at a recent 'Literature Festival' (See http://www.dnaindia.com/lifestyle/report_take-liberties-with-englis...)

So when was content the unchallenged king, and when were sales figures not important?

Good reads will survive on their own, even if they do not make great sales figures - Dickens from the previous century, and Salman Rushdie from the current. I cannot quite say what a 'good read' is though; the opinion varies from person to person. Though I think clarity of thought and lucidity of expression are worhtwhile criteria. I know that this year's Booker panel had verbal acid thrown on it because of its stress on readability. But I still think they got something right, because there was no other way Julian Barnes could have won.

I wonder how many folk have read 'Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha' (it won the '93 Booker). I haven't because I didn't know it existed till I googled a list of Booker winners, and I cannot find it any good bookshop in Mumbai. But I do want to read it, because it is written in an experimental style, irish English from the perspective of a 9-year old (so I glean from its Wikipedia entry). Would it make a 'good read'? The style might put off many, including, I suspect, several intellectual snobs who officiate at the altar of 'High Literature'. Of course in public they will do nothing but rah-rah it.

And this attitude persists not only with regard to English literature, but Indian languages as well. So Kalki's Ponniyin Selvan qualifies, none of Rajesh Kumar's oeuvre of more than 1500 novels do. Sell well, and be damned forever by the 'horrible gatekeepers' of literature (as Jerry Pinto describes himself).

Perhaps then, 'High Literature' is about being unreadable to some extent. Which explains why a saga like Beowulf (perhaps the earlist existing written piece in English), qualifies, even though it would be considered crappy were it written today. Shakespeare, considered cheap and 'vulgar' at one time (and hence needing 'Bowdlerisation') must now be read (and performed) in the unabridged, unrevised Elizabethan English. You must wax eloquent about Vikram Seth to be taken seriously as a 'literature buff', even if the Onegin stanzas in his Golden Gate are beyond you.

My advice to Chetan Bhagat - wait a half millennium, and you'll get a pedestal to sit on, because by then your English will have become inaccessible. If you want faster fame, write the same stuff with random enjambment – enjambment has the effect of making the reader feel inferior to the writer. Even using the word enjambment can have the same effect.

Or write poetry.

In Defence of the Smiley

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 13:53:00 +0000

I am a copywriter by profession. It is a profession that demands meticulous attention to grammar, spelling and punctuation. The meticulous is often so demanding that it is beyond human ability – after all a badly spelled advertisement can make a brand look cheap and imitative. You'd think a person like me would be very 'pucca English' and have no tolerance for smileys. Yet, I love them.

To a great extent, I am an old-fashioned stickler for propriety in language. But, as only a copywriter can understand, the purpose of language is as a vehicle to get the message across. And I have to get the message across to my targetted audience because I want them to buy what my ad is trying to sell to them. If I cannot communicate, I starve.

So I endorse Hinglish. Those of the old school might frown at it (while using it in quotidian life unsuspectingly), but it has evolved in just a generation from a characterless pidgin to a stable language. And it has given us some of the most clever phrases of our generation. "Yeh Dil Maange More" was once an ad slogan for Pepsi, it has now become an icon of our country's new and confident identity. Capt. Vikram Batra memorably made it a cry of victory in the Kargil War.

And so I endorse smileys too. Whoever invented this curious use of punctuation symbols, please stand up. I want to salute you. If it were in my hands, I would hand you the Nobel, Booker, Gyanpeeth, Pulitzer, Goncourt, Neustadt, Sahitya Academy and other Prizes in literature. For no invention has done more for the written word than the smiley has, ever since the Egyptian God Thoth invented writing five millennia ago.

Imagine you are someone with a sarcastic and ironic bent of mind, as I am. Everything you say can have at the least a second, caustic meaning, if not a third. Now you want to send an SMS to someone saying something in earnest, not sarcasm, like "Thanks for inviting me to dinner. The food was fantastic".

In normal life, the receiver of this compliment would have sent back a rude SMS and broken all contact with me. Because in normal life, such a comment by me would ordinarily mean, "Your dinner invitation was completely hell. The conversation was boring, your wife is hideous and there is no beggar so lacking in self-respect that he would eat your food."

But no. You send exactly the same message, with a colon and a closing bracket tacked on at the end, viz. "Thanks for inviting me to dinner. The food was fantastic :)"

The recipient gets a beep on their cellphone, whips it out, and begins to read. The first sentence, when decoded, reads, "Your dinner invitation was completely hell." The temper rises, the veins throb, the eyes redden.

They carry on to the second sentence, and decode it as, "The conversation was boring, your wife is hideous and there is no beggar so lacking in self-respect that he would eat your food." The blood boils, the teeth gnash, the mind is racing to compose something nasty.

The eyes suddenly notice a :) The rude reply being composed in the mind is arrested. The :) has just signalled to the code-interpreting part of the brain. The ordinary code interpretation guide is not to be used. Switch to the alternate interpretation guide.

The recipient goes back to the message and decodes the first sentence. It now reads, "Thanks for inviting me to dinner." A warm glow envelopes the recipient.

They decode the second sentence. It reads, "The food was fantastic". A smile breaks out. One has been thanked for the invitation and been appreciated for the food. The mind is overwhelmed, and rashly rushes to type, "You are welcome anytime." The send button is hit before the rashness of the act is discovered.

Exactly two characters, among the many that were invented by printers in Venice in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Which had no role in language till then, and still have none in spoken language. (With the possible exception of 'air quotes'.) But they manage to change the instructions for reading the message. And created an emotional reaction opposite to the one expected. Brilliant, isn't it?

For years, writers have grappled with the matter - how does one express emotion in cold print? Aristophanes, Kalidasa, Shakespeare and Moliere took the easy way out. They wrote plays, and got hold of actors to literally play out the emotions they wanted. Valmiki, Vyasa, Homer and other epic writers resorted to long, long descriptions. Set to music and sung, these can be quite moving. Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Raja Rao, Primo Levi and other novelists used tricks of plot, dialogue and situation. And over centuries, we had a bag of tricks to deal with the problem. Elegant. All of them. Clear? None of them.

And then came the smiley. Crude symbols made from strange combinations of punctuation marks. Invented by someone who probably could not have succeeded in putting a 13-word sentence together. Certainly not elegant. Spread, like the proverbial wildfire, through SMS users. Not through the sort of people who consider War and Peace as light reading.

A colon and closing bracket, and suddenly it means that the user is communicating the mood and tone of the communication, not merely its content. A colon and opening bracket sends a signal that the user is sad about whatever that user has written.

"Sorry that you lost your BB :(", implies real sorrow. It tells the reader that the sender of the message is not opening a bottle of champagne to celebrate your loss, even if you did irritatingly flaunt that smartphone for several weeks. It tells the reader that the sender of the message is sorry.

A semicolon and a closing bracket can have quite nuanced meanings.

"I love you ;)" could, depending on context, imply that I love you in earnest and that it is a joy shared in private by us; or that I love you but I'd like to keep my options open in case the relationship does not work out. A cold, dry message in black-and-white typed letters on a computer screen could never have communicated that. You would never know if 'love' meant love or hate or bet-hedging or indifference or impatience, were there no smiley at the end instructing you how to read the sentence.

Then of course we have :D (mischievous grin), ;D (very mischievous grin), :/ (I'm not impressed). These are just few of a vast and growing lexicon of symbols, as each tries to capture a nuance of mood. Some may be quite cryptic to the uninitiated, but nowadays we have phone models and internet chat messengers that automatically convert them to cute yellow faces. Which is nice, because looking at a round, smiling face can give you such a warm, cared-for feeling.

One is yet to see them in writing any longer than a text message or 'tweet'. But I argue that is merely a matter of bias, not a comment on their utility. The novel-writing industry, having invented a number of tricks, will naturally loathe to see an upstart device. Especially when it promises to reduce the amount of sentimental-sounding gibberish and increase the clarity of expression. The counterattack by the novelists would be to cry "unpoetic".

But as it is said of scientists, new ideas get adopted not because old scientists adopt them, but because old scientists die and new scientists take their place. Similarly as the old order gives way, the smiley will take its full and rightful place in human literature. Up from the comments section, into the main body of the blog post :)

SBP Staff Picnic: From behind the camera

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 09:30:00 +0000

This was my first staff picnic with the good people at Swami Brahmanand Pratishthan, and I had a whale of a time. Especially in being the official photographer of the group!

So it started off excitingly, as I was struggling to make it to Belapur from a crowded, busless, trainless Thane to be in time to catch the Picnic Bus. The last phase consisted of breathless running to catch the bus, filled with teachers all agog whom I had held up for over an hour. But true to their nature, no one expressed any irritation or anger; instead I was given a vada pao, knowing I hadn't had any breakfast!

All agog and raring to go!

So we set off, on our way to Ozar and Lenyadri and malshej Ghat, overflowing with excitement and anticipation. And there is the mandatory antakshari, accompanied by dafli and loud singing!

Everyone sing aloud!

We drove along the Mumbai-Pune Expressway, amidst the cool breeze and the greenery of the mountains till we reached Khalapur, were we took a much-needed chai and Bournville break.

First group photo.

And then our bus started its long climb up the scenic Sahyadri, drenched green by the Monsoon's blessings. After that it was a time to take a short snooze (and a break to pet a doggie) till we reached our first destination, Ozar.

Sahyadri mountains at Khandala Ghat.

At Ozar, I had a bunch of interesting experiences from behind the camera. There was the placid lake, the ancient temple with modern extensions, the busy bazaar and the hundreds of pilgrims. There was the experience with nearly losing my shoes, and as a prayer, I bought a very cute little Ganpati.

Mischievous smiles while waiting for darshan.

Ozar lake is a beautiful place, opening your mind to the far horizons. The soothing morning breeze and the calm of the place, as against the noise within the temple was a welcome relief.

Ozar Lake.

And then we went on our way towards Lenyadri - the Ganpati temple that's actually inside an ancient Buddhist hillside cave. At first I was discouraged by the day's heat and the steep climb up, but seeing the enthusiasm of the others, happily joined in.

All agog for a steep climb!

And so we go up, up up, meeting monkeys and palanquin-bearers and pilgrims from many states and butterflies and lots of experiences, till we reach right at the top.

Group photo outside the temple.

And then for a quick descent and some cooling limbu-paani at the base of the steps. What joy! Then we went off our little ways, sampling things at the little bazaar. And then it was an experience getting back all stragglers into the bus so we could move on to our next destination: lunch! It was a plentiful if not delicious meal, so we have to be thankful for it.

And then came the long road trip over narrow mountain roads to Malshej Ghat. Once we reached the place, the attitude changed from one of shared pilgrimage to uninhibited picnic mood. There were two waterfalls at one spot - we stopped the bus and plunged headlong into the waters!

Soaking up the fun!

After several hours of fun, while I was busy photographing the mountains and the monkeys, we settled down to change and have some hot bhuttas. Finally, though no one wanted it, it was time to start the long journey back home. After driving out of the mountains, we stopped for a chai break at a dhaba just before Murbad.

Hot tea and happiness.

And then after a final group photo, it was time to say goodbye to a happy day. In the long trip back home, some were snoozing (like me), while some were busy listening to bawdy music as night descended upon us. The picnic was done, the memories will linger.

***

View all pictures on my Facebook album.

And some more pictures of Ozar, Lenyadri and Malshej.

The Path

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Fri, 19 Aug 2011 10:08:00 +0000

The best seeing is the way of "nonseeing"
the radiance of the mind itself.
The best prize is what cannot be looked for
the priceless treasure of the mind itself.

The most nourishing food is "noneating"
the transcendent food of samadhi.
The most thirst-quenching drink is "nondrinking"
the nectar of heartfelt compassion.

Oh, this self-realizing awareness
is beyond words and description!
The mind is not the world of children,
nor is it that of logicians.

Attaining the truth of "nonattainment,"
you receive the highest initiation.
Perceiving the void of high and low,
you reach the sublime stage.

Approaching the truth of "nonmovement,"
you follow the supreme path.
Knowing the end of birth and death,
the ultimate purpose is fulfilled.

Seeing the emptiness of reason,
supreme logic is perfected.
When you know that great and small are groundless,
you have entered the highest gateway.

Comprehending beyond good and evil
opens the way to perfect skill.
Experiencing the dissolution of duality,
you embrace the highest view.

Observing the truth of "nonobservation"
opens the way to meditating.
Comprehending beyond "ought" and "oughtn't"
opens the way to perfect action.

When you realize the truth of "noneffort,"
you are approaching the highest fruition.
Ignorant are those who lack this truth:
arrogant teachers inflated by learning,
scholars bewitched by mere words,
and yogis seduced by prejudice.
For though they yearn for freedom,
they find only enslavement.

- Milarepa

Happy Independence Day

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 15 Aug 2011 05:17:00 +0000

I look at my flag and it brings a lump to my throat
But doesn't the same happen with a Tuvaluan for her flag?
'Jana Gana Mana' brings tears to my eyes,
And so surely does 'South Sudan Oyee' for that country's citizens?
'Satyameva Jayate' I hold as gospel,
And doesn't a Brazilian do that for 'Ordem y Progreso'?
I like my four-lion national emblem,
The German loves his double-headed eagle as much, doesn't she?

At the end of the day we're just another country, aren't we
Who gets to speak at the UN between Iceland and Indonesia?
With the sames hopes and failings, the same jealousies,
Petty sporting triumphs and stock-market crashes
and localised adaptations of Shakespeare's Othello
As the USA or Nauru. Just another bunch of humans, really.

Happy Independence Day.

Independence is...

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 15 Aug 2011 05:00:00 +0000

...being a child first and Shivaji later on.

..the ability to drink tea with no one holding the cup for you.

...the ability to smile for no reason at all.

...the ability to eat a Mango Bite without worrying about cavities.

...the ability to open a biscuit packet without anyone's help.

View more Independence Day photos on my Facebook album.

The Gadget Gyration

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Fri, 22 Jul 2011 14:52:00 +0000

Have you ever felt the need to purchase a variety of electronic equipment, often under no stimulus other than the reason that it is there on a shop shelf in front of you?

I confess to owning an electronic violin tuner. It isn't a very useful gadget - except to sit around when I rummage in drawers, and make me feel guilty about my now lapsed violin training. All it does is trigger a half-hour's violin tuning and riff-playing on and off, to the janglement of neighbourly nerves. The rise in neuronal disorders in my area has been attributed to it, but all I ask is - where is the proof? (I must say with some relief though, that the little electronic keyboard gifted to me on my eleventh birthday has remained a well-kept secret.)

Probing a little further in the drawer are the corpses of three 'electronic diaries'. There used to be four, but one has mysteriously disappeared. Not that there is any intention to solve the mystery. And I call them corpses, but they would come to life if one could find the batteries that will do the job. And the will and intent to find the batteries.

Once of course, they were a must-have because every kid had them. So I had one and my sister had another one. The disease spread to my parents too, which is why we had four. Once it was always in the front shirt pocket, numbers of best friends, not-s-best friends, friends-turned-enemies, family members, distant relatives whom we would never want to call in life but felt the urge to store their numbers, and some random people with whom numbers were exchanged for some reason which one has forgotten now. If only one would get the will to get the batteries, one might call them up and ask why their number sat in my diary.

The discarded, slowly discolouring carcasses of several bulky and outdated mobile phones clutter my drawer too. Lucky for us we skipped the short-lived Pager Era. Which means there were no irritating messages from mom and dad about our current location, requiring a visit to the nearest PCO (now a critically endangered species) to reply. Having seen several peers do that, I sent up a prayer to the Creator, Preserver and Destroyer that my parents were spared this affliction.

Unlucky for us, we were converts to the 1G Epoch of the Mobile Era, which meant mobile phones (and their corresponding chargers) the size and weight of a brick. At that time short messaging service (SMS) was such a novelty, one preferred that over a short phone call. And it was cheaper too, at a time when a one-minute call could cost upto five whole Indian rupees. Which was then the price of two whole samosas, especially the tasty ones at 'Hotel' Gurukripa outside my college in Sion, Mumbai. As mobile costs and sizes went down till they fitted my pockets, these trilobites went deeper and deeper into the drawers. A few got lost, leaving their widowed chargers to twist a knife into the heart.

I admit I still use a dinosaur of a mobile phone that can only work as a clock, alarm, camera, planner, sound recorder, torchlight, gaming console and address book. Apart from texting and making calls of course. I haven't switched to the smartphones of the 3G Epoch. Call me a DMK loyalist if you will, but I'm sticking to my 2G phone. Actually I'm not, since I am now using another phone because way far too many telemarketers know my number and want to sell me insurance plans, timesharing holidays, pre-approved loans, astrologically divined stock tips and Muammar al-Gaddafi's underwear. But it's still 2G.

There lie the defunct remains of a portable music player I once much loved. One could store a substantial quantity of music on it, and listen to it in whichever order one preferred. It served me faithfully for years before its much suffering soldering gave out. I returned my faith in the old warrior by having it re-soldered many times, until it passed into a permanent coma last year. It serves as a data drive now, but its melodious voice (since most of it was M. S. Subbulakshmi) has fallen silent forever, or at the least till I can find a repairman willing to solder the 'obsolete' gadget. M.S. now sings out of an iPod, but there is something coldly Chinese about it, quite literally.

Then there are all manner of cables. For connecting the phone to the computer (not usable because the software CD came corrupted), a cable to connect the music player to the computer (much abused), one to connect connect the music player to the mains, and some cables which I have no idea what to do with. Perhaps I might leave them around for some suicidal manic-depressive to put to suitable use. Some of who, are suicidal manic-depressives because of the violin-tuner in the first place. And who have attempted to disconnected our flat's electricity mains.

Which brings us to the subject of emergency lamps. We have a mini-United Nations of them in the attic - German, Amreekan, Taiwanese, Malaysian, Bulgarian, Indian (of course) and some stateless ones bought off the grey market and allegedly imported from Dubai. Some lasted the journey from marketplace to home, some managed to light up a few minutes of load-shedding, before dying a horrible death under the screwdriver. Which was brought in to attempt life-saving surgery after the light started flickering or the wiring gave off fumes.

And now a round-up of those that did not make it to the medal podium, but are close enough of 'honourable mentions'. Electronic clocks that fail to alarm you about the crisp, bright morning sun; shoddy digital cameras bought at Heathrow airport by returning cousins to establish their London-return credentials; remote controls to TVs that were surrendered for larger ones in exchange offers; and something that the packaging said was an electric massager, but whose chief use so far has been as a blunt instrument to silence dissidents.

Some items are just memories, since they have since passed over to the next world. Chief among them include the once-ubiquitous portable cassette player, which isn't missed. That is because it left a gigantic hoard of audio cassettes behind, matching in size (but sadly not worth), the Thiruvananthapuram Temple Trove. One should be a memory, but is not because it it still ticking away happily, firmly nailed to the wall. That is our electronic doorbell, which belts out in monotones, some of the most horrid filmi songs ever composed.

All these gadgets will, one day, provide fodder for the multi-billion electronics recycling industry. But till then, they have provided fodder for this gyration that you have just finished reading.

The Eriseri Exultation

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 17:27:00 +0000

It all began with a discussion about lunch. Saturday morning had come to a close, my work at school was done, and hungry stomachs were forcing their respective brains to consider lunch. Shirish Ma'am offered to get me a sandwich, to last me till I got home. She herself had no plans, for she had had a heavy breakfast. And Sukanya ma'am was going home to eat up the Eriseri that she had made in the morning for her father-in-law. And the others were going to....

The world came to a grinding halt. My ears, which were wandering here and there had picked up a signal. The word 'eriseri' was in them. Someone, somewhere had made eriseri. All of my senses, that had wandered off along with my ears, came rushing back. This was a sensory emergency. There was an eriseri somewhere, and a hungry Tambrahm stomach was screaming aloud for it.

It turned out Sukanya ma'am had made 'chenai eriseri' today. For her father-in-law, who was specially fond of this dish. He had been asking for it for a couple of days. Ma'am had been trying to push it to Sunday when she would have ample time to make it. But this morning he forced the issue by washing, peeling and cutting the chenai into cubes. After that she had to make it.

She was complaining that this wasn't a much favoured dish in her household. The Mumbai-born-and-raised daughter preferred Punjabi dishes, while the hubby preferred a spicy, shallow-fried curry. Eriseri and other 'koottu vagaigal' were in a minority when it came to eaters. She didn't know her luck was going to turn.

For who could be a greater fan of the ground-coconut-and-peppercorn flavoured chenai koottu that the portly Raamesh Gowri Raghavan, sitting right opposite her (and by some strange circumstances, on her chair in the office)? I might be a Fauji-Mumbaikar* who consumed vada-pao and paneer dishes on a daily basis, but eriseri still has a magic effect on me.

I broke every rule in the etiquette book and invited myself to her house. No sandwiches for me, when hot eriseri was waiting in her house. And Ma'am was only glad to let me join her for lunch, somewhat stunned that there was someone in the world who liked eriseri and was not her father-in-law.

A short rickshaw ride brought us to her house, and within minutes I was tucking into the most heavenly eriseri I had in a little over four months. For my mother had gone to the USA to visit my sister, wife or daughter I would have in my next birth, my father does not tolerate chenai (it itches in his throat), and I cannot cook to save my life**. When mother was home eriseri was a regular treat; I had resigned myself to living without it for six months. Thus the eriseri in front of me was proof of Divine Existence. Or at the least that the incalculable probability of life sometimes does throw up a positive outcome.

The soft, succulent chenai, boiled just right. The coconut, grated and ground just right. The peppercorns, in just the right proportion. Just the right amount of turmeric for the perfect colour. Salt, in perfect balance. The consistency - exactly that of a koottu. Neither too watery like a sambar, nor as dry as a podimas. Perfect, perfect, aiyo, so perfectly perfect!

Mixed and eaten with steamed white rice, I went bodily to Kailasam, Vaikuntam, Indralokam and whatever other heavens exist in the universe. The endorphins rushed through my brain cells, triggering the reward centres with sheer ecstasy. I don't think there is a drug in the world - not crack, not hashish, not Ecstasy even - that could match the intoxication that the eriseri triggered.

Because it was all about roots. The soul. About who I was. Deep down, behind the secular, cosmopolitan, gnocchi-eating exterior, beat the heart of a 'propah' South Indian boy. The type that will starve without idlis, and wither away without curd rice. To whom rasam is the very humour of life, vadu-mangay ther very purpose of it. To such a boy, eriseri is about the meaning of life. Turn away from it, and one might as well cease to exist. One becomes a rootless wanderer, who has no senses, no taste, no sight.

The post-lunch discussion was about 'koottu vagaigal'. And the whole idea of how healthy it was to consume koottus and kozhambus and avial and pachidis. Little or no oil. No deep or shallow frying. The only vice being all the cholesterol in the coconut. But hey, no life is perfect!

I went home, my belly bursting in true Brahmin fashion. The high lasted the whole day, and still continues as I write on Sunday evening. because there are some things in life, that you must eat not wisely, but well. Eriseri is right on the top of such things. Because eriseri is exultation.

*Brought up in the security of army cantonments across India, and then toughened up on the streets of Mumbai
** This might change. My mother is preparing instructions so I can make it next Saturday.

My sincerest apologies to the late Robert Ludlum, whose style of titling novels I have freely borrowed for this piece.

Something is rotten in the state of political satire

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 16:02:00 +0000

Once upon a time, not too long ago, there were two great stars in the sky. In the sky of India's Political Satire firmament, that is. One of them was Pamela Philipose. The other was Jug Suraiya. Now, when I look at the sky, one has kind of gone, and the other has become somewhat dim.

Political satire has a long, long pedigree in India. There were elements of it in Kalidasa's plays, perhaps dating back even to the Mahabharata. And like much of its genre, very well hidden in double entendre or indistinct nonsense. It takes a second reading of two passages in the Mahabharata to figure out the satire - once when the Yaksha questions Yudhisthira, and the other in the parable of the shopkeeper and the sage. Kalidasa had it a lot easier. His plays are, in fact, bilingual. The dialogues of princes, brahmins etc are in Sanskrit, while those of women, servants and commoners are in Maharashtri Prakrit. Much of the lampooning of the elite that he did was in the Prakrit dialogues, which the elite would not have understood very well. A tradition that has held to this day !

Nowadays, however, I see that satirical writings have dimmed somewhat in the English media. The non-English media had a richer tradition, but with the rise of all manner of vigilante groups, that too has declined. Remember the attacks by Shiv Sainiks on Kumar Ketkar after he published a satirical piece on the Maharashtra government's move to build a gigantic statue of Shivaji in the Arabian Sea? Or the aggression of the Kannada Chaluvali (Vatal Paksha), Maharashtra Navnirman Sena and similar organisations in different states?

A decade ago, I used to wait with relish for the Sunday editions of two newspapers. because I wanted to read Pamela Philipose's column in `The New Indian Express' and that of Jug Suraiya's in `The Times of India'. The former seems to have disappeared somewhere, while the latter, now having become the Big Editor at Times seems too busy. I still read his column, but now they seem hurried, as if sandwiched between other things.

Pamela's was the more enjoyable. Her liberal doses of Italian in the 'letters' from Priyanka to her Mamma Mia, imaginary interviews with the hoi-non-polloi (like this with a scandalised Musharraf) or Anglo-Gujarati Modi monologues made Sunday enormously look-forward-able to. And then in 2007, they abruptly stopped. I'm guessing she went to some other job, leaving a void in my Sundays, that even God would not fill. I can only hope that someday her sharp-witted keyboard will start tapping once again. Perhaps in `The South Reports' ? !

Jug Suraiya still labours on like an old warrior. While the sting in his columns was a little more muted (strictly my opinion), his columns were an education in the English language. If Salman Rushdie has been celebrated as a musician of the English language, lending it cadences and overtones it didn't have, I could say Jug was at the least, an accompanying violinist. Of the many writers I owe my writing skills and style to, he is one of the prominent ones.

The doughty Bachi Karkaria is still there, but her canvas has always been broader, including social issues in addition to politcal satire. But I guess bigger responsibilities mean that her mouse doesn't crackle as much these days.

Some hope still persists. Madhavan Narayanan is something of a brand in himself. His Facebook one-liners keep me going through the day. I could only wish he would do longer set-pieces. And though I may be accused of flattery, T S Sudhir's satirical pieces are what I enjoy on `The South Reports', much more than his straightforward reporting. And there is Faking News, India's answer to The Onion. But like India's answer to practically anything, it is more tragic than farcical.

Why is there such a dearth of political satire in India? Is it because Indians are in general a somewhat humourless species? Or is it because we have no place for subtlety? It is rare that a piece of satire has the kind of effect that an outright vicious attack can have. As Kumar Ketkar found out, satire can often boomerang, when your readers have no sense of humour. Our firmament seems to have become pretty dark indeed.

The joy of working for no salary

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 15:54:00 +0000

You know your salary will be credited into your bank account on the correct date and will take care of all your bills and dues on time. But are there any other benefits of having a job with a salary. I have a feeling that nagging bosses, unreal deadlines, conflicting ethics, family pressures, unfulfilled aspirations and suffocating compromises often cancel these joys. Yes, the bills get paid, and that is {insert swear-word here} important.

What happens if you work without a salary. It could be a bold step into entrepreneurship, or volunteering for charity. I have neither the money, nor the boldness to throw away my job (however I may itch to fling my resignation at my boss’ face) and start a business venture of my own. Nor do I have a great idea yet that a venture capitalist will throw money at, though I can dream of unsecured loans by a deluded investor into some grand chicken-egg-chicken-egg-chicken scheme I will think of. So all I can do is select a charity and volunteer for it.

And that, trust me, has been one of the best decisions I ever made in life. (In fact, I think it ranks second only in my decision not to marry or have kids). Five days a week I slog for an ungrateful, underpaying company (as every hard-working employee thinks s/he does), keeping the rational and calculating part of my brain active, while placing the emotional and aesthetic parts of it in a coma. On Saturdays, I switch the rational calculator off, and the emotional aesthete comes alive. I pack my bag in the morning, to catch a local train to Belapur.

For the last couple of years, I have been volunteering every Saturday at Swami Brahmanand Pratishthan, a school for the mentally retarded. Despite its religious-sounding name, it is not affiliated to any math or peetham or trust. It was founded by a gutsy special education teacher, Shirish Poojary, on 7^th July 1990 (Guru Poornima that year), and named after her mentor, Swami Brahmanand (not to be confused with Swamis of the same name of the Swaminarayan and Ramakrishna movements).

I like this particular Swami for he made no effort to set up a multi-crore religious trust operating several lucrative colleges, lived in modest circumstances in Ratnagiri district, and died as unknown as he lived. His only legacy to the world is this school set up in his memory.

[A note on the phrase ‘mentally retarded’. Some of us try to be politically correct and say ‘mentally challenged’ or ‘special children’ or ‘differentially abled’ instead. It makes no difference to the children themselves; they will never understand. Besides, it is misleading. Many have suffered, because of genetic defects or because their mother contracted some unfortunate disease while pregnant, or because there was an accident during delivery. It leaves their mental development retarded; often they remain stuck at the mental age of seven or eight for the rest of their lives. They cannot do anything special, or different, nor can they rise to the ‘challenge’. ‘Mentally retarded’ is to me the right phrase, for it immediately alerts the ‘normal’ people around them that there is a problem, and that it needs sensitivity and empathy, not political correctness.)

So what do I do in this school? I’m not qualified to teach the students anything (since I have nothing I can teach them), so I do whatever is assigned to me. Some bit of blogging the school’s activities (http://sbp-pushpa.blogspot.com/), acting as photographer during school activities and paperwork. This includes writing letters to sponsors, updating records of sponsorships. Which I would have considered immensely infuriating had it come with a salary attached. But since it doesn’t, it is very interesting, and gives me a great deal of happiness.

The minus side is that it is a drain on my finances. I have to spend money travelling to and fro every Saturday (and because this is me, snacking on the way). And I have taken up sponsoring half the expenses for one child’s education, which comes to Rs. 12,000 a year. But if I grudge even this, then deep inside, something within me is not human at all. And since I have no wife and children, what am I to do with my salary? After all my insurance premia and home loan EMIs, helping a child along seems like a good idea for the money. My only wish is that I could do more. Which would mean finding a job with a nastier boss, outrageous clients, meaner deadlines and tearfully boring work, because that seems to bring in higher salaries.

The plus side is that I get invited to all school dos, the teachers treat me as a friend, and the founder (Mrs. Poojary, still going strong these 21 years) is quite fond of me. That means I can get free chai and snacks at school (which over-compensates the overall effort I put in). The school dos are a real treat, for while these children cannot cheat, trick, get angry, run for election, lie, plot, complain, deceive, crib, steal or willfully inflict violence (like normal, intelligent people do all the time), they can really sing, dance and remain cheerful through thick and thin. Most Saturdays I don’t get to meet them, because they get that day off, while teachers are doing up reports, conducting parent-teacher meetings etc. But the days I do get to meet them, I manage to win a smile from one or a few. That can keep my spirits going for days on end.

And then I can talk to the parents. Dealt a cruel black swan by life, knowing their child will remain a child for the rest of its life. They manage, they cope, they even redesign their lives around their child. While their normal children grow old, find jobs and get married, there is one that retains its innocence forever. One that laughs at the littlest thing, complains about nothing, and accepts its lot with the stoicism that the greatest philosophers cannot achieve. Who will live and die without knowing the evil in the world. After that, who am I to complain about a cribbaceous boss, or cryaceous juniors?

I’ve managed to recruit my parents to the cause. Which means that they do not crib when I’m off on Saturdays, do not crib about how the money could be better used (which means it be spent mostly on them, or saved up for spending on my future children), and gladly agree to do my share of the housework. Not that Saturdays are an excuse to escape the housework (since their agreeing to do housework does not mean they actually do it; it jumps on me the moment I enter the house). Lately they’ve even been willing to buy some of the things the children make.

My sister is still a great critic. That’s because she is in the line of dealing with mentally retarded children herself, and she disagrees with the vocational approach taken by the school. Though I am sure she will come around, as she knows the school better. For who will take care of a child who is abjectly poor, is too mentally retarded to do even simple things like eat its food or go to the bathroom, and to make it even worse, is a Dalit from a roadless hamlet? It takes a great amount of effort to get them to learn even a simple skill like stringing beads.

But they have an incredible sense of beauty. I’ve seen them struggle to paste bits of paper and thread while making rakhees (which are on sale now). But the choice of colours, the patterns they make, their sense of combination and contrast is unbelievable. They seem to me the very paradigm of the ‘idiot savant’. Incredibly stupid, and yet incredibly aesthetic. A genius buried irretrievably deep by an accident of birth.

I used to think I was sensitive and could understand people. Till I started volunteering at my school. Now I know there is a lot, a great lot I have to learn. To learn to be happy knowing full well I have nothing that is truly mine. To be truly sensitive to the needs and requirements of people who are vastly different from me. To understand that there is nothing superior about me, to not patronize, to not do anything I would hate done to me.

One day I will in fact, fling my resignation on my boss’ face and work at my school full-time. But there is such a thing as a grumbling stomach. Till then, joy is confined to Saturdays. The joy of enriching work at no salary.

(If you wish to help our school in any way, do feel free to write to me at iambecomedeath AT gmail DOT com)

On being Dravidian

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Fri, 08 Jul 2011 11:40:00 +0000

Being of Dravidian origin, especially in the self-declared Aryan north of this country, can at times be hilarious. Most often it is not funny; people drag you into interminable arguments over who is superior. Of course, the whole thing has no factual basis, as geneticists have determined that there are no genetic differences between 'Aryan' north Indians and 'Dravidian' south Indians. Terms that were once used to differentiate languages, have mistakenly been applied to racial and cultural characteristics.

But this post is supposed to be funny, so I will leave my ranting alone. For there are indeed some very interesting cultural traits that go with being a Dravidian. And I was set into thinking about what these are, during a visit to a barber in Lottegolahalli, a suburb of Bengaluru. What he did could only have stemmed from being a Dravidian. What about others - bus drivers, beauticians, bloggers?

You know your barber is a Dravidian when he spends ten minutes cutting your hair and fifteen minutes shaping your moustache, and considers applying fairness cream on you at the end as a mandatory step. (After I refused him, he was quite offended!)

You know your bus driver is a Dravidian when there are framed pictures of Balaji, Murugan, Velankanni ammal, Sathya Sai Baba above the dashboard, and a much larger picture of Rajkumar/ Chiranjeevi/ Rajnikanth/ Mammootty dwarfing them. As a clue, the incense sticks will be right in front of that.

You know your cook is a Dravidian when her chana masala looks suspiciously like sundal, cucumber raita looks like kosambari and dal makhani tastes like sambar. Because that is, in fact, what s/he made.

You know your superstar is a Dravidian when he plays the lead romantic role and can drive actors one-third of his age and three times as handsome out of the market.

You know your restaurant waiter is a Dravidian when he can rattle off the names of forty kinds of dishes in under twenty seconds, and will then tell you that nothing other than idli sambar is available.

You know your bus conductor is a Dravidian when the tiny picture on the pen in his shirt pocket has changed overnight from that of Kalaignar/NTR/VS/HDD to Amma/YSR/Chandy/Yeddy.

You know your political satirist is a Dravidian when every article he writes has references from all four southern states to avoid offending anyone.

You know your beautician is a Dravidian when after all the facials, manicures and pedicures, your hair is still massaged with coconut oil and tied into three plaits.

You know your hotelier is a Dravidian because you have been supplied with Mysore sandal soap in generous quantities, and is surprised that you are considering a hot water bath after the sun has risen.

You know your doctor is a Dravidian when the letters before the name are his/her initials and the letters after the name are his/her qualifications. And s/he recommends Avil for everything anyway.

You know your reporter is a Dravidian when the Telangana issue is reported as earth-shaking and the cabinet reshuffle in Delhi seems a mere provincial affair.

You know your zookeeper is a Dravidian when he has named the pair of Javan rhinoceroses as Ashok and Lakshmi, and rears them on balls of rice and jaggery.

You know your blogger is a Dravidian when he starts writing a blogpost on being a Dravidian and does not know when to stop, even though the joke is turning stale.

Swayam Rakhi Sale

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 08:50:00 +0000

Swayam - our self-help group of ex-students - is organising a sale of Rakhis this time too. Last year we enjoyed great success with our first sale of rakhis. So this year too our children have a made a range of rakhis ranging from the fanciful to the simple. Do have a look at some of them:

Three steps to get your Swayam Rakhi:

1. Have a look at the catalogue and choose your rakhi:

2. Note the code number and call 91-22-27573961 or contact us on Facebook to place your order.

3. You can mail a cheque in the name of Swami Brahmanand Pratishthan to Swayam, Nav-Shanti, Disha School Marg, Plot no. 7, Sector-8A, CBD Belapur, Navi Mumbai - 400614, Maharashtra, India.

Pasta alla salsa verde

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 06:40:00 +0000

This is a simple, whip-up recipe, as suitable for making by a thirty year old portly bachelor with little interest in both cooking and subsequently washing greasy dishes. It wasn't meant to be green, but it turned out that way.

Required:
Patience (loads of it)
Cutting-board, knife and peeler (and a couple of band-aids)
Mom (as long as she is a phone call away but not looking over your shoulder)
1 mixer-grinder
1 mixer bowl, its old contents cleaned out with soap and rinsed well
1 dhakkan of mixer bowl, that fits tightly (this is very important mind you)
1 large frying pan
1 pan to boil the spaghetti in (large enough to boil in without the water spilling and extinguishing the fire)
1 matchbox with dry matchsticks
1 wooden ladle
Dishwashing soap and scrubber, for the hell that comes afterwards
Imaginative Italian-sounding name for the dish that turns up at the end of this all

For the salsa verde:
Small onion - 1
Green tomato - 1
Parsley - 1 handful*
Basil - 1 handful*
Thyme - 1 handful*
Curry leaves - 1 handful*
Rosemary - 1 pinch
Green chilly - 1
Fennel (or a spice that looks like Fennel but you can't really be sure what it is) - 1 pinch
Cheese - as much as dad can grate for you, but two handfuls** should do
Soy sauce- 1 dhakkanful
Chilli sauce - As many drops as can be shaken out from the coagulated sauce in the refrigerated bottle
Salt
Olive oil - 1 tablespoon (as much oilve oil as can be extracted from the imported metal tin)

For the spaghetti:
Spaghetti - Enough for two men that will do for dinnr and next day's tiffin box
1 supermarket packet of Carrots, Beans, Peas, Cauliflowers, and Babycorn, washed well
Water in large quantities

Not required:
Dad looking over your shoulder

Steps:
1. Choppy-choppy all the herbs. Add olive oil, place in mixer and grind.
2. Add one handful of cheese. Grind again (only one handful goes in at one time).
3. Discvover absence of salt. Add pinchful and grind again.
4. Add next handful of cheese. Add more salt (since it doesn't feel salty) and grind again.
5. Grind, check, grind, check till reduced to smooth green paste.
6. Keep aside. Hide disappointment.

7. Chuck vegetables into frying pan with 1 tablespoon cooking oil.
8. Go hunting for the matchbox.
9. Find a dry matchbox and finally light the gas.
10. Keep stirring till the vegetables are fired.
11. Divide attention between mixer and boiler and fryer till vegetables are singed.
12. Add half-tumbler water to the vegetables.
13. Run and wash your face after the sizzling water nearly scalded your face.

14. Keep water in a large vessel to boil (Vessel must be large. Else the boiled water pills over and extinguishes the flame, as I found out twice.)
15. Add spaghetti sticks.
16. Wait, wait, wait.
17. Cut spaghetti with knife to see if it got cooked.
18. Plunge hand into boiling water to pull out spaghetti to see if cooked (and then scream very loudly and put hand under cold water stream$).
19. Pace kitchen floor anxiously while spaghetti cooks.
20. Add slat at last minute, stir and hope to hell that it will go into the spaghetti.
21. Wait impatiently again.

22. Drain out spaghetti and upend it into the frying vegetables.
23. Mix and bring to boil.
24. Add the salsa verde and stir with wooden ladle.
25. Keep stirring till water evaporates and the thing begins to look like a suspicious, slimy mess.
26. Stir, stir, stir so nothing sticks to the bottom.
27. Remove from flame and serve immediately (lest the starch congeals and the thing becomes gooey).

Serving suggestions:
Choppy-choppy lettuce, sald leaves, cucumber and tomato for an accompanying salad. Toss, recover the bits that fell outside dish, ensure no one was looking and put them back.

1 loaf of soft, garlic bread. Useful for wiping off the salsa from the mixer bowl.

*A baby's handful. Use your baby, or borrow one from the neighbours if need be.
**Your own handful. You need a lot of cheese.
$ No kidding. I actually did this.

New Jalpaiguri Diary, 25th April 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 18 May 2011 09:18:00 +0000

It’s morning 5 AM over the endless plain. You wake up in the train and resume your pondering about what is wrong with Bengal – too many Bengalis and too few hills. The complete failure of my co-travellers in the Uttarbanga Express to shut up in the night and the complete failure of the landscape to show any variation from itrs green fields and green pools really gets on your nerves. And we’ve only reached Kishanganj (where the brief transition from Bangla to Urdu script on railway platforms provides momentary visual relief). New Jalpaiguri, which I want to reach is still far. Jhalmuri, which I don’t want to reach out for, is all around me – that which didn’t spill crunching in people’s mouths, that which spilled crunching under their feet.

The sun gets a little more westward, my train a little more eastward, till I’m at some station whose name I would have forgotten had I not had Google Maps to find out that it was Rangapani. That’s where the train came to a complete halt because it was ahead of time, and it had to reach New Jalpaiguri on time at 7 AM. I’ve known trains skipping minor halts because they were late, but this was a new phenomenon.

So you reach New Jalpaiguri, dodge and dismiss the porters, lug your bag (stuffed with a sleeping bag that would prove inutile) and your coster-fitted suitcase up the ramp and across the long (really long) foot-over-bridge to the station entrance. And there you stand fending off the legion of industrious and hard-working beggars trying to get you to release the leftovers of your meal (sorry, I had nothing to offer). And then you get your bearings.

There is a stand for taxis going to Gangtok, taxis going to Darjeeling, cycle-rickshaws going to Siliguri city. Taxi-drivers are not to be found there, for they are almost on the platforms yourself, trying to transfer your luggage (and by extension, you) to whichever destination they need passengers for. Your volition to go there doesn’t seem to count much. So you dismiss them all (having to raise a sharp, acidic South Indian voice once or twice) and look for a PCO.

Yes, I looked for this anachronism. Because my mobile phone did not have any ‘signal’ in it, because I didn’t put it on roaming. Just desserts you must be saying, that I’d have to go without telephony throughout this vacation. You might have a rethink and say that might be in fact, a good think. But I’m an Indian, of the type that needs to keep the family back home updated about my movements. And I also had to track down the BNHS people who were to ferry us from New Jalpaiguri (henceforth, following the universal practice, known as NJP) to Lachung. Us, being I and the other members who had signed on for the North Sikkim Nature Camp, that was the magnet that drew us to Sikkim in the first place.

Roam, dodge rickshaw, stumble, rebalance shoulder bag, adjust the handle of the suitcase, roam, roam, roam to look for a PCO. Find one. Yes, I actually found one. Parts of Red Bengal actually had these relics from the 80s, for which I must be thankful. (When I come next time with a mobile that has roaming properly activated, I shall of course haughtily look down upon PCOs. But not for now.) Wait till the Bengali lady before me has finished conversation. But Bengali ladies do know to finish conversations quickly when they are paying for it, and allow impatient South Indians with enormous moustaches to get on with theirs. Two conversations, telling Dad that I have landed, and telling the BNHS guy that I have, um, landed.

Now, wait, wait, wait at the platform to which I trekked back, after a repeat of the dodge rickshaw, stumble, rebalance shoulder bag, adjust the handle of the suitcase exercise as before. There’s a PCO at the platform itself, but there isn’t any sign of the guy whose presence allows it the designation ‘public call office’. Curse, curse, curse. There’s also a Sulabh thingy, but I can’t use it because the guy manning it will not keep an eye over my luggage. No explanations. You take your luggage into the toilet and do your business, or you don’t do your business.

Well, so you don’t do your business. Instead you go looking for the BNHS guys. Those two middle-aged women huddled under the tree looking like they don’t belong here? Could they be other camp members? The cap and shoes seem to indicate, the age doesn’t. The Sikh gentleman sitting a little away from them, could he be one? Or is he an amry officer?

Well, hesitate, approach, hesitate, approach, finally swallow your hesitate and go ask, “BNHS”? The answer is a resounding yes. So much for stereotypes. I was being age-ist and Sardar-ist. Remember to kick oneself when no one is watching. So I have company, I needn’t wait alone in the rain. I can wait together with other people, in the rain.

So here I am, shuddering in the morning rain with strangers. Luckily the BNHS people turn up and our vehicles are arranged. There’s a round of hasty introductions (the formal ones. The informal ones we’ve already begun on and learned about our grand-daughters and allergies). Then we dump our bags in the two sturdy Maxx-es that will take us to Lachung, and go to dump some breakfast inside us, so we can last that journey to Lachung. And the rain pours down even heavier, so we must look for a restaurant while trying not to panic about our water-non-resistant cameras and vegetarian preferences.

So we troop into Vaishnav Something Something (sorry about not remembering) to order breakfast. Alu-parathas it is, although I would have liked to try out Motor Ponner (some instinct, against the evidence of the eyes, seemed to suggest I would end up getting matar-paneer, a dish which is contempt-inducingly familiar). While we wait, a great deal more socialising. During which time, I figure out that Manpreeth (the Sikh gentleman) is a vegan, which is why he forewent the dahi which must be had traditionally with the parathas. And then we get served out breakfast – a dish of alu-paratha, served with, (and this is completely true) – a potato curry.

And now I have run out of steam (but not memory), so will carry on in the next blog-post.

Dying for Snake Gourd

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sat, 07 May 2011 13:10:00 +0000

People say non-veg food is tastier than vegetarian food, but those are just the ignorant ones who have not met my mother. For what she can do with a bit of pepper, coconut and snake gourd, the Chinese cannot do with their snakes and exotic sauces. Because after just a few spoonfuls of her snake gourd curry, you'll have tears in your eyes and will promise to be a good human being all your life if you can only have a couple of spoonfuls more.

It takes a few juicy snake gourds fresh from the market, a handful of chana dal, some coarsely ground black pepper, grated coconut in dollops and a few other spices. The snake gourd is cut into slices and quartered, and then boiled until tender along with the dal. By which time the spices are ready for the tadka. Once the spices are lightly roasted, bung them in, and allow the mixture to blend and cook until thick.

You have it with plain, boiled rice. Spread the rice on your plate (or banana leaf preferably), and soup a ladleful of snake gourd curry over it. Pray that my mother will have a long life so she can make it, and that your karma will be good enough for you to merit some of the curry again. Then begin to eat, every morsel with utmost reverence.

That's because as the old saying goes:
the British think the Irish can't cook; the french think the British can't cook; the rest of the world thinks the French can't cook; my mother knows that the rest of the world can't cook.

Happy Mother's Day

Visit to Indian Museum, Kolkata

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Tue, 03 May 2011 14:14:00 +0000

Pictures of my visit to Indian Museum (formerly Asiatic Museum), J. L. Nehru Road, Kolkata on May 1, 2011. I was there at 9:15 AM and had to kill time by lugging one loaded suitcase and one heavy shoulderbag along JLN Road, then into New Market (closed mostly for celebrating Lal Din). Not a PCO in sight, for I was hoping to contact Dad. Came back to museum via Sudder Street, watching some charity feeding the poor, and thus understanding why Kolkata makes an industry of poverty.

Then I sat on my suitcase and read Wintersmith till the museum opened. Struggled through the crowds (most of whom carried on like zombies once inside the museum) to get my tickets, deposited my luggage at the baggage counter, whipped out my camera, then waited fifteen minutes for the other counter to open so I could get my camera ticket, and then I got down to business.

Which you can see in these pictures below:

Indian Museum