Muesli harmless

"We're maroon"

2011-07-29T15:26:00.009+05:30

Umass Amherst: We're maroon!
We're also brown.

I point out to you, (converts pointy finger into one of those Apple multi-fingered gestures)

Item 1: Anshu Jain is Deutsche Bank's CEO, first non-native German speaker
1.1: Anshu Jain is a Umass Amherst alumnus

Item 2: Hina Rabbani Bandra (I mince Khar, suburban Mumbai joke) is Pakistan's first female foreign minister, and the youngest
Point 2.1: Hina Rabbani Khar is a Umass Amherst alumnus

Item 3: Have I missed out on anyone?

Barb Wire

2011-07-14T19:42:00.011+05:30

No, I don’t mean the movie that is basically Casablanca in a dystopian future, with Pam Anderson as Bogart.

I mean the real thing- in all its pointy glory.

My worst barb wire memory involves a bicycle. There I was, learning to cycle on a leafy University campus. I rode downhill, and felt confident enough to negotiate a sharp turn. At the crucial moment, I froze and couldn't turn or brake. As I went hand-first-to-avoid-going-face-first into a fluffy hedge, I expected it to gently break my fall, in a planty sort of way. But the university campus that I was cycling in had decided to put barb wire inside the hedge, ~~just for fun~~ to lacerate the tongues of passing cows.

You can imagine the result- the cycle was in two pieces, joined tenuously by the brake cables. My right palm was in similar shape. I was rushed home and taken to the nearest doctor. On a Sunday evening, that was a piles clinic. (You probably didn’t imagine that part.) They were kind enough to clean the wound and point us in the direction of a less-specialized, and less piley doctor. Who happened to be one that believed that doctors over-prescribe, and the body has natural healing process that will holistically self-heal. So no stitches for me. At the end of a week, when the bandages were removed, I found I had an angry scar along my palm. This led to two outcomes- the first was that in the years to come, I found that a sharp tap on the scar led to a shooting pain along my right hand. And second- throughout my childhood I could never claim that I had stitches. (This was an important talking point for children in the 90s).

Last week, Johhny Hoogerland reminded me of my accident. (He was hit by a car seconds before this, while cycling at high speed).

Pic source: Yahoo

In conclusion- barb wire bad. Stop hiding it in hedges. Stop using it to hem in pastures. Just stop using it. And don't call me babe.

Not quite Cinderella

2011-05-17T21:24:00.004+05:30

The other shoe lies somewhere at the bottom of the Kundalika river, along with one earring and some of my skin.

After falling out of a raft at the start of a Grade 4 rapid, I think I'm going to go ahead and stop thinking of white water rafting as a Disney ride.

Filmi filmi, wizard howl

2011-04-18T14:30:00.001+05:30

Two days, two deaths.
March 26th- Diane Wynne Jones
March 27th- H R F Keating

I have read one book by each of them, and seen a movie based on one of their books. Coincidence?
Yes.

The Perfect Murder was of course, neither perfect, nor a murder. It was a murderous attack on Mr. Perfect, the Parsi secretary at a South Bombay business house. Naseer, fat family tycoons, suspicious wives and daughters in law in low-cut Merchant Ivory type sari blouses, the monsoon... I remembered the movie and the author because Keating had written the initial Inspector Ghote books without ever visiting India.

Years later, the Herr Doktor gifted me Filmi Filmi, Inspector Ghote- a murder mystery on a film-set with movie stars, agents, fat financiers, light boys with ambitions to finance movies, all under suspicion. The set was set in Kamaal Amrohi studios, on JVLR (Jogeshwari-Vikhroli Link Road, obviously) which I drove past every single time I visited Mumbai as a chile. The filmy characters even picnic in Powai, where I now live. Knowing an area that a book is set in.. joy! After all, the only thing I liked about The White Tiger was its opening line with the office address of a BPO transport agency near Electronic City, off Hosur Main Road. Ahhh, I thought.. Hosur Road, where the bison freely roam...

And then there was Ms. Wynne Jones, who should be read for her mad photograph alone. Howl's Moving Castle is of course, brilliant. It's funny, charming young adult fantasy fiction with clever bits that make you re-read the book. The movie is beautiful, as behooves young Mr Miyazaki, but it can't help but miss out on the plot twists. So I'd recommend watching it only if you aren't going to read the book. Which would be silly.

Among other series, Wynne Jones also wrote about a school for young wizards (long before she who must not be named). The Chrestomanci series. Wonderful stuff, strongly recommended for young adults. Although.. I haven't read any of them yet- I freely admit.

HRF would have approved.

Plane sailing

2011-04-07T11:36:00.005+05:30

Heading for a long flight on a budget airline? Going to be in the train for more than 24 hours? What keeps you awake at night a week before leaving? What's the last thing you do before locking the door? Paranoid types turn off the gas, those with sensitive systems go for Pre-Departure-P/ P-D-Poo . My personal idiosyncrasy is obsessing over journey reading material. Of course, if I'm going on holiday, there's a whole separate obsession about holiday reading, but this is not the blob post for that.

The ideal journey book is light and entertaining, but not too gripping, so I can let go of it and nap, if needed. And not too frothy or reread 500 times- one doesn't want to be seen publicly as the Girl with the Georgette Heyer. One week before the journey, I buy the perfect book. Three days before leaving, I finish reading it. Two days before leaving, I'm filled with rage and panic at being reduced once more to a nothing-to-read situation. The day before leaving I scramble and pack something that's sat around the house, unread. An hour before leaving, I remove the unread book, look around for a better one, don't find anything, repack the unread one and add another book that is dull/ fat/ both. O Pamuk's Snow has been that unread book. Twice. And on two flights I have gnashed my teeth and breathed deeply all over the sleeping spouse to wake him up and entertain me because I couldn't bear Ka (narrator) in perpetual kar (snow) in Kars (town) anymore.

While my ideal book (yes, it’s still a book, no kindle/ Ipad here) for the journey is usually fiction, there has been the occasional brilliantly researched and Guha-written exception.

I have twice stumbled on a book which fuses with the journey into one inseparable experience.

Item 1. NYC on a Friday evening, waiting for the Amtrak to DC
I got there early with some sort of international-people-can-use-multiple-times pass, stood in a LONG line to book a seat and then waited without anywhere to sit for a LONG time for my train, as the next few trains were full up. Edging away from the mass of New Yorkers who were beginning to resemble Dadar commuters waiting for the Deccan Queen while the 6:50 fast to Virar arrived at the same platform, I drifted into a bookshop. Umberto Eco’s How to travel with a salmon deposited itself into my waiting hands and opened to a page that read,

“American trains are the image of what the world might be like after an atomic war. It isn’t that the trains don’t leave, it’s that often they don’t arrive, having broken down en route, causing people to wait during a six-hour delay in enormous stations, icy and empty, without a snack bar, inhabited by suspicious characters, and riddled with underground passages that recall the scenes in the New York subways in Return to the Planet of the Apes. The line between New York and Washington, patronized by newspaper reporters and senators, in first class offers at least business-class comfort, with a tray of hot food worthy of a university dining hall. But the other lines have filthy coaches, with eviscerated leatherette cushions, and the snack bar offers food that makes you nostalgic (you’ll say I’m exaggerating) for the recycled sawdust you are forced to eat on the Milan-Rome express.”

(found the quote here. My google skills never fail to amaze you)

Umby was exaggerating, of course. I know why, though. He had probably had to wait as long as I did. And while grateful for the little metal bars below the seat in front of you that are such a help for weary long-legged travellers, he’d also probably found that they are mysteriously absent on the train that brings you back from Washington to NYC. And it wasn’t just in my train that they were missing- I asked around.

Item 2
That was then. More recently, I boarded a Bom-Del flight- Indian Airlines it was. Or Air India. Or Apache Indian. Or whatever they’re calling it these days. Plumped onto seat, kursi-ki-peti-d and de-shoed. My seat-neighbour quickly described her living situation – married, no kids, joint family, great cook for parties. As we waited for a late passenger to board, she asked me for my phone number*. My reading material proved hefty enough to silence her for a while- Trotter Nama packs a literal punch.

The captain announced that the flight was delayed, and I began the book. The narrator, for those of you who haven’t read it, started with a chat to a seat-neighbour on an Indian Airlines flight, explaining his strategy of getting onto the plane at the last moment, to score an upgrade.. and well, I don’t remember the rest of it, but I was struck by the coincidence. Struck enough to tell her about it. Turns out she was “into books, but only by Chetan Bhagat”**. Mid-way through the flight, she took out her phone to check the time. And this was before the days of the iphone with its airplane mode. Eyes almost falling out of my sockets, I hurried into an explanation of the potential dangers, the accidents that had led to the cellphone ban and as a post-script- the lack of concrete evidence, as well as current thinking that the ban was more for cellphone companies than airline safety. She smiled indulgently, patted me on the head and turned it off to pacify me. The book Trotters onto an incident in a hot-air balloon that ends in grisly fashion. It is not mentioned explicitly, but I sense that an annoying co-passenger with a cell phone is involved. Sub text is everything!

And finally, I should note that I actually finished reading the Pamuk. Didn't buy the Eco. And Trotter has now occupied the spot vacated by Snow.

*How to deal with this without giving rise to massive sulks for the next 2 hours, and more importantly, without feeling embarrassed and guilty? This is particularly difficult if the askee is same sex/ at a community event /doesn’t seem to be asking for fraansip reasons.
I just gave the woman my number, because I was too slow to think of a way out. It’s not a bad strategy though- the kind of people who randomly ask you for your number probably do it to so many people that your number is lost in their database. I hope.

**Far be it from me to be a book snob, but it just goes to show you, doesn’t it?

Prelude to a Sunday

2011-03-18T10:12:00.002+05:30

Feral children roam the streets. The ones that are alone press themselves against walls and duck behind parked cars, hoping not to be seen by neighbourhood gangs. Some are armed with seemingly innocuous plastic bags filled with a transparent liquid. Tiny, but in the right hands- deadly. Others strut around carrying weapons, with ammo strapped to their backs. The little uns fight their battles, while the old uns walk past, unthinking. Two days from now, they won't be able to ignore the mayhem.
Holi hai indeed!

How not to review books

2011-03-09T11:02:00.006+05:30

A few books on running that I've been gifted. Thanks, N!

-What I talk about when I talk about running by Haruki Murakami
"First Murakami I've read where nobody is obsessed about ironing or suicide"
Read this a year ago. It's very re-visitable. Murakami turns out to be just the kind focused, early-sleeping, successful runner I imagined him to be.

- Why we run- A natural history by Bernd Heinrich
"Most Misleading Book title and cover picture"
I expected a book in the manner of Dr Tatiana. Instead, I got a male German Jane Eyre becoming a runner at a Lowood-type school in New England, while discovering iridiscent beetles all over the place.

- Running and Philosophy- Michael Austin (ed)
"Why Kant I run after hitting a training Plato?"
Am running out of clever ways to characterize books. The book does what it says.

Auroville Marathon 2011: You'll never run hungry again!

2011-02-16T16:45:00.006+05:30

Or rather: if all you do is run the auroville half marathon, you'll never go hungry again. I'm back from a blogging breag and happy to report that Auroville is the best half marathon I've ever run. Why?

1. The company- first official half-marathon for N. The obligatory fun and games associated with training together, almost not getting to the venue on time, celebrating the end of the run, limping up and down the hotel stairs together.. Also had fun training through the year with my Mumbai running buddy and meeting runners from Bangalore and Chennai. I liked the whooshing sound they made as they flew by.

2. The course: Green and windy as it cuts through the spiralled canopy of trees, beautiful houses, pony paddock, schools and gigantic golden orb that is auroville. It's a trail, so was probably kinder on the knees than concrete, though the uneveness may have caused a lil damage of its own. Tough spots: an uphill sandy patch. and the last 2km without shade.

(Great pic, no? Not mine. Not this year either. From here)

3.The weather: perfect. The morning was cold, specially for those who had ridden in on rented Honda Activas.

4. The organisation: flawless. Water stops regularly, friendly volunteers, cyclist and drumming encouragers, course well-marked, tshirts at the end, and apparently some massages at the finish that I didn't bother with because of..

5. The food: Each aid stop (every 3km they said, but seemed more frequent) had the obligatory water, electral (which N said tasted like vodka, in a bad way. Electral complex?),sliced bananas, oranges, glucose biscuits, sliced five-stars, peanut chikki. and some pain management stuff. Did I mention that bananas, oranges, bikkies, chocolate and chikki are all major weaknesses? throw in some chips and you're looking at my birthday party!

Guess who ate too much en route and probably slowed down at the end because she felt a tad bloaty?

Post-run, they had laid out a breakfast of tea, unpolished rice cooked with whole peppercons, sambhar and vadai. There was a humongous line for the food, but by dint of hanging around in a totally different part of the field and looking pathetic, a new food table conjured itself in front of us and food was dispensed with very quickly.

6. Post- post-run- we returned to our hotel in Pondicherry with a large number of stairs (ow ow ow ow ow) and a restaurant under a mango tree. a nap and then a supposedly french, but actually italian brunch was consumed very slowly over 3 hours.

Bliss.
Dinner was tiffin- dosai with three types of chutney and sambar the likes of which those pune udipi joints with their watery red liquid can only dream of..

Oh and the run wasn't bad either.

Fragen ohne Antwort

2010-11-10T17:04:00.011+05:30

Why do I have a gardener, when I live in a highrise apartment with 12 potty plants?
The maali drops in once a week to look up the plants. Like all good gardeners, he is able to lean on a convenient tree/ balcony railing and punctuate his work with a slow discourse on sunlight, vegetable gardening and the pidgie poo menace, all the while sending a gentle shower of mud onto the carpet. In case this is beginning to sound all corduroy-covered-Lord Emsworthish, you should know that the maali works in a nursery from 6 am to 5 pm, and then makes home visits till 10 pm. Only in Mumbai moment?

Why am I composting in a nook outside the apartment?
Because... we all should? This is working out werry well. Go to Daily Dump to find your friendly neighbourhood composter. In 6 - 8 weeks, compost tea will be served. With almond macaroons.
[steps off soapbox]

Why do I try to turn all parties into board game nights?
I spend parties at home "accidentally" bringing out a box of Carcassonne, silly me, when I'd gone to get a bowl of roasted almonds. This has never worked.

Why do I picture elegant effendi waggling his wrists about whenever I hear the name Laxman?
It could be worse, I suppose. I could picture Sehwag- you beauty and his lusty blows.

Why hasn't match fixing wiped itself out?

Why doesn't anybody comment on the blob anymore?

Sanyogita better watch out..

2010-11-10T11:42:00.003+05:30

.. now that Prithviraj Chavan is riding into Mantralaya.

-An 1192 AD pun.

House-work

2010-09-16T22:00:00.007+05:30

I wonder why I abandoned the blob for so long.
It's not that I didn't have anything to say.
It's not that I didn't get 2 emails from a loyal reader asking for a daily breakfast bowl of freshly tossed harmless muesli.*
It's not that I've shifted my focus to twitter. I'm only there to check that every Indian cricket lover and his family is being wished the best in life.

Maybe blobbing was something I needed to get out of my system. I'm now a proper grown-up who works and runs a home and doesn't write about sitaphal milkshake and leechy treks. My mind is now taken up with bais, appraisals and wotnot.

Nice try.

It's actually because I'm always watching House and The Office

But I'm back, baby!
And no, it never was lupus.

*It is quite possible that he really just wanted a bowl of breakfast cereal.

Filled with the kind of self-loathing..

2010-09-13T16:41:00.005+05:30

.. that you only get when
you haven't updated the ol blob in 7 months
you have eaten an entire plate of (and this is very important) cold kanda bhajji without sharing
and you have cancelled your plan to run the Kaveri Trail Marathon a week before the run because of sickness and busyness.

(returns to blobby hideout with a hideous plop)

Orcaella Brevirostris's Curls and Curves

2010-02-19T10:07:00.009+05:30

The Winter Olympics are on, accompanied by the clatter of skates, swoosh of skis and..the silent sweeping of brooms?

Curling as an olympic sport is a little hard to understand. For that matter, curling as a sport is hard to understand.

Skiing though, is awesome, even when there isn't enough snow on Solang's slopes and you have to go up into the mountains for some off-piste action. Here's Sanjay, former India under-19 champion, skiing down a meadow above Beaskund.

*off-piste action ~= eating large quantities of salted dry fruit

Q. How many sick-sainiks would it take to break a lightbulb?

2010-02-14T17:54:00.007+05:30

A. 0
..if the lightbulb in question was above the head of an Australian of Pakistani origin who was in Mumbai to celebrate Valentine's day with her boyfriend, a taxi driver originally from Bihar, by watching a Shah Rukh film.
because the goons' head would explode, from the sheer information overload.

Mumbai, halved

2010-01-18T22:59:00.013+05:30

Busy taking photographs while crossing the sea link at daybreak. And then I wonder why I logged a personal worst PR this time round at the Mumbai half.

Had a timing chip on for the first time, so was absurdly conscious of stepping emphatically on the red carpets at the start and finish, to register the time. Over-ate on the run up the pedder road flyover per usual (1 ravalgaon boiled sweetie, 1 segment orange, 1.5 glucose biscuits, 1 yellaki banana), pasta partied and then ran with/hours behind the usual suspects, and one unusual one, wilted in the marine drive heat, cheered the winners-who-take-less-time-to-do-double-my-distance, vowed to never do this again except that i know perfectly well that i will, tried not to think too long about the street kids that asked for banana and water bottle, didn't recognise shobbha day even though she blocked my way, ate the hippo chips that were part of the goodie bag (chinese manchurian flavour) and darkly wondered who had pilfered all the food from my goodie bag last year. Aall, as they rightly point out, iz vell.

(limps into the sunrise. one is not the young orcaella one used to be. more like an old hippo. some sort of water creature)

Safe as the fuehrer?

2010-01-08T19:39:00.004+05:30

Seen on a lock in Koyna

City light

2009-12-21T12:24:00.006+05:30

My comment to Kenny inspired me to list snappy one-liners that refer to a specific institution in a city, but have now taken on a life of their own, to define the city. After the first few, inspiration dried at the rate of the Aral sea.

1. London: Mind the Gap
2. Bangkok: Same same but different
3. Mumbai- Yeh hai Bambai meri jaan
4. Delhi- Chalo Dilli!
5. ...

Suggestions wanted.

Cringing girl growling dragon vampire

2009-12-19T21:32:00.007+05:30

Yes, I'm reading Twilight. The book series, not the time of day.

What else is one supposed to do while waiting for Amitav Ghosh to finish writing the sequel to Sea of Poppies?

A toasty grammarian?

2009-09-28T21:49:00.004+05:30

Panini.

Another toast- this one to the nation's baby. Congratulations on your 20th year as cricket god! May your wrists remain supple, your eyes keen, your cut square, your drive covered, your bowling dibbly, your joy infectious, your stance balanced, your voice squeaky, and your shorts permanently in need of adjustment.

Salut.

Suggestive?

2009-07-04T23:51:00.002+05:30

Bumper Harvest..

2009-06-07T19:18:00.007+05:30

.. of puns and bumpers.

Exhibit 1: New dented bumper

Exhibit 2: Old dented bumper

And a closer look at exhibit 2:

Age of car: 2 weeks, location: parked. This is getting to be worse than the ol un
Can nobody in this city drive?

It's been a while since I blogged, so bear with the hasty regurgitation of bad puns:

An Indian soup in Athens?
Shorba the greek

Wine-making in Nasik, by someone who lived in New England?
Maratha's Vineyard

A tedious Afrikaaner who can't drive?
A crashing Boer

Update:
The Bollywood queen of haute couture?
Jaya Prada of course!
(from a contributor)

And to make the bumper situation clear: The car was bought. Parked. Hit. Bumper fixed. Parked. Hit.
Has someone placed pan masala and supari on the poor dear?

Boats, planes and automobiles

2009-02-14T09:48:00.006+05:30

Which is about moving on foot, by train, coracle and car

Foot movement

The Mumbai marathon came and went by in a flash. I wuz there! With near-zero prep I waddled through the half. Thanks are in order to the catch-up-with-her-if-you-can-Kenny and let-my-people-go- Ludwig for disgorging goodie pacquets, bibs and transportation to the venue.

Speaking of goodie pacquets, here's what was in mine:

1 nos. dented water bottle
Several nos Nivea visage purifying water cleansing gel
1 nos Nivea Shaving cream for men (mild and caring)
1 nos. sugar free gold
Several nos. Fiama di wills aqua balance shampoo (magnolia blossoms and watercress)
1 nos Nivea for men Whitening facial foam (cleanses and supports)
Several nos. Nivea visage Sparkling glow day care fairness creams (white crystalite)
1 nos coffee sachet
Energy drinks (Gatorade, not Red Bull!) band-aid, body-glide, energy bars .. were conspicously absent

I expected to see an army of whitened, caffeinated male runners, with lustrous hair and i wasn't disappointed.

The run itself was brilliant. After the obligatory meeting of bangalore runners, almost having a slumdog moment in the unlit porta-potty and bumping and grinding with the large turnout (velly impressive, pune half marathon gets about 20 non-elite women runners) i was off. great support on marine drive, beautiful route, super weather the whole way, lots of orange segments, elaichi bananas and glucose bikkies received at pedder road (clutched for a while in my grubby hands), plenty of water all the way, shadowing of blind japanese runner and finally ending it all under the august gaze of some plump celeb on the stage, just as the winners of the full marathon steamed in. And a relaxed local train ride back from VT, after picking up whadda pao! and kesar milk.

Next time, I'll try to do this in 2 hours.

In which our heroine identifies her favourite waterfall

In a coracle at a waterfall at Wildernest on the Goa- Maharashtra- Karnataka border.

In which our heroine's hero achieves enlightenment on a train

After plentiful offers of vada pao, biryani, soup, chai, coffee, aloo parathas by the Indian railways (the parathas were super) and a good night's sleep on the Mumbai- Goa train (we were riding the Konkan Kanya - snigger) here's a study of this blog's poster boy in the train doorway.

In which our heroine tries to board a train

Background: two of us are at Goa's Thivim station, awaiting the Matsyagandha express.
The time: 7:30 pm.
Train arrival time: 8:10 pm
At this moment we have just discovered that the express in koschan doesn't stop at Thivim. Faces frozen in panic. Faces defrost to anoint blame. Faces refreeze (but grotesquely, the way ice-cream is wont to do) because of the fear of not returning to work the next day.

Arguments, recriminations and sundry advice later, we dramatically fling ourselves into a non-state player(taxi) to take us to the next station- Kudal, as it's too late to make it to the previous station- Madgaon. Kudal is in Maharashtra and we're told, an hour's drive away.

We detour to get cash and then the high-speed hi-jinks begins. We whizz out of the city and are soon on a highway, with very little traffic. After a while, we are driving through a forested area with no vehicles in sight. The road quality deteriorates (welcome to Maharashtra) and more than an hour has passed. Our driver is super, he knows shortcuts to bypass the villages. He has a co-pilot who checks on the train status in Goa. Another hour passes- more forest, pitch darkness, no vehicle in sight and the driver increases the speed. At this point, worries of returning to Mumbai have been replaced with dark fears of accidents, muggings by the driver and his subordinate, and the general pointlessness of modern life. The co-pilot receives word that the train is near, so the driver speeds up further. My vision of a train vs. car high speed chase usually involved either James Bond or Rajesh Khanna and singing. Be that as it may. We arrive at Kudal before the train. Hallelujah.

The train glides in a few minutes later, we look for our names on the roster and a helpful TC (or do I mean TT?) invites us aboard. The train leaves Kudal, just as the TC (or TT) discovers that we were meant to board at the previous station, over two hours ago. All hell breaks loose. Voices are raised, then quelled. He has re-assigned our seats as we have no right to them, according to the new rules. Sundry W/L and RAC people fawn over the TC, and fish around in their pockets for devices to perform his aarti.

Suddenly, the God-TC changes his Jovian frowns to a smile. With an admonitory wag of his clipboard we are awarded our berths which had never been taken away to begin with! Cries of "Dhanya ho!" rent the 3-tier A/C bogie. We stagger inside, while the acolytes bring out the ganga jal.

A good time is had by all.
Specially by us, at sunset by this pool..

Foreheadforest

2008-12-20T18:02:00.003+05:30

Matheran. Go there now.

in happier times

2008-11-28T15:02:00.005+05:30

this blog has lain silent thanks to repeated house-movings, work deadlines, deficiencies in internet service provision, global meltdowns and a severe shortage of spirulina. but, to reassure worried viewers, i am unharmed, superficially, anyway.

"Back to Bom!"..

2008-09-02T22:47:00.005+05:30

..shouted Saleem Sinai's sister, "Back to Bom!"

"Govinda aala re", shouted the gopis of Mumbai, the day after I got there.
it's good to be back.

'teshuns I have known

2008-08-05T19:01:00.005+05:30

My favourite rail station in Londinium is Charing Cross. Reason: The train (the 3:43 fast to Dartford) pulls out of the station straight onta a bridge. The views: On one side- Westminster, the London Eye and Not-so-much-Big-as-Tall Ben. On the other side- St. Paul's, the Gherkin, the Tate Modern power station, and the Embankment. All this through the latticework of rusty girders. Perfect.

In literary terms, Victoria carries the palm. This explains why:

Jack.  [Very seriously.]  Yes, Lady Bracknell.
I was in a hand-bag--a somewhat large, black leather hand-bag,
with handles to it --an ordinary hand-bag in fact.

Lady Bracknell.  In what locality did this Mr. James,
or Thomas, Cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag?

Jack.  In the cloak-room at Victoria Station.  It was given
to him in mistake for his own.

Lady Bracknell.  The cloak-room at Victoria Station?

Jack.  Yes.  The Brighton line.

Another special 'teshun is Paddington. Only because of the Bear with the battered hat and the marmalade habit who arrived there from Darkest Peru.

And Waterloo is beloved simply because the town by that name in Wallonia is pronounced in the Netherlands as Vaaderloo. Sounds very desi, somehow.

And then of course there's St. Pancras. While it sounds like the kind of place you go to have your intestines rummaged, it's actually a shiny new international train station. Airline-like procedures are followed, but at 10 times the speed. And there's the statue that sends you off to Bruxelles Midi, Gare du Nord Paris and other points continental. From a distance, it looks like a regular farewell. Click on the picture to enlarge it, and suddenly it looks a little less romantic. The woman looks like a man, and the man looks like a Vulcan, minus pointy pinnae.

now that's what i call ageing

2008-07-28T02:59:00.003+05:30

I remember when it was "Now 29".
I waddled around for a few years. Did a little bit of this, that and the other. And turned around to find that they're listening to "Now 70"
!!!!

A question of timing

2008-07-09T20:20:00.003+05:30

So there I am, ranting a bit about how the TV licensing enforcement goons are after me.
Blog post finished, I dust the chalk off my fingers and wander around the world wide web. I find that Stephen Fry has posted a podgram. In the latest installment, he talks about protecting the BBC's licence fee.
Coincidence?
Yes.
Even though it came directly after my last post about Mr. Fry?
Yes.
And that post came about because, on a fine evening in Piccadilly, our eyes met?
Yes, it's still a coincidence. Now go away and don't leave those chalky marks all over the keyboard.
There's a keyboard???
(throws down crumbling chalk piece and flounces out of the room)

A question of trust

2008-07-08T16:53:00.005+05:30

Episode 1:

The pardner and I walk into a violin shop in west london. He tries out a few instruments, likes the sound of an 18th century German violin that costs quite a bit. He is told he can take it home for a few weeks, with no obligation to buy, just to try it out, see if it suits him. he is thrilled, and gets ready to swipe his credit card, but it is waved away. he is only asked for his name, address and telephone number.
bemused, he and i walk out clutching the violin tightly. this violin was being played when mozart was alive! and now it's with us. how could it be lent out to us to trustingly?

Episode 2:

I don't have a TV. If you remember, and you should, I said so last year too. I didn't have a TV then, and I don't have one now. So why am I receiving threatening letters from the TV Licensing Company? These letters are sent to my address, but not to my name. Not even to "The Occupant" at my address. But to "The Legal Occupier". Makes me feel a bit dirty, like I've invaded and occupied a home, in what is technically a legal manner (UN resolution was passed after all), but we all know the truth, don't we?
The letters (yes, there have been many) say that while most people are law-abiding, and chup-chaap-se buy their TV licenses, some of us filthy occupier types don't, and we'd better, cos they're going to hunt us down. The assumption is that we're untrustworthy TV watching freeloading liars.
It was only when I read this (take a look, go on) did my hysteria subside.

This post is not about whether the licence is a better way than taxes to pay for the beeb's excellent ad-free programming. Or even about how this programming is now available free on the iPlayer. Or about an old violinist with a business to run, being more trusting than a behemoth TV corporation. Or even about how it's better to have an 18th century violin squealing in your house, rather than have the family hunched about a blue screen, while all hands fight to control a long black box.
It's mostly a wish that this beautiful violin would sound a lil better when I play it.

Out of the Fry pan...

2008-06-26T18:01:00.007+05:30

.. and into the Fry-er!

Stop me if I sound gushy, but here's what happened yesterday. The pardner and I were in Piccadilly. We stepped out of a samwich bar and gulped a few lungfuls of fresh air.

And then, it happened. Time slowed down. Traffic stopped. A black taxicab drew up in front of us. My eyes were drawn to the door. It opened and a tall, portly man emerged, blinking. He had a large nose and was in a purple velvet jacket. Our eyes met. He smiled.

He then trotted across the road and entered a building cordoned off by policemen in fluorescent jackets.

My hand moved slowly, reaching for my phone, and I managed to take a picture of his back.
Here is that picture.

Hours later, in my pew in St. James, listening to Mendelssohns violin concerto in E minor (yes, I know he only had the one v. conc., but it does happen to be in E minor) I realised that

1) I had become a celebrity-obsessed paparazzita
2) I saw him, and he looked at me! I am Ralph Wiggum.

.. it's all just a little bit of history repeating

2008-05-28T13:50:00.005+05:30

Moving to Bangalore taught me all about petrol bunks, rickshaw drivers' attitudes and lumpen elements.

Trips to Pune in the summer were refreshers on alphonsos.

And now here I am in London, graciously accepting people's apologies when I bump into them with pointy suitcases, and learning to cunningly put into my sentences words like posh, lush, whinge, toff, luvvies, yobs, WAGs and chavs.

(Anyone who wants to get an insight into the English weather-alcohol-sense of humour-class obsession should read an anthropologist's view. )

But despite the newness of my surroundings, things do seem to have turned a full circle. A delicious, sweet, soft, sugar-sprinkled circle. With a hint of nutmeg.

Did I, or did I not start this very blob with a post on pedhas being near, yet so far? And three years later, here I am in South-east London, while Chitale's finest are in an unopened box, cooling their heels in a house in South-west London. A careful courier courteously carried them on Corean Air (bear with me). Now all that is required is planning the drop at a dead letter box. Synchronize your watches, and remember Moscow rules!

'Tis the season to be snaily..

2008-05-20T04:48:00.004+05:30

..fa la la..

It's true. May 24th is National Escargot day!

Put on your game face, waddle to the nearest French restaurant, and order Beurre d'escargot, along with a glass of house white.

Divine tasting though it is, I suspect that even my shoe (the tight one that bullies my bunions) slathered in copious amounts of garlic butter would taste as good.

If this post makes me sound annoyingly Frenchified, please to remember that I have in the past suggested a desi leech-ghee stir fry.

And if you are angry about this post, and (though reading this online) are a technophobe, do write to me via snail mail.

Universal franchise

2008-05-13T15:01:00.004+05:30

For those of you following UK politics, you'll know that Gordon Brown's Labour Government is in trouble. The Tories won the London mayoral election, and Labour lost a number of council elections, its worst performance in 40 years.

What does this have to do with you and me?

I voted, innit! I was a part of it all!

As a citizen of the Commonwealth, I was on the voters list. I'm not an Brit citizen. I'm not even a permanent resident. I'm just a dolphin gambolling about the cold English waters. But there I was, with an election card and a burning desire to vote.

On election day, I waddled over to my polling station- a primary school. Amidst the surreal post-modern art of 3-year olds on display, sat two young women with the electoral roll. Trembling with excitement (not), I mumbled my address. My name was duly found, crossed off the list and I was handed three ballot papers and sent to a corner to exercise my franchise. Having listened to the radio, my Mayoral choice was easy peasy, and I boldly marked my first and second preferences. But what to do about the council elections? I almost voted for the party with the most interesting symbol, until I realised that I had no idea what they believed in, and could possibly be the party that wanted to stop the influx of us brownies.

Brownie- what a nice way to refer to South Asians. We're brown, sweet and irresistible. Also we're chewy, sometimes nutty and can be hard to swallow.

Finally, I voted for the party that (I think) shares my idealogical preferences.
The ballot sheets were slipped into a ballot box- i.e. a cardboard box with a slit. No Electronic Voting Machine! Even more disappointingly, no indelible ink marks were made on my forefinger and I regretfully left the station. Outside, an apple-cheeked old lady wearing party colours and knitting in the sunshine checked me off a list.

Ruminating on the walk home, here are my questions-
1 How do they prevent fraud? All you need to do is quote an address. No finger mark (Look, with a spot I damn him) to prevent proxy voting. The answer- yes, fraud does occur.
2 Is it fun without Clinton v. Obama style tense debates, ballot box stuffing, jab tak rahega samose main aloo etc? No, but heads aren't broken, and large sums aren't wasted which is a good thing.
3 What makes some countries give voting rights to temporary residents? And others rescind them from convicted criminals?
4 Democracy, in its Greek cradle was direct. Is there any point to the representational exercise at all, with its manifestos only for elections and influence from lobbying groups?

Such seditious thoughts in one so (relatively) young..

Ayubowan to Sri Lanka?

2008-05-08T13:51:00.005+05:30

Ayubowan: Sri Lankan greeting
Serendipity: the effect by which one accidentally discovers something fortunate, while looking for something else entirely
Serendip: the old Persian name for Sri Lanka

For more, go read the travel page of the Economic Times Epaper, Delhi edition on Thursday April 8th. It has all the pictures and everything.

Who knows what else you'll stumble upon?

In the mooood for some snow

2008-04-17T15:38:00.002+05:30

Time pass

2008-04-08T19:50:00.005+05:30

My mood on march 30th verged on the Distinctly Discombobulated. capitals intended.

what happens every year in northern latitudes is a change of time. daylight savings, they call it. in summer, you lose an hour. at the stroke of 1 a.m. in the UK, you are suddenly transported to the stroke of 2 a.m. this is particularly annoying if you are awake at the time, or in need of some extra sleep that night.

a whole hour gone! an hour i could have spent sleeping, gazing out of the window, ensconced in a blankie with chipce and a book..
the mind boggles.

the most irritating part is that you get an hour less of sleep, wake up grumpy and with bad hair.. and then find that you're supposed to be grateful it stays light an hour longer.
well of course it would! you put forward the clocks by an hour, didn't you? given a chance, if you changed the time by oh-i-don't know 5 hours, it would be bright and sunny at midnight!
easy peasy!

of course, you gain back your hour in winter. this is all very well when you have spent a year in the temperate zone country in question. but when you arrive just before the hour is lost, you can't help but feel the loss. i lost an hour that wasn't compensated by gaining an hour in the last week of october. i do realise that i will gain the hour this october, but what if i'm in the tropics when the hour is gained?
you see my dilemma?
no?
(orcaella gestures hypnotically)
now do you see it?

of course, i haven't really lost an hour (sheepishly), it's just an accounting change. but i do question the rationale behind it.
daylight savings was introduced to save energy, though studies have shown that the energy savings are often less than anticipated.

the search for a fiendishly cunning plan that replaces the current system with one that doesn't deprive me of my sleep for a day, and yet helps conserve energy and gives me long summer days is on.

until then, i've lost an hour and someone, somewhere will have to pay.

Frøken Smillas fornemmelse for sne

2008-03-27T20:50:00.007+05:30

Last weekend, I woke up to the silence of snowflakes falling. When you wake up and it's snowing, there's only one thing you do- dash on several layers of clothing and rush onto the street and twirl about while the snowflakes gently daub your cheekce.
Well, that's what I did, anyway. Only me. Everyone else in the area stayed indoors.
I finally got home, got myself a cuppa tea and took a picture of the flakes from the kitchen window.

-"What a brilliant photograph!"I hear you exclaim.
Yes, it was taken on my Lumix DMC FX 3, no filters, shutter speed auto, one-handed.

in an aside: honey it's over, you can get off the roof and come back into the house now. please bring the remaining popcorn.

House hunts I have known..

2008-03-03T01:16:00.004+05:30

when you're as peripatetic as i have been, you get used to house hunting. a tip: treat it as a fun way to see the city and meet a few kooks.

kookiest bangalore experience: middle class home in bangalore with a reasonable rent, and a loo without a flush.
i didn't even notice, and moved right in! and then, gave my notice and moved right out.

washington d.c.- very odd experience involving ads placed on a housing website for flats at low rent in great areas. when contacted by email, the putative landpeople asked for a photograph and a message to be recorded at a slow speed on their answering machine. a quick search of the sender's name took me straight to a site for russian mail-order brides.
ye gads!

london- the oddest experience. flats offered for rent in fabulous locations in central london, for a pittance, practically. salivating at the thought, and having learnt nothing from my DC experience, i wrote to an owner, asking for pictures of the flat, and scheduling an appointment to view it. i got a diatribe in my inbox- about how the lady was alone, her husband dead, she didn't live in london and people asking to view the flat never seemed to actually have the money for it. references, bank statements or salary slips were no proof. she wanted money to be transfered about and proof of it sent to her.

i try not to be cynical sometimes, so i charitably ascribed the email to a poor ol soul, lonely and mistrustful.

until i got an email from the next apartment owner. who said that he wasn't in london either and would have to be really sure i was interested in the flat. he found it necessary to add that he had to be with his children, since "there (sic) mother was dead (sick)"

either it's me, or some major mortal coil shuffling off is going on.

Peripatetic

2008-02-04T20:22:00.000+05:30

While this blob has remained slumped in the same cyberspot, i have been moving. With dizzying rapidity, i have gone from bangalore to pune to delhi to sri lanka to london, where i have now come to rest.

so it's a tweedy and muffled orcaella brev. addressing you over a pint of bitter from the corner seat at the pub.

many years ago, when i was just a rebellious teen growing up in the irrawaddy delta i came across a book that began thus:

In Life*, there are many hundreds of common experiences, feelings, situations and even objects which we all know and recognize, but for which no words exist.
On the other hand, the world is litterered with thousands of spare words which spend their time doing nothing but loafing about on signposts pointing at places.
Our job, as we see it, is to get these words off the signposts and into the mouths of babes and sucklings and so on, where they can start earning their keep in everyday conversation and make a more positive contribution to society.

*And, indeed, in Liff.

It struck me particularly, as there was the following entry in the book:

POONA (n.) - Satisfied grunting noise made when sitting back after a good meal.

Indeed.

It was only last week that I found out that the book in question was "the meaning of liff" and was co-written by douglas adams.

i would love to start off a blob tag chain letter-type event, with everyone naming the place they last visited, and using it to define a recognizable situation or event for which no word exists. but i need to get back to dealing with my CHANAKYAPURI (n.) - the situation when the bread portion is constantly replenished, but the curry portion remains intact after eating it for half an hour. typically seen while eating pavbhaji, chole bhature or misal pav.

POONA.

School kids should study hard because...

2008-01-04T21:06:00.000+05:30

Pune marathon 07: Where angels fear to tread?

2007-12-07T22:58:00.000+05:30

Really, I shouldn't be complaining. Nobody asked me to run the Pune half. They even made it complicated to register. They started late. They had the pavement-dweller and black buck killer flag off the race. And since there were only about 35 of us intrepid wimmen running the half, 34 of whom speeded away, the rest of me was surrounded by hordes of comment-passing menfolk. Traffic control waned after the 10km mark. At one point, there wasn't enough place to run. I walked while clinging to the sides of a dusty busty. err.. bus.

On the non-whiney side: the air was cool, the water was plentiful, every 1.5km or so there were drums and moojic, and it's a great feeling to be chugging along high-fiving lil kids.

If you not otherwise engaged (or married) on Dec 16th, you could run the bangalore ultra marathon. 50km of non-stop excitement. it's tough, are you?

her last bow

2007-11-06T15:29:00.000+05:30

dasera in basavangudi, bangalore

adieu, adieu

2007-10-15T11:30:00.000+05:30

to yew and yew and yew ew, as Friedrich winningly lisped.

it's time to leave bengaluru and head northwards. here are some bits of knowledge gleaned from my years here. useful perhaps for those taking my place in the city. (please get in line, no pushing now. leave your vehicle outside the city)

- meals ready means that you get rice-sambar-rasam-palya on banananana leaves. it doesn't mean that even if you knock on the door at 3 a.m., the meal will definitely be ready.

-tiffin is idli, vadai, dosai, utthapa and other goodies. more of a breakfasty snack than a mealce. often not available at lunch time.

- military hotel is a small restaurant where they serve meat. a hindu military hotel presumably serves non-beef meat.

-darshini is the generic name for a tiffin joint. typically, you stand by a metal table and eat. or sit in the family room, where you can also be served mealce, chinjabi and pinese. some have the word darshini as a part of their name. the others... well.. they don't.

southern supremacists, correct me if i'm made any errors. i won't mind at all.

coming soon- some of my secret parking spots in the city.

joga bonita

2007-10-04T16:38:00.000+05:30

remember the good old days? when spirits were brave, men were real men, women were real women, and small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri were real small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri*?

ah, that's when it was still the glorious game! for days it would go on. swish. stall. ponder. strategise. withhold resources. run cunningly. feint. skills were key, not just brute strength.

but then came television. marketing! instant gratification! bearded greats of the game shaking their heads in disbelief. "a 90-minute football game just won't allow for the exhibition of skill that you would get from good old 5-day test football!" they muttered.

yes. well, quite.

* yes, i've used that one before. there.

On attempting to take a baby out in Bangalore

2007-09-10T18:13:00.000+05:30

Call to a fancy shmancy restaurant -lounge near Lavelle road:

Orcaella's friend: Hello, do you allow infants at your f. sch. rest. l.?
Manager: Enfields! You want to bring a royal enfield bullet to dinner? freak!

Call to open-air resto-loungey-regional foodey place near Palace grounds:

Orcaella's friend enunciating very clearly: Hello, do you allow babies at your resto-lounge?
Manager: How many babies?

These places must have been visited by some very odd fish.

phobias i have known

2007-08-16T10:08:00.000+05:30

punctophobia- fear that a car tyre has developed a puncture. this usually happens while driving late at night, with nary a pancher repare bhooth in sight. this is a particularly annoying phobia for the other occupants of the car as they are forced to get out, stare at plump tyre and help* change it.

mahiphobia- fears of songs with the word mahi**, mahiya or other variations. i would list the offending songs, but I tremble as i type the words. (retires to another room and gulps down a strawberry smoothie, stiffish). the origin of the phobia can be traced to my fish-eating childhood in hawaii.

incompletophobia- fear of reading books that the author didn't end. austen and her Sanditon, Dickens and his mystery of edwin drood, adams and his doubtful salman, all those "Kafka never completed this work", and the technically-complete-but-but short stories of murakami. very frustrating, though i don't blame the authors for posthumous publication. i blame myself.

parkophobia- the fear of parking underground. partly there's the irrational fear that the building will collapse on top of me, and i'll lie there crushed but alive. and the fairly rational fears that i) i will bump into a pillar while negotiating a cunning turn; and ii) i will forget where the car is parked.

sachypoohobia- fear of watching sachin bat. he might get out any minute! and then what meaning would life hold?

What are the phobias you have known? Comment away..

* not so much helping, as actually doing the thing.

** 25 years of watching hindi films and i have no idea what it means. please, don't tell me.

dough!

2007-08-09T15:04:00.000+05:30

"they'll put anything in a cornish pastry, they will"

is what i thought a crusty old character in agatha christie's "dead man's folly" said.

walking near london's southwark cathedral, past a fish n chips shop, i saw a sign advertising cornish pasties. pasties! not pastries! d'oh!
visions of daphne du maurier's cornwall, pale-faced unhealthy men, hercule poirot and a full stomach swam together before my eyes. mmm, pasty.

diving into the chipper (thump. crash.) i casually asked for cornish pasties. with the slightest emphasis on "stee" and a hint of a question mark in the air. accompanied by a hint of "aw shucks! i'm just a tourist here, so forgive me for getting your quaint pronunciation wrong" visible in the twitching lines of my face.
very complex.

i don't think i flatter myself, when i say that the hirsute man and his 6 brothers running the establishment gauged the situation perfectly. my doubts about the correctness of the term were laid to rest by the matter of fact manner in which they turned away from me, scratched, yawned and perspired.

several minutes passed. i was lulled into a dreamlike state by the heat in the room, the sound of the rain outside and the general feeling of waiting for godot.

"aah, merrie england" i murmured. it had all come together in this defining moment.

a microwaved beef puff with plenty of trans fat. that's the way the pasty crumbles.

tight bombing patterns!

2007-07-18T12:16:00.000+05:30

1. the new harry potter movie
didn't watch it- feather in my cap

2. sivaji- the BOSS
watched. black eye because the plot was so hackneyed.
feather in my cap- because i've now seen superstar rajni's movie in tamil.
black eye- i don't speak tamil
black eye- apparently they fed people in chennai theatres pongal. i watched it in bangalore without any pongal or vadai. gimme eat!

3. the new harry potter book
not going to buy it- feather in my cap. i've been wracking my brains but can't remember what happened in harry and the half blood prince. this is astounding, because i can quote verbatim from every tolk, dick and enid.
black eye- given that i have nothing better to do, thanks to 4., i would rather be reading

4. no tv
am living a pure, clean, healthy life without a television to fill up my head with silly stuff. more time for violin, running, catching up on books, dvds, dusting, playing with dust bunnies. feather in my cap
playing with dust bunnies! black eye

5. running the bangalore marathon and raising funds for Asha
running again, almost injury free, yippee- feder in meine hut
they've already postponed the marathon- black eye
raising funds is difficult, unless, any of you would like to contribute.. (edges forward with eyes fixed on wallet). receives black eye and retires hurt to federer in the hut.

it's ALIVE!

2007-07-18T11:50:00.000+05:30

a few gentle readers surround the blob and look at it with distaste.
the lumpen elements among them poke at it with a cattle prod.
the blob rumbles, gurgles, discharges pus of unused blogposts and sits up groggily.
looking around at its not-so-gentle-after-all-i-won't-forget-about-that-cattle-prod-readers, it smiles winningly and asks, "what's for breakfast?"

Isle beyond the TIP

2007-03-22T11:20:00.000+05:30

"UOMINI and Donne. That’s all the signs on the door said- “Uomini” on one door, “Donne” on the other. A little context... I was traveling with my brother to the Sicilian town of Taormina. Chilled to the bone from a dip in the Ionian sea in October, I needed to use a bathroom. Prontissimo. The bathroom doors, however, didn’t have the universal pictorial label of the figure in the dress with narrow waist and broad hips to guide me. With just Uomini and Donne to work with, it was hard to tell. Don Corleone, many Dons gathering- Donne Corleone and Umbrizzi, I thought. And Uomini sounded female. With such irrefutable logic, and pressure on the bladder increasing, I was about to storm into Uomini, when I remembered Giuseppe Verdi’s La Donna e mobile”, the aria to women’s inconsistency. One fickle Donna, many capricious Donnes? I was stumped. ...."

To read it in all it's glory, go to http://epaper.timesofindia.com/
Select The Economic Times, Delhi edition.
Use your indiatimes login* and password to login in.
Click on ET Travel and read Isle beyond the TIP

If lazier, go to the html, picture-less version. but you'll regret it..

some reader reactions so far:
"ooh, look at it's an article by Ira Athale on travelling in eastern sicily! mm, i must get myself 3 of those babies"
and also
"hand me my lupari, guiseppe!"

*If you don't have an indiatimes login and password, create one at indiatimes.com. Then retrace the steps above, leaving out no detail, however unimportant.

bhajji on the beach?

2007-03-18T00:47:00.000+05:30

Pic source: BBC
Pun source: Nipun, Gurinder Chadha

Redemption song

2007-03-13T17:13:00.000+05:30

Sometimes, you treat a loved one very badly. Then you regret it deeply and in a heartfelt manner. Most of the regret is selfish, "How will i get on without you?"
This is especially true when the maltreated object (MO) is your car.

The MO is carefully driven through the gates of the automotive repair shop. If it spluttering and grimy, you carefully avoid meeting the eyes of the any of the makaniks. The car is deposited, emptied of music, bills, funky yellow cushions with a 3-d dog in a skirt on them (they won't believe me till i post a picture of the f. y. pooch cushion) and a hosepipe.

A day later you traipse into the zentrum, free of that hangdog look you had earlier. You may even whistle, though this is foolhardy. They might just decide they don't like your attitude, and hand you one of those Heathrow clear plastic bags with the knob of the gear stick and part of the indicator light thingummy leverbob.

But oh the joy when the car rolls out! If it had teeth, it would smile cheekily and they would glint in the sunlight! (This blobber doesn't have much mechanical aptitude, knowledge or common sense, does she?)

You expansively sign the bill and tut tut in a friendly manner at a grimy spot on the door, but are willing to overlook it this time.

Right then, you could drive into the desert as the sun sets, as they tend to do in car adverts, and it would actually make sense.

A Modest Proposal

2007-02-20T11:21:00.000+05:30

For Reducing the Discomfort of Air Travel, as well as Making it Cheaply Available to those of Lower Income

It is a melancholy object to those who dizzily travel around the globe, to enter airports- those crowded structures far outside the city. Verily hath Douglas Adams pointed out that the expression "as beautiful as an airport" could not possibly exist.

And yet, most are agreed that the unsightliness of the airport and its Rs. 70 microwaved sandwiches are as nothing, when faced with the horror of a flight on a discount airline. The cramped space, the fixed smiles of rage on the faces of the staff, the interminable delays while seated on the plane with the A/C switched off.. And who has not faced the pain of the ears popping, or even worse, refusing to pop, as the plane descends?

Given this deplorable state of affairs, whoever can find an easy method of making air travel more comfortable would deserve a statue to be put up in public as the preserver of the nation.

But my intention is not only to add to the comfort of those already travelling, but to also increase the numbers of those who currently only aspire to travel, but cannot afford to do so, even on a budget airline.

I cannot claim to have spent years brooding on the topic. But if you, gentle reader, hear me out, you will agree that my suggestion is as worthy of approval as that from the weightiest scholar.

Every putative airline passenger is to be slipped a downer, mickey finn, barbiturate or tranquilizer; then led to a gurney and told to "lie back now ducky, good night sweet prince and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest". As the eyeballs roll backwards in the head, the contents of the gurney can be dumped onto a conveyor belt and sent towards the plane.

Strong men (the kind that wince and hide their valuables) could load the doped out dopes onto metal trays stacked one above the other. An adjusted tray-belt here, a crack to the outflung elbow there and the flight is ready for take off.

Assuming an airplane that currently carries 60 passengers, the craft would now be able to load more than twice that number. The only restriction would be the weight of the sleepy bodies. Given the reduced need for stewards, food, oxygen masks and seats with floatation devices below them, the increased numbers could be huge.

Opening up capacity in this manner would lead to a drop in fares, opening the doors (of perception too!) to the poorer populace with laced pop.

I would go further with the advantages but all this modest proposing (oh i'm nothing special really, but do be mine) has made me hungry.

Time for some "most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled ...”

More misheard lyrics

2006-12-08T16:52:00.000+05:30

i try to say goodbye and i choke
try to walk away and i stumble
though i try to hide it, it's clear
i wore goggles when you are not there.

is apparently not what macy gray sang after all.

shom shom shom shamosha sha

2006-11-07T22:42:00.000+05:30

those of you who have seen Tehelka will of course remember amrish puri twirling his pigtail in delighted-maniac fashion while proclaiming, "dong kabhi wrong nahin hota"

which is one way of saying, i've been away, but i'm back now, loyal readers. yay!

so preliminaries aside, here are things to do in when alone in panjim on a rainy gandhi jayanti afternoon.

admire the pretty colours of the buildings.

admire the cathedral, parks and floating restaurants, while reading shantaram and searching for bebinc.

time to learn kannada

2006-09-21T18:40:00.000+05:30

you go to a beautiful theatre that is run by punctuality and anti cellphone nazis. which is as it should be. you watch chekhov's "seagull" in kannada.

you do this when you don't speak or understand kannada but fancy your interpretive skills.

you take your granma along. sitting in the front row, you ask her, "ki gal e?"
and then reply "seagulleh".
with aplomb, naturally. its the only way.

be that as it may.

a sinking feeling manifests itself, when the preplay announcement is completely unintelligible, apart from "cell phone switch off madi"

a hush falls. darkness, velvety. coughs and shifting in the seat.

the play begins.

it is a dialogue heavy play. everything is obscure. men and women stomp around, declaiming angrily. granma and i are stoic and silent when a witticism is made. we giggle helplessly when something looks funny. such as when stompers declaim angrily in kannada, ending with a "blah blah .. maadtini, YEVGENY ANDREVITCH!" or "hau da, petrushka?"

quite.

a girl wanders onto the stage carrying a stuffed toy that looks like a dead duck. that, presumably is the seagull. it flops about in her hands the way stuffed toy dead ducks are wont to do. she pats its head and sobs.

the eyes glaze over.

in the interval an usher speaks to us in kannada and is quite bemused that we don't understand.

drowning our incomprehension in bondas and sambar, we ignore the warning bells and the play resumes. we are not allowed inside. we flop about like the seagull.

without understanding what the play was about, i somehow managed to spend an appropriately chekhovian evening.

granma and i return to borsht, vassily ivanchuk and the wolves howling.

Savanadurga!

2006-09-06T15:00:00.000+05:30

I will follow him
Follow him wherever him may go,
And near him, I always will be
For nothing can keep me away,
him is my destiny.

this was going through my mind as i heard snatches of "jhalak dikhlaja" while headed towards savanadurga on a balmy ganesh chaturthi.

you can approach sav-d from mysore road, turning off at ramnagram or the more direct way on magadi road. having tried both, i reccomend magadi road- undisturbed and serene. a treat if you're on a bike. or gunrally wandering around in a hemlet.

("ossifer, ossifer, she's calling it a hemlet!")
be that as it may.

sav-d is one of those looming monolithic rocks that karnataka does so well.
there's two rocks, karigudda - black hill

and biligudda- white hill, harder to climb and less frequented.

nandi at the top.

the walk up is steep but easy. so as you walk or clamber, you feel rather mountain goatlike. but if you sit on the slope, you start to slide down gently.

since it's a bare rock face, there are helpful arrows painted onto the rock. at the top though, the arrow painter had a bit of an incident. a set of arrows gently perambulates round a hollowed rock-formation. it circuitously leads you to a spot where several beer bottles have been smashed. the arrows then lead on towards a picture of hanuman on a rock, surrounded by dense undergrowth and a path that leads nowhere. hanuman has been garlanded and someone has helpfully stuck a plastic bag onto his hand.

"colombo duty free?" asked AC quizzically.

yes, quite.

oh sicilia!

2006-08-21T14:27:00.000+05:30

you're breaking my heart..

is what one hopes to sing after a trip to europe.

meanwhile hectic preparations are on. i have already started-a talking like this: bella italIA! buon giORNO! cappuCINO! cannaVARO!
while the hands wave about expressively, hitting the unwary, or the long-nosed.
this was my conversation style throughout the world cup. and very annoying it was too.

so i find myself delving into:

the lonely planet guide to europe- well thumbed and stained with that doener kebob from near the muenchen bahnhof, and eaten outside the compartment because of the delicately wrinkling nose of the austrian sitting on the opposite seat.
LP tells one where to go, how to get there and how to say "you have a daring taste in leather pants" in the local language.

neither here nor there- bill bryson's record of a trip to europe. droll, but he has an unfortunate tendency to conjugate travel as an irregular verb.
i am a connoisseur of life's experiences
he, she, it are tourists
they are hordes of wildebeest crossing the serengeti in shorts and disposable cameras

ladri di biciclette (1948) - almost a fable, with marxist overtones, they tell me. beautifully made, without professional actors and with a poignancy that makes you weep. especially weepily poignant is the child bruno. there's something about a poor child in a coat and shorts that gives me the weepies. through my tears, i did wonder why they couldnt just sell some of the coats and hats they were wearing...

throw in a rollicking tale of three englishmen bicycling around the schwarzwald, the adventures of herr professor dr dr moritz-maria von igelfeld and the stuttering emperor of rome and you find me ready.

avanti!

Agumbe!

2006-07-06T10:58:00.000+05:30

remember swami and friends? mr. sampath- the printer? the man eater of malgudi, the painter of signs?

the Malgudi days series by Shankar nag was shot in Agumbe. and now i come to the heart of the matter. ladies and gents, i present before you- Agumbe!
(bows)

the cherapunji of the south, they call it, and you can see why.

there's two delightful places to stay- the one above, and one run by kasturi akka.
contact them at: jenny bai (08181) 233085
kasturi akka (08181) 233075

Apart from looking at Malgudi memorabilia and the king cobra research station, what else can one do in agumbe?

- One can sit in a slowly darkening room with large windows, listening to the dripping of the rain on the roof, and the shuffling footsteps of the lil ol lady in white downstairs. while one reads about toru climbing down into the well. and eats jackfruit chipce. it's all delightfully chilling. except the jackfr. ch. they're yum.

-one can visit the jogigundi and barkana falls nearby.

-or go on a 7km walk down to someshwara village

its quite rewarding for the views and mistiness. and for the neer dosai and banana stuffed pooris called buns. it's always plural (buns, never bun) probably because no one in their right mind would want to have only one anyway. when you need to start walking and its raining heavily outside, there's nothing that passes the time quite like a plate teeming with bunce.

the drive back to shimoga is charming. but charming, i protest! there's the interlaced bamboo

the mandagadde bird sanctuary along the way and the elephant spa at sakkarebailu.

round it off with some paddu -stumpy looking idlies with sambar-to-kill-for. and avlaki mosru -pohe + dahi at meenakshi bhavan in shimoga.

pics by: andrea and AC

candyto ergo sum

2006-06-21T10:49:00.000+05:30

i candy therefore i am.

get it? eye candy! get it??

do you listen to classical music regularly,

2006-06-13T15:40:00.000+05:30

you ask me.

beethoven regularly and offen bach, i reply with aplomb.

hapoos 2: the return of the evil dead

2006-06-05T15:35:00.000+05:30

mangoes!
who needs 'em?
yes i know what i said a few weeks ago. something about mangoes and heaven.

verily hath the poet asked:

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

i AM large. i DO contain multitudes. and in a startling turn of events/ delicious irony i am also allergic to mangoes!

unsightly boilce dot the landscape.

even if it's not an allergy, but some horrid bacterial thing. it's the end of childhood, innit?

ichabod, ichabod,
the glory is departed!

hapoos! how to eat an alphonso

2006-05-16T16:51:00.000+05:30

take one hot summer day
get yourself to pune
stroll over to deccan gymkhana, the market. not the gym.
waddle past chitale bandhu, till you reach ingale bandhu.
remind yourself how you thought bandhu was a surname, and how you wished you were a bandhu, cos then chitale and ingale would ply you with pedhas and mangoes all day.
giggle.
explain to passing chunnu that ingale doesn't rhyme with single. and pimpalgaon is a village of peepul trees. not zits.
gaze about the ingale shop
cluck at the sight of straw baskets
watch while a minion removes a precious yellow object from the straw and holds it aloft, glittering.
see the rosy blush atop the mango
sniff
go to heaven
return to earth
sniff
continue heaven n earth perambulations
stop peramb.
inspect each mango in a basket
then buy a tokri of devgarh che alphonso
and a dozen payri
transport them home and brood over them

repeat for a few days

make aamras out of payri
eat remaining mango pulp on skin and koy
watch koy slide out of hands, arc lazily through the air, slide down (white) clothes and onto floor
chase slippery koy around kitchen floor
retire abashed

emerge in clean close for lunch
aamras
warm fluffy phulkas and ghee
use remainder for milkshake
use remainder for icecream

let a few days pass

place warm ripened alphonsoes in fridge
place warm irritable chillun of the house in bibs
remove mangoes from fridge and place before chillun
watch them fall silent (the chillun, not the mangoes)
slice them correctly (mangoes, not chillun) to ensure that everyone gets large slice, side slice and koy
_______
(description of deep golden colour of flesh, firm yet tender, aroma, teeth sinking in, intense flavour, a little juice dribbling down chin and other food porn)
sigh.

other honourable mentionce- langda, banganapalli and dussehri; panha from kayris, amba burfi* (i can't believe i forgot this one) granma's mango pickle, amrakhand*, murabba, aam papri, mango mojitos.

step away from the totapuri and no one will get hurt.

*from chitale

this works on many levels

2006-05-02T11:11:00.000+05:30

wanted to go rappelling this weekend. but the crowd was unfamiliar. and i prefer to go alone.
y'know, i'm not a social climber.

splat! - the transcript

2006-04-28T12:22:00.000+05:30

me: i was traumatised by bubble gum bubbles as a chile

the blob says: i wasn't. parents wouldn't let us touch bubblegum

i say: (does it want to hear my story or is it going patter on about its own life?)

the blob says: (you patter. your turn.)
: (jupatter)
: (jupiter)
: (said the German)
: (be that as it may...)
: (we are all ears.)

i say: (after having patrick pattersoned to your heart's content)
i: so tehre i was, in calcutta
: a wee tot

the blob says: (that was a strange man)

i say: 5-6 years old
:(why?)

the blob says: (oh, that was Gladstone Small. sorry.)

i say: had never eaten bubble gumb before
:(i love calling people gladstone small!)
:(i'm going to call you gladstone small now!)
: so there were these neighbourhood kids

the blob says: (now she's announcing her insults?)

i say: brother's age
:(shh, gladdie)

the blob says: that ineffable age

i say: when they found out i'd never blown a bubble
: they gave me some "chingum"
: and asked me to chew
: i chewed, shrewdly
: and shrewd, chewedly
:then there was that whole complicated technique of blowing the bubble which i couldnt master
:once, the whole wad went flying through teh air

the blob says: heh

i say: so then tehy said (in silken tones)

the blob says: as you goggled at it

i say: this is the easy way
: took chewed gum
:stretched it over my mouth and told me to blow

the blob says: you've indubitably spent time amidst the most interesting people

i say: so it was a stretchy membrane over my mouth

the blob says: (mit silken tones. i don't think i've spent any time with anyone with silken tones)

the blob says: ew

i say: but i couldnt even ohfrabjousdaycalloohcalay
: cos there was chingum over my mouth
: and chestnuts in my hand. so when they asked me why i had chingum on my face, i said they were chestnuts, not chingum. and in my hand, not on my face. but (sigh) they couldn't understand what i was saying, cos i had chingum on my face.
: and then, having tired of this game
: they ripped it off my face
:(luckily the moustache wasnt in evidence then)
: and made a chingum necklace
: which i then put on
: many were the bitter tears i shed
: while trying to remove my chewedup jewellery
:and i still cant blow a bubble
:(and i NEVER chew gum to this day)

hum bhi agar bacche hote..

2006-04-24T14:11:00.000+05:30

hum bhi agar bachhe hote
Naam hamara hota bubloo gubloo
khane ko milte laddu
aur duniya kehtee
heppy budday to you

the worst way to start a post

2006-04-18T10:04:00.000+05:30

is with the words-
"you know what i REALLY hate about.."
it's whiney.
and boring.

and it's usually followed by "now don't get me wrong. i'm as tolerant as the next girl. but when it comes to.. "

be that as it may.

you know what i REALLY hate about going to a public bathroom? it's having people constantly turn the handle to try to get in. repeatedly. as if they expect that the inmate will have slipped through a warp in the space time continuum. and the bathroom will be theirs. forever. muahahaha.

now don't get me wrong. i'm as tolerant as the next intolerant girl. bathroom emergencies happen. they are a part of life. universal. verily hath the poet said:

breathes there a man with soul so dead
who never to himself hath said
..
the rest of the pome is not about bathroom emergencies. but you do see where i'm going with this?

so if it 'twere a b. emerg. say so! pound on the door! shout it out! we will evacuate the building.

but (and this is where it gets cunning) this happened to me in a gym bathroom. there's only one of them and it's primarily for clothes-changing. there are a myriad normal bathrooms right outside the gym. they're flushing themselves while waiting for your patronage.

so it's sheer impatience, innit? and the bathroom door handle jiggler, once done with the gym, no doubt gets behind the wheel and in traffic at a signal, with no traffic moving, unbuckles the seatbelt. gets up. and SITS on the horn. awaiting more sp. t. cont. warps.

what to do with such a person?

and what to do with the blogger who complains so much?

bastinadoes. and blueberry muffince respectively.

let he who is without sin stone the first cast

2006-04-12T18:10:00.000+05:30

apparently, they're wailing, gnashing their teeth and throwing stones at vehicular traffic all over bangalore, because the "thespian", "dr"rajkumar is dead.
goondas!
lumpen elements!

i baked a cake yesterday that was a bit of a lumpen element.

alfred hitchcock presents

2006-04-07T12:39:00.000+05:30

alfie was really good at those hitchcockian moments.. in rear window, when jimmy stewart is sitting in the dark in his wheelchair and the baddie's* footsteps can be heard approaching.. and then jimmy can see the light under the door reduce..
(shiver)

marnie's got only one moment like that. when she's safe-robbing and doesnt see the cleaning lady. and then she does, and takes off her shoes and puts them into her coat pocket and tiptoes past. but (the horror, the horror!) a shoe is about to fall out of the pocket! you can see it edge out. she has no idea!

all the psycho babble in marnie apart, its so watchable because of its whole aura of a clean, well-dressed, slightly old-fashioned world. tippi hendren, sometimes credited as 'tippi' hendren, is always in suits with a gleaming bouffant and stuffing cash into her yellow leather handbag. and sean connery, who shurprishingly, he doeshnt shpeak like thish, is quite the hatted company big-pot. and there they are, watching horses race while a vaguely crafty sister in law watches tippi (or 'tippi') through the corner of her eyes.
that's the vag. cr. s-in-l's eyes. not tippi's. or 'tippi''s.

ohh, there's just something about hitchcock that takes you right back to the 60s, when men were real complex, strong jawed men, women were real tortured, spirited women and small furry creatures from Alpha Centuari were real small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri.

*i was 10 when i watched this. he was a baddie. humour me.

what did def lepard say

2006-03-24T06:14:00.000+05:30

to archie mckinnon?
bo-sun sugar on me

holi colours, batman!

2006-03-15T14:15:00.000+05:30

i've been a bit tardy with the blogs lately, haven't i? well don't think i don't know it. i do.
there have been patchy drafts, here's a few of them.

his eye is on the sparrow
on the disappearing sparrows of bangalore*

bruce, jet and dande li
yes. quite.

my new avatar as a gooroo
the hairstyle- bouffant. the name- sigh baba

connect quiz questions that reflect my stream of conciousness
frinstance, connect simone tata and british airways to ira.
s tata- started the cosmetics company lakme
british airways- once applied make up to all the boeings
no, it uses the flower duet from delibe's opera lakme
which is about (and this is where you need to be shrewd) an indian princess called lakshmi (lakme).
and isnt lakshmi the goddess of wealth?
just like ira is the goddess of knowledge.
you knew that and are no doubt peeved because i gave away the answer.

if you were a musical instrument, what instrument would you be?
ans: you would be a harpishchord

they may be the merest sketches, but you know how the posts wouldve turned out, don't you?
(leans back with eyes closed)
you know my methods, watson. apply them.
"dash it all, where's my persian slipper? you're *wearing* it?"

*no, they don't disappear one feather at a time. they're not cheshire cats, are they?

a pelican at blandings

2006-03-08T11:44:00.000+05:30

and another one at lalbagh.

so if you're in bangalore, go before 8 a.m. to the lalbagh lake. walk around it till you reach the slightly smelly part. there you'll see a large pelly sunning itself. and a bunch of cormorants diving for fish.

enjoy madi.

Guten Tag!

2006-02-28T12:51:00.000+05:30

there i was, all fresh from a vacation at a beautiful estate that grows a plant who's product i eschew. all rosy cheeked and plump, i looked. when wham! this tag hit me.

it's about books i've read, own, am reading, want to read, should've read but've been terribly terribly busy, promise to do so soon, it's on my list, in the fullness of time..

it's been 2 days since i wrote the above. can't post anything else either, can i? with this large dead bird stapled together, hanging around my neck.

so i'm just going to rush this, with my fingers in my ears and screaming "LALALALA" to avoid hearing the whispurred suggestions, and the "how could you leave that one out?"s. and am modifying the categories.
that's not allowed you say?
LALALALA!

so here goes nuffink:

Total number of books owned
A few hundred, prob'bly less than 500. Scattered hither and thither.
have only recently taken to buying books in any quantity, cos i always had access to great libraries. must do a post on my top 10 libraries soon.

Books i've made people buy
the star's tennis balls- stephen fry. hated it. hated myself for making brother buy it. hated fry for writing it.
the school for scandal by richard b sheridan. what's the point of making someone buy a book if they won't read it?
a day in the life of ivan denisovich by solzhenit's in

Last books i read
Two lives by Vikram Seth
Mansfield Park by Jane Austen
The Black Sheep by Georgette Heyer
My name is red by Orhan Pamuk
In the company of cheerful ladies by Alexander -i wish i were precious ramotswe- Mcall Smith
Schroedinger's kittens and the Search for Reality: Solving the Quantum Mysteries by John Gribbin
(phew! that should neutralise the g. heyer!)

Books I've been reading for a really long time
Classical music by someone or other
Schroedinger's kittens and the Search for Reality: Solving the Quantum Mysteries by John Gribbin
(ok, so i've finished it, in a sense. in another sense, it's finished me. and in another dimension, i'm still delving into its guacamole, the tortilla chip of my curiosity)

mmm.

Books i own, have started, but haven't read enough of to put them in the list of "'ang on a minute, i'm still reading em"
the second sex by someone de beauvoir
the jungle- upton sinclair
moby dick- herman melville

Books I've loved, lent and lost
twere better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all
-St. Augustine
twere best to have lent only after strict background checks and keeping the borrower's first born as deposit, than to have never Lent (or even ash wednesday) at all
-me

Taliban- Ahmed Rashid
Friday's Child- G Heyer
We the living- Ayn Rand
Paperweight- Stephen Fry. someone left my favourite Fry on an Airbus. the horror, the horror.

and i will stop there, leaving for another post the categories-
books i'm currently reading
books i wish i'd written
books i sometimes wake up thinking i have written
books i've reread so many times i can quote random passages from them
books i've taken on trips
books i've read on the subway that have made me look cool, intellectual and leftwing
books i hide under a pile of prev. category books while checking out of the library, to avoid breakdown of cool
und so weiter..

devbagh!

2006-02-09T12:59:00.000+05:30

devbagh is, of course, paradise. an island off the arabische see.

robi babu said of its nearby environs,

"The beach of Karwar is certainly a fit place in which to realise that the beauty of Nature is not a mirage, but reflects the joy of the Infinite within the bounds of form and thus draws us to lose ourselves in it"

there were bottlenose dolphince bouncing out of the waves.

the nearby beaches could be swum in.

ideal for a spot of snorkeling.

and the obligatory log huts, brahminy kites, full moon nights, barbeques on the beach, crab curry and games of beach bolleyball. and falling out of hammocks in a manner reminiscent of that nescafe shake-shake-shake ad. except no fluffy dogs jumped over me. but i won't go on. not to spare you, but just. gunrally. won't go on.

joshi, jog, kulkarni and athale visit an amsterdam coffeeshop

2006-02-02T17:45:00.000+05:30

they all trip

but only jog falls

(change in title, hat tip to the good doktor)

Bandages i have known

2006-01-25T14:05:00.000+05:30

was at the nurse's office last week. the wound in my right palm was cleaned with orange non stinging liquid, to the accompaniement of much clucking. then it was swabbed and dried and a soft cotton pad was laid on it. my entire hand was swaddled with gauze. some sticky plaster was rasped off and liberally stuck all over.

this sent me into bandage-musing-mode..

if i'd been a heroine in a hindi movie in the 70s- 80s, i would stub my toe and be sent to hospital where they would put a cute patti on my head. only the forehead portion would be seen, my long hair would drape well over the rest.

more likely to be in a nurse's office though, is a hero in a movie of the same era. he would hit his knee and get a cute patti on the head with a blob of blood showing on the temple. he would have to be tall to carry this off well- mithun and amitabh were very convincing cute-patti-sporters. nothing says macho, yet vulnerable, like a cute patti on the forehead of a tall hero, eh?

but the puffect bandage scenario would have to be the mother who falls in front of a car, scraping her knee and getting a p. on head. this is a patti of a different ilk - not particularly cute. shaped more like a helmet, it is wrapped around the forehead, sides of face and chin so as to present to the audience the maximum impact of wounded motherhood.

found some bandage-bustingly funny reviews at bollybob. a sample:
"the ultimate fate of every widowed mother in India is to receive a head wound" - from a review of Taarzaan- the wonder car

"Ruby (Amrita Singh) is a notably PECULIAR girl. I say notably, because she's even more peculiar than the characters Amrita usually plays. Bollywood directors loved to see Amrita Singh do two things: flamenco dance and get playfully tortured." from a review of Mard

(the bollybob link was suddenly down, keep trying)

for those of you for whom patti means grandmother, this is a very weird post.
for the rest of you, it's only mildly weird.

oooh, my sssinussesss!

2006-01-18T12:29:00.000+05:30

a snake was found in the bathroom today. alarums and excursions because it was thought to be a kobra. hurried call to the good folks at the katraj snake park who identified it as a lil ornament and took it away to release into the wild.
exeunt from left of stage while ssspeaking in sssibilant hissssess.

a frisson of excitement ..

2006-01-05T15:27:00.000+05:30

..is running up and down my spine as i read vicky seth's "two lives". thanks for buying it AND reading it so fast, Tan.

frisson rissons:
there are a startling number of commanalities and coincidences that seem to link vicky s and i together. german, economics, cello and ira and and ..
gives me a very melee' main bichchde huay feeling.
and
he's such a brilliant writer. he is rapidly climbing up the ranks of my favourite authors. he has already stepped on the heads of kafka, philip k dick and austen. ishipishi and fry are edging about, trying to make rheum* for him.
and
remember suitable boy's praha shoe company- that denizen of stolid czech shoe makers? years after reading it, i woke up one morning and set the pigeons all a-flutter when i slapped my forehead and exclaimed "of course! praha is bata!"
this has now been confirmed. vicky's father worked at bata.
i like to have these things clarified and sorted out.

* "i want a rheum"
"a rheum?"
"yes, a rheum"
"you said you wanted a rheum?"
"i know what i said!"
more..

the reader guards the leader

2005-12-28T10:50:00.000+05:30

a dry and humourless individual of indeterminate age and gender sits in a darkened room with fingers steepled, perusing my blog, and raising the occasional sceptical eyebrow.

that's how i picture my blog reader, while i write. the d. and h. indiv is never impressed, often snorts at my flights of fancy and is gunrally quite grumpy.

it's a seymour's fat lady type situation.

you other bloggers reading this, what is your imaginary reader like? do tell..

sakleshpura - the definitive post

2005-12-21T19:30:00.000+05:30

took my fust train journey as an 18-day old. shrieked piercingly all the way from pune to mount abu, apparently. but a train freak was born (18 days ago).

and trekking has been a staple activity for years.

so imagine my giddy excitement, my delirious swooning when i heard of the sakleshpur-kukke trek. its a trek along the railway track, with waterfalls, tunnels and bridges galore.

am i interesting you strangely, yet?

so this is what it is: there used to be a metre gauge railway track between SAKL* and KKK, near the bengaluru- mengaluru highway. it was abandoned (loose! debauched!) for years, but bridges over chasms and nearby waterfalls made it a great trek route.
now they're relaying the track as broad gauge, so hurry up and go there before bengaluru- mengaluru trains start plying.

warning- it's fairly dangerous. i'd give it 4 leeches in arduousness.
no leeches along the track, though i got one while walking through the forest approaching the track.
it has been brought home and is awaiting guests, hungrily.

but i digress.

another tip: get off the beng-meng bus at donigal. this happens at 2 am, so you might miss it. don't get off at gundya cross. at which point you will have to trek 9km along a stream, and then uphill through a forest.that was where i encountered leechy poo. this is the temple at which we turned right and began the uphill- mit backpacks- through forest routine.

on reaching the track we enter our first tunnel. these things are SCARY! you enter, there's a little light, which gradually peters out. water drips onto the tracks. and what is that smell? and that screeching sound? BAATTTTSSSS!
they buzzed me!

post tunnel discoveries:
bats are scary
batman was extremely weird
light at the end of the tunnel means that the light can be seen, but you have to goo step** a whole long way before you can actually reach it.

tip #2 - take a good torch along.

and then there were the bridges. the pictures should explain everything.

and what lies beneath:

and another tip: don't try to do this in a day. torchless through the batcaves is bad enough. but torchless over the bridge is downright dangerous. specially the bridges with crumbly wooden sleepers.

in all, we covered about 35 km along the track.

and then came the rather huge suprise of the day:
dusk was falling and we were still a good 10k away from a point where we could get off the track. i began to cross the longest bridge, with a MASSIVE waterfall below. when i heard from a tunnel at the end of the bridge:

fortissimo!

i frozessimo.
the track was under construction, but a few trolleys were plying on it, to carry labour and materials.
decided that if the trolley came rattling along, my only option would be to hang under the bridge. so instead, thought of turning and retracing my way, but the others (in between an unseemly fit of the giggles) told me i was closer to the end than the start. so i leaped, goatlike over sleepers, while the chasm yawned and the horn sounded repeatedly.

reached the other end, sat down and waited for the trolley to appear.
but there was no trolley, just this:

look closely and you will discern the outlines of a MASSIVE (insert expletive here) diesel engine. the big daddy of train engines!

gunral hallelujahing all round after which we happily clambered onto the engine and sat there for five hours as they did some testing and dropped us to sakleshpura at midnight.

yes, you heard me. i sat in the engine!!! i'm not going to pretend they let me drive it - was actually told sharply to touch nothing- but i still was there. spent some time sitting outside with legs dangling and misty wreaths encircling. we never went faster than 10 k an hour.
about the speed i get to drive in beng'u.

just in case anyone's missed the point of this entire post- I RODE IN A DIESEL ENGINE!

pics courtesy AC and AD

* all right. ALL RIGHT! i don't know the official railway code.

** on the entire trek, one has to step from one sleeper onto another in a goo-step manner. the annoying part is that one can never look around while walking.

run harpishcord run!

2005-12-20T10:24:00.000+05:30

the weekend had a good mix of music and running.
first the baroque concert by les ambassadeurs at the alliance francaise. a mezzo soprano, a counter tenor, a cellist and a theorbe player played and sang italian arias by monteverdi, handel, scarlatti among others.

had never watched a cellist perform before, or even heard of a theorbe, this is what it looks like..

much fun was had watching them give explanatory comments on the music and the harpishcord. being an enthucutlet, i sat in the first row and did some matrix style dodging of spitdrops (visible with the arc lights) as the counter tenor sang about jealousy.

and then on sunday there was the bengaluru (might as well start getting used to it) half marathon. interestingly enough, bangalore (oh come on, i still call it bombay) either lacks celebrities or just doesn't care about them.
the last pune marathon i attended had mahesh bhupathi and anju jobby borge as the sporty types. the all-bombay-can-spare celebs were represented by kader khan and aditya panscholi.

the hyd half m had the CM, sania, salmon khan and airforce paratroopers!
bangalore had ... charu sharma. imported from hyderabad. who, at the end of the half-m speechified about how he drove all night but couldnt make it here on time for the start.

for some reason, they last-minutedly changed the route. this happened at the last run too. is this like changing the kweschun papers the night before the exam, so that all the cheaters get left high and dry?

the run was fun, great running weather. the hebbal flyover gave one a very northern virginia feeling, not sure why. a few cops handed out water, and on the return trip, some waved one on impatiently cos traffic was waiting. umm, if i could run faster after 15k, i probably would be doing it already, innit?

one's timing was 2hrs 28 mince.

the end is near!

2005-12-16T16:42:00.000+05:30

movies watched this week that had the world end:
dr. strangelove or how i learned to stop worrying and love the bomb

hitch hikers guide to the galaxy

books read this week that had the world end:
cat's cradle

movies watched this week that made me wish the world had ended before they were made:
hitch hikers guide to the galaxy

book read that didnt make me wish the world had ended exactly, but
persuasion
and i thought fanny from mansfield park was the most irritating, sanctimonious and generally holier than thou austen heroine around.

eschew on this:
the hitchiker's guide has "don't panic" written on it in large friendly letters

the title page of the first book of bokonon says "Don't be a fool! Close this book at once! It is nothing but foma!"

would things have been better if mr darcy had entered persuasion and mansfield park (and northanger abbey and the h2g2 movie and saans bahu serialdom)?

international PJ week continues

2005-12-09T14:00:00.000+05:30

what's a kannada lament?
coulda.. shoulda.. woulda...
(please throw stale idlis at ~~nippon~~ nipun)

vogon: resistance is futile!
ohm: er.. actually, according to my law..
(brickbats to paleface)

mark and bob- twin brothers- get separated the kumbh melee'.
and never the twains shall meet.
(this one's mine)
ouch! real bricks!

watch out, south america!

2005-12-06T10:41:00.000+05:30

just ate peru with chile powder.

bangalore bikes!

2005-11-29T12:43:00.000+05:30

shameless plug for arun's "bangalore walks" outfit.

shameless because:
1) commercialisation! free advertisement! hands upflung in horror!
2) i was on a test-run, so went free. and it's still taken me months to get around to writing it up. ingrate! leech! free rider!

the set up:
the horsemen and horsewomen of the light cavalry meet arun his 2-i-c at barton centre and proceed to cubbon park where our trusty steeds await us. being metallic (BSAs) and not equine, there is less snorting, hoof-stamping and horse-pooing than usual.

we ride through broad leafy glades that the brits had laid out. and the narrow twisty formerly plague ridden areas reserved for the natives, one of them called "blackpalli".

after doing the rounds of churches, sappers, lakes and statues*, we return to the park, surrender our hosses and waddle over to 13th floor at barton centre for beer, mocktails and sandwiches. we and the vidhan souda are all lit up and the sunset is lovely.

good thing the raj is over, cos we would've otherwise gone straight from evening to pitch darkness. the sun never sets on the british empire, in'it?

* item 1- queen victoria, empress of india in cubbon. rather large and hideous, i say, what?

item 2- near ulsoor lake is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, where
riddle= statue of tiruvalluvar, the tamil poet
mystery= sheets of black polythene
enigma= overgrown trees and shrubs

churchill, madi!

why do birds..

2005-11-29T10:03:00.000+05:30

suddenly appear
everytime
you are near?

just like me
they are silly
pidgies

why do stars
fall down from the sky
everytime
you walk by

just like me
they didnt study
enough physics

on the day that you were born
the engels and marxes got together
and decided to create a dream come true
so they sprinkled stardust in your hair
and other filmy magazines coochiepoo

that is why
all the girls in town
follow you
all around

just like me
they long to be
crazy stalker chicky

i always suspected this..

2005-11-23T11:52:00.000+05:30

What Famous Leader Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

thanks for this, srin.

the new name..

2005-11-21T18:58:00.000+05:30

is Orcaella brevirostris
just like die Nadel, it has a link to my real name.
but that's not going to make me run around stabbing people..

..or is it?

the naming gnome

2005-11-14T14:09:00.000+05:30

favourite new names:
tutul
minty auchterlonie

evergreen favourites:
curtly ambrose
cho ramamswamy (cho wassup?)
gangubai hangal

hard to take a stand on:
shilpi
hetal
senthil
manjunath

À la recherche du temps perdu

2005-11-04T10:31:00.000+05:30

remember the leeches in coorg?
here are some from god's own country.
this time there were no tears or anger. ruthlessly, i peeled them off and flicked them into the lilyponds. in a few generations the fish will mutate into god's own pirahnas.
(muaahhahaha)

À l'ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs
remember the charming lil uns in the train to pune? this time round, a 4 year old asked me my name and then loudly whispered to her mum "kiti funny naav aahe!" well your boat's kinda weird too, i muttered.
round two went to her too, i had the headphones on, so pretended i couldn't hear the comments about about me. but the ears turned deep pink.
she finished her dinner before the railways gave me mine and did a little victory dance, cos she was first and i was last. that was when i opened my orange pudding and slowly spooned it in. *she* hadn't had any pudding. and here i was, toying with a whole bowlfull of orange glutinous stuff under her very nose.
the battle ended right there. she tottered away and i slept in peace.
i grow more like mr bean every day.

apocalpsye now: redux
i love the smell of barood in the mornings.

spent diwali night as a conscientous objector. wouldn't stop anyone from bursting crackers, but wouldn't join in either. dodged rockets, helicopters, snakes, atom bums, anars, chakras and chaklis.

Du Côté de chez Swann
actually, make that schezwan. hold the garlic, garçon!

what did akshay khanna say ..

2005-10-27T10:02:00.000+05:30

..when raveena was not where she should have been?

who moved my cheez?

Eight simple rules ..

2005-10-27T08:42:00.000+05:30

1. thou shalt not take the name of the Lord in vain
2. He is not sachya to you. and definitely not tendlya
3. boost IS the secret of His energy. ditto visa, adidas and MRF
4. slap yourself silly, if you have the urge to say He's not a team player. repeat slapping till sanity returns
5. the timbre, pitch and dynamics of His voice are not your concern
6. so there.

not really 8 rules after all.
whatchew gonna do about it?
complain to the captain?
it might be like talking to a wall, yknow.

djobi! djoba!

2005-10-03T16:23:00.000+05:30

a belated gypsy kings concert rave.

actually, the band performing was called "chico and the gypsies". am still not quite sure what relation this group had to the original nicolas reyes band. and how much of their music was authentically gypsy. but i already have favourite book and film gypsies. and anyone who's sat in my car has probably survived my driving only by concentrating on the best of gypsy kings album. (in my defence, the traffic here sucks. so it's not all my fault.)

the whole concert was kept very lowkey. so the huge palace grounds were empty. a few of us stood forlornly in the last section. in the emptiness and bright lights, moths the size of birds in chettinad cuisine floated about.

the stage filled up and the band began to play. they sang the power of love, in spanish (or romany?) - so am not sure whether the chubby guy actually sang "cos i'm your lady, and you are my man".

turned around after a while and found the section empty. the music had been pretty good so far, so i couldnt understand how EVERYONE had decided to leave. then saw an organiser wave us over. he was inviting us to the foremost section of the crowd.

dizzy with excitement (exaggeration alert) we headed to the front- where some poor sods had paid 1500 to be.

and then the best concert of my life began (not exaggerating). the band was so close, they could hear us scream! and so we did! and the crowd was small, but packed together, with the right amount of energy, so those who wanted to dance could. and those who wanted to shout ole! at the end of each song could too.

ole! i would cry. also ola! and opa!

the youngest chappie played some beautiful guitar solos. the band of gypsy brethren -all plump and in black, strummed flamenco and manuelo sang sad songs in spanish. didnt understand a word, but got the general drift when he'd point at the crowd, his heart and look sad.

and then there were the fast songs. ole! lots of baila! baila! baila! was sung. figured out the next day that they were asking us to dance, not be bullish.

someone in the crowd kept asking for un amor, except he called it un amore, and a spanish speaker would keep yelling back, "its un amor, estupido!" so when another chappie started requesting la bamba, i had to yell, "that's los lobos, tonto!"

nothing like live music and correcting other people, eh?

the following weekend, bangalore was treated to those danes still trying to learn to rock. i wanted to be at the entry point and slap everyone who'd want to listen to someone whining about not even having his own car, but didn't appreciate the kings singing a mi manera.

not quite sinatra, but they did it their way.

what the world needs now..

2005-09-27T14:04:00.000+05:30

is love, sweet love

'ang on a minute! sorry ducky, need to change the lyrics a bit.

what the world really needs now, is sweets, love sweets

and i'm not referring to ladoos. or even pedhas.
oh stop gasping, i'm not outlawing them.

i'm referring to childhood's sweeties, golis and toffees (taufeeq umar emerges uncertainly).

remember poppins? those multi coloured round sweets that emerged from the silver and striped cylinder, suggesting that horn, except that it seemed to always be full of poppins, rather than refilling fruit and flowers. so not all that much like the horn after all.

and boiled sweets! i always hated that name- boiled sweets evokes a hideous image of sweets clinging by their wrappers to the edge of a large cauldron, begging not to be boiled. the ones made by ravalgaon were my favourite. for me, ravalgaon was a real place. somewhere in UP. (i frequently used it while playing names-of-towns-antakshari)
happiness is the crinkly sound of opening a maroon ravalgaon boiled sweet. during a meeting.

lollipops, now they're a different kettle of sweets. never took to them too much, specially after seeing how i absent-mindedly chewed at the plastic straw.

cadburys chocolate eclairs- now there was a treat! before they changed the colour scheme and they were chocolate and orangely wrapped. but eclairs were a bit of a gamble- you could get those gnarled ones, rock hard and sticking-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth.

honourable mentions
bullseyes
jujubes for the discerning palates
rol-a-cola for the future pepke (crapsi?) drinkers.
and pan pasand (bleargh) for the lil pan-eater inside us all.
and white pepperminty sticks with a glowing red end for those puffer-to-bes.

i know some of you are baiting your breath in anticipation of mention of
fusen gum.

yes. well. ta, then.

55-word story. now stop tagging me!

2005-09-20T15:50:00.000+05:30

trouble was brewing in the building. enthralled by post-modernisism, the newer sections mocked the traditional pilasters and reactionary arches. a section of the roof with Doric triglyphs was the butt of all jokes, specially after a donkey had been painted on it. Hearing it begin its daily prayer, the newbies taunted "chant, gadha-dhari beam, chant!"

tagged by 'im.

musical joke part deux

2005-09-19T15:52:00.000+05:30

among the many movies on western classical music i haven't seen are Amadeus and Farinelli.

amadeus means god's love, very apt name for the man. although his name was actually Johann Chrysostom Wolfgang Theophilus (Gottlieb, Amadeus) Mozart. there's so much to say about him- how he grew up in salzburg, where you can now get the famous mozart kugeln, mozart ham und kaese brot and mozart omlette.
and how he composed his first symphony at the age of eight.
eight!
fry says it best "aww lil wibbly wobbly amipoopot mozart.. aww have you got music for the nice people, have you?.. have you? oh, its a full symphony? right. in, er four movements? good. full orchestra. well, let's hear it then? clever little sod."

you are now expecting me to comment on mozart's musical joke - ein musicalischer spass. but having lulled you into a false sense of security i spring on you..

(cue evil laughter)

farinelli
or to give the man his full name: farinelli the castrato.
you do see where i'm going with this, don't you?
they needed sopranos, didnt they? and they wouldn't allow women to sing, would they? so that's what they got then.

musical joke

2005-09-19T10:42:00.000+05:30

man hears beethoven's 9th symphony being played backwards. goes closer and finds it's beethoven's grave. the great man is decomposing.

Guilty pleasures

2005-09-12T18:21:00.000+05:30

fry, stephen and heyer, georgette
georgette crepe saris
sare jahan se acchaa
achhoo!*
hoo let the dogs out?
outer ring road half marathons
thondulkar
karrot cake with cream cheese icing
i sing with john, paul, george and wotsisname
naming the capital of burundi
hrundi bakshi type silly comedies
dies light fluffy chitale bandhu's sakhar perlele pedhe
dher i forget the bakarwadis, so golden and deep fried
fry, stephen

*the moment after a sneeze is rather pleasurable, in'it? for a brief second, your nasal passages are shining pathways of light. feel like god.

yes. quite. that will be all then.
(replaces straitjacket on patient and padding on cell walls)

no hay banda!

2005-09-07T15:43:00.000+05:30

when you step on an aircraft the first time, and it's night (an unearthly hour if flying from india) you are in a daze with all the bright lights and announcements. and then in a line, you sleepwalk through covered passages and are magically entering the plane being greeted by the captain. the mist clears for a bit while you shove and elbow to get to your seat and stow your bag, but as the plane takes off, you are pushed back into your seat and all you can see are fairy lights.. and then nothing.

the first time i flew in the day, i could SEE the passage accordion tube thingy connect to the plane. and once, since the plane was v small, we actually walked down onto the tarmac and climbed into the plane. i even saw baggage handlers handle baggage, proving that there wasn't some mysterious narnia-type place your bags were shoved only to be spit out onto the correct revolving belt.

this happened today while swimming. finished my regulation 15 laps (its a hanky sized pool) and floated a bit. but since it's the colony pool and it was 8:30 am, i could SEE the office monkeys with their briefcases going about their business.

does anyone else feel the need for the illusion to be maintained? the magician shouldn't be allowed to take off his hat, plaster his hat hair down with water and mull about the stupidity of pigeons in holland..

bow down mister

2005-09-06T10:07:00.000+05:30

since childhood, i have been subject to mengelesque experiments.

from "hong kong" to "shue lin"'s door
all the people know the score
if you want it botched some more
please say hair eh! hair eh!

steps,'shroom cuts, no holds bar
look like diana from afar
closer up its mithunda, ringo starr
please say hair eh hair eh!

these days i'm sporting the 80s aussie serial look. after all, everyone needs good nigh burrs.

the aftermath! you walk out pretending life is not over. your hair has been fried with a drier that leaves you with a bouffant and half the city with no electricity. friends, relatives and bumbling puppies that embarrass easily avoid looking you in the eye. strong men wince and hide their valuables. some try to brazen it out by asking breezily, "oh, did you have a haircut?" you snarl at them, they run away, being careful not to trip over their own gorgeous tresses. and there's the primitive tribes that ritually greet you by slapping you hard on the back of the head and yelling "judi-arse!" dame dench appears on the scene and in arctic accents asks what their bluddy problem is.

what is a fit punishment for a hairdresser who ruins your hair? should she be hoist by her own petard, figuratively speaking? "gimme those scissors, the brush and those hundreds of clever clips. i'll give you a blunt like you'll never forget"
(maniacal laughter in the background)

and please, let's drop that whole chinese illusion once and for all. she is as chinese as gobi manchurian. call the place may shue, provide patrons with taiwanese magazines featuring hairdos incredibly innappropriate for indian hair and xie ha min's your uncle.

i would rant more, but jason and kylie are waiting..