Moving to Bangalore taught me all about petrol bunks, rickshaw drivers' attitudes and lumpen elements.
Trips to Pune in the summer were refreshers on alphonsos.
And now here I am in London, graciously accepting people's apologies when I bump into them with pointy suitcases, and learning to cunningly put into my sentences words like posh, lush, whinge, toff, luvvies, yobs, WAGs and chavs.
(Anyone who wants to get an insight into the English weather-alcohol-sense of humour-class obsession should read an anthropologist's view. )
But despite the newness of my surroundings, things do seem to have turned a full circle. A delicious, sweet, soft, sugar-sprinkled circle. With a hint of nutmeg.
Did I, or did I not start this very blob with a post on pedhas being near, yet so far? And three years later, here I am in South-east London, while Chitale's finest are in an unopened box, cooling their heels in a house in South-west London. A careful courier courteously carried them on Corean Air (bear with me). Now all that is required is planning the drop at a dead letter box. Synchronize your watches, and remember Moscow rules!
May 20, 2008
'Tis the season to be snaily..
..fa la la..
It's true. May 24th is National Escargot day!
Put on your game face, waddle to the nearest French restaurant, and order Beurre d'escargot, along with a glass of house white.
Divine tasting though it is, I suspect that even my shoe (the tight one that bullies my bunions) slathered in copious amounts of garlic butter would taste as good.
If this post makes me sound annoyingly Frenchified, please to remember that I have in the past suggested a desi leech-ghee stir fry.
And if you are angry about this post, and (though reading this online) are a technophobe, do write to me via snail mail.
It's true. May 24th is National Escargot day!
Put on your game face, waddle to the nearest French restaurant, and order Beurre d'escargot, along with a glass of house white.
Divine tasting though it is, I suspect that even my shoe (the tight one that bullies my bunions) slathered in copious amounts of garlic butter would taste as good.
If this post makes me sound annoyingly Frenchified, please to remember that I have in the past suggested a desi leech-ghee stir fry.
And if you are angry about this post, and (though reading this online) are a technophobe, do write to me via snail mail.
May 13, 2008
Universal franchise
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..
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 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.
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