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..
May 13, 2008
May 08, 2008
Ayubowan to Sri Lanka?
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?
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?
April 17, 2008
April 08, 2008
Time pass
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.
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.
March 27, 2008
Frøken Smillas fornemmelse for sne
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.
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.
March 03, 2008
House hunts I have known..
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.
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.
February 04, 2008
Peripatetic
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.
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.
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:
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.
January 04, 2008
December 07, 2007
Pune marathon 07: Where angels fear to tread?
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?
November 06, 2007
October 15, 2007
adieu, adieu
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.
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.
October 04, 2007
joga bonita
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.
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.
September 10, 2007
On attempting to take a baby out in Bangalore
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.
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.
August 16, 2007
phobias i have known
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.
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.
August 09, 2007
dough!
"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.
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.
July 18, 2007
tight bombing patterns!
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.
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!
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?"
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?"
March 22, 2007
Isle beyond the TIP
"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.
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.
March 18, 2007
March 13, 2007
Redemption song
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.
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.
February 20, 2007
A Modest Proposal
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 ...”
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 ...”
December 08, 2006
More misheard lyrics
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.
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.
November 07, 2006
shom shom shom shamosha sha
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.
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.
September 21, 2006
time to learn kannada
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.
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.
September 06, 2006
Savanadurga!
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.
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.
August 21, 2006
oh sicilia!
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!
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!
July 06, 2006
Agumbe!
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.
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
June 21, 2006
June 13, 2006
June 05, 2006
hapoos 2: the return of the evil dead
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!
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!
May 16, 2006
hapoos! how to eat an alphonso
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
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
May 02, 2006
this works on many levels
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.
y'know, i'm not a social climber.
April 28, 2006
splat! - the transcript
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)
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)
April 24, 2006
hum bhi agar bacche hote..
hum bhi agar bachhe hote
Naam hamara hota bubloo gubloo
khane ko milte laddu
aur duniya kehtee
heppy budday to you
Naam hamara hota bubloo gubloo
khane ko milte laddu
aur duniya kehtee
heppy budday to you
April 18, 2006
the worst way to start a post
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.
"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.
April 12, 2006
let he who is without sin stone the first cast
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.
goondas!
lumpen elements!
i baked a cake yesterday that was a bit of a lumpen element.
April 07, 2006
alfred hitchcock presents
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.
(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.
March 24, 2006
March 15, 2006
holi colours, batman!
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?
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?
March 08, 2006
a pelican at blandings
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.
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.
February 28, 2006
Guten Tag!
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..
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..
February 09, 2006
devbagh!
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.
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.
February 02, 2006
January 25, 2006
Bandages i have known
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.
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.
January 18, 2006
oooh, my sssinussesss!
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.
exeunt from left of stage while ssspeaking in sssibilant hissssess.
January 05, 2006
a frisson of excitement ..
..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..
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..
December 28, 2005
the reader guards the leader
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..
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..
December 21, 2005
sakleshpura - the definitive post
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.
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.
December 20, 2005
run harpishcord run!
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.
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.
December 16, 2005
the end is near!
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)?
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)?
December 09, 2005
international PJ week continues
what's a kannada lament?
coulda.. shoulda.. woulda...
(please throw stale idlis atnippon 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!
coulda.. shoulda.. woulda...
(please throw stale idlis at
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!
December 06, 2005
November 29, 2005
bangalore bikes!
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!
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..
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
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
November 23, 2005
November 21, 2005
the new name..
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?
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?
November 14, 2005
the naming gnome
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
tutul
minty auchterlonie
evergreen favourites:
curtly ambrose
cho ramamswamy (cho wassup?)
gangubai hangal
hard to take a stand on:
shilpi
hetal
senthil
manjunath
November 04, 2005
À la recherche du temps perdu
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!
October 27, 2005
Eight simple rules ..
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.
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.
October 03, 2005
djobi! djoba!
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.
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.
September 27, 2005
what the world needs now..
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.
'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.
September 20, 2005
55-word story. now stop tagging me!
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.
tagged by 'im.
September 19, 2005
musical joke part deux
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.
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
man hears beethoven's 9th symphony being played backwards. goes closer and finds it's beethoven's grave. the great man is decomposing.
September 12, 2005
Guilty pleasures
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)
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)
September 07, 2005
no hay banda!
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..
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..
September 06, 2005
bow down mister
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..
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..
August 25, 2005
one flu over the cuckoo's nest
stage 1 of the f'lu (yes, i know the abrobriate location of the abostrophe, thag you bery mud)
pounding headague ad burning eyes
can't sleep
lose appetite
feel pathetic but look hale ad heardy, so get zero symbathy
stage 1.2 subtibes sgibbed
feverish, hot and confused
general feeling of moonlit fiends, albatrosses and glittering eyes
stage 2
sleep hurrah!
nose flows unabated
voice acquires rita hayworth type husky undertones that nobudy abbreciates (although rita's voice was dubbed when she sang)
stage 3
rasping cough brings tears to the eyes
voice reduced to a croak
other people in the office fall ill and the finger of suspicion is pointed at one
strained atmosphere
sick of toast and lemongrass tea, the sufferer flings herself bodily onto a pile of samosas
event horizon approaches
pounding headague ad burning eyes
can't sleep
lose appetite
feel pathetic but look hale ad heardy, so get zero symbathy
stage 1.2 subtibes sgibbed
feverish, hot and confused
general feeling of moonlit fiends, albatrosses and glittering eyes
stage 2
sleep hurrah!
nose flows unabated
voice acquires rita hayworth type husky undertones that nobudy abbreciates (although rita's voice was dubbed when she sang)
stage 3
rasping cough brings tears to the eyes
voice reduced to a croak
other people in the office fall ill and the finger of suspicion is pointed at one
strained atmosphere
sick of toast and lemongrass tea, the sufferer flings herself bodily onto a pile of samosas
event horizon approaches
August 17, 2005
the daily bugle
i don't know what the latest starlets are wearing. i don't even know who the latest starlets are. i am klueless about kidman and kruise. and i have no idea which country bangalore fashion consultants have carried pot to. (but don't they have bathrooms in dubai? oh, not *that* kind of pot)
and why is that, you ask, in your discerning way. surely i read the newspaper everyday! i should, yknow. (fingers wagged in my general direction)
elementary, dear w., as sherlock didnt say, cos it was merely meretricious (which he did say).
i don't subscribe to the rag any more. i get a real newspaper! they dumbed down the content further and lower, until i finally left pune, moved to bangalore and started reading the hindu, which seems to skip from page 2 to page 4, without a break.
things i like about the hindu-
not knowing about stuff (see 1st para)
no radio mirchi style english
they maintain the sanctity of the byline (ma said)
3 pages are not devoted to cricket
good listing of local events
lots of local and state news
broad selection of literary, theatre and music reviews
plenty of quirky-whimsical type writers
general air of having a warm tightly knit community of readers
there's probably a little too much of southern (including sri lankan) politics.. but then, am always surprised when they say "dharam singh, karnataka CM" and i do a double-take*. shouldnt he be the CM of haryana?
which shows how much i know of the politics of karnataka and haryana.
*i cant really do a double take.
and why is that, you ask, in your discerning way. surely i read the newspaper everyday! i should, yknow. (fingers wagged in my general direction)
elementary, dear w., as sherlock didnt say, cos it was merely meretricious (which he did say).
i don't subscribe to the rag any more. i get a real newspaper! they dumbed down the content further and lower, until i finally left pune, moved to bangalore and started reading the hindu, which seems to skip from page 2 to page 4, without a break.
things i like about the hindu-
not knowing about stuff (see 1st para)
no radio mirchi style english
they maintain the sanctity of the byline (ma said)
3 pages are not devoted to cricket
good listing of local events
lots of local and state news
broad selection of literary, theatre and music reviews
plenty of quirky-whimsical type writers
general air of having a warm tightly knit community of readers
there's probably a little too much of southern (including sri lankan) politics.. but then, am always surprised when they say "dharam singh, karnataka CM" and i do a double-take*. shouldnt he be the CM of haryana?
which shows how much i know of the politics of karnataka and haryana.
*i cant really do a double take.
August 08, 2005
heard at the end of a half marathon
electraljunkie: did you hit the wall?
carboloader: naah, dravid's not all bad..
just read a good article on bonking
no, its not what you think, pervy perverson.
it's the mutiny of the whole body!
there's the muscle-glycogen bonk, where the brain works fine but the legs up and quit. Then there's the blood-glucose bonk, where the legs work fine but the brain up and quits. Let's not forget the everything bonk, a sorry stewpot of dehydration, training errors, gastric problems, and nutrition gaffes. And then there's the little-purple-men bonk... more here
no more hitting the wall jokes from me, am suitably chastened by the gravity of it all (and sort of looking forward to the lil purple men)
carboloader: naah, dravid's not all bad..
just read a good article on bonking
no, its not what you think, pervy perverson.
it's the mutiny of the whole body!
there's the muscle-glycogen bonk, where the brain works fine but the legs up and quit. Then there's the blood-glucose bonk, where the legs work fine but the brain up and quits. Let's not forget the everything bonk, a sorry stewpot of dehydration, training errors, gastric problems, and nutrition gaffes. And then there's the little-purple-men bonk... more here
no more hitting the wall jokes from me, am suitably chastened by the gravity of it all (and sort of looking forward to the lil purple men)
August 03, 2005
annona squamosa
making sitaphal milkshake could be a metaphor for our times.
first, a brief description:
you take a ripe sitaphal and try to cut it. if raw, you can curse the fruitman, but curse you never so shrewdly, the fruit will refuse to be cut.
if ripe to the correct extent, it collapses squashily in your hand. then you pick out the skin. a lot of the fleshy stuff is stuck to the skin, so you ooze it out. then comes the real test of character- separating the flesh from the large seeds. you could sit there tediously getting lil bits of the flesh. or, as the shastras suggest, you pop the whole thing into a particle accelarator and get centrifugal forces to separate the wheat from the chaff, as it were.
but the particle accelerator (ok, its a blender) breaks down from chopping too many seeds and you return to manually oozing. 17 back breaking hours later, you are donne, but find that most of the good stuff is splattered across your hands. some judicious mopping and licking (why waste?) later, you are left with a few grams of sitaphal essense. by this time, the milk has long curdled, you have lost your appetite and your mind.
it says a lot about the lack of free will, doesn't it? nobody asked you to make it. you prefer chikoo milkshake anyway. so then why? sheer bloodymindedness?
or ... a suprasitaphalmilkshakeauthority? a pied piper of sitaphamelin? that gets hold of you and won't let you go till you make it?
from mina harker's journal, 4:00 pm
the blogger was found in a state of gibbering rage and taken away for further observation. the only hint of what could have brought about such madness, was the shards of a mug, belonging to the office juice bar. the liquid splashed around the area suggested milkshake. juicebarman confirmed selling it to the blogger's colleague for rs. 10, shortly before the attack.
we will need all our strength and garlic to fight this demon.
first, a brief description:
you take a ripe sitaphal and try to cut it. if raw, you can curse the fruitman, but curse you never so shrewdly, the fruit will refuse to be cut.
if ripe to the correct extent, it collapses squashily in your hand. then you pick out the skin. a lot of the fleshy stuff is stuck to the skin, so you ooze it out. then comes the real test of character- separating the flesh from the large seeds. you could sit there tediously getting lil bits of the flesh. or, as the shastras suggest, you pop the whole thing into a particle accelarator and get centrifugal forces to separate the wheat from the chaff, as it were.
but the particle accelerator (ok, its a blender) breaks down from chopping too many seeds and you return to manually oozing. 17 back breaking hours later, you are donne, but find that most of the good stuff is splattered across your hands. some judicious mopping and licking (why waste?) later, you are left with a few grams of sitaphal essense. by this time, the milk has long curdled, you have lost your appetite and your mind.
it says a lot about the lack of free will, doesn't it? nobody asked you to make it. you prefer chikoo milkshake anyway. so then why? sheer bloodymindedness?
or ... a suprasitaphalmilkshakeauthority? a pied piper of sitaphamelin? that gets hold of you and won't let you go till you make it?
from mina harker's journal, 4:00 pm
the blogger was found in a state of gibbering rage and taken away for further observation. the only hint of what could have brought about such madness, was the shards of a mug, belonging to the office juice bar. the liquid splashed around the area suggested milkshake. juicebarman confirmed selling it to the blogger's colleague for rs. 10, shortly before the attack.
we will need all our strength and garlic to fight this demon.
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