Cold spell rant

A bad cold has left me feeling miserable. This is not a worthy topic for blog space, I know, but just once in a while I allow myself to use the blog as a ranting machine. In my cold spells, the anger I otherwise keep under a tight tab slips out on its own. All my silent, rather acute Virgo criticisms effortlessly fly to target the cause of my irritation. Under normal circumstances, I am satisfied by speaking only when necessary, or when I feel like doing so, or with people who happen to be within one hand's distance provided my mood is right. Then, I don't need introductions or familiarity. For a brief five minutes, I might just catch you and share with you any thought that passes my mind at that moment, however ridiculous it may be. When this happens in office, I have seen that people frantically start scouting for some work to keep me occupied. For my quips can be quite random- I know, I know. :(

For example: The other day, my usual herbal soap was finished and I had to use the Dettol menthol body wash (the one which comes in a blue pack). People, don't ever, ever make the mistake of buying this product. It is one of the most ridiculous toilet items ever made. It's a yucky experience bathing with this psychedelic bluish gel. It's exactly like bathing with colgate gel toothpaste. If you don't take me seriously, and dare to try the Dettol bodywash, you shall remember my blog while trying to wash that horrible, artificial, cold, 'minty' sting off your body and bitterly regret not heeding to this cold-spell-rant.



A scribble which turned out to be what I see as a House-fly...

Learn while you can

It’s difficult to get good teachers, the real kinds.
Who, with their very passion, can make learning a joy. In their presence, syllabus escapes out of the boredom of books and starts dancing merrily about you. You catch all their words awestruck, sometimes not without a dumb reverence for which friends chide you. Many teachers shaped the course of my life in their own special ways. Like my aaji, or Fr., or Ishwarbhai or Joseph Pinto.

Of the two years I spent in Pune, I owe a lot to his teachings. Pinto has decided to take his experience beyond the restrictions of a classroom. He has started a blog where he intends to discuss what his students and friends wish him to. But he has a condition.

In his own words:
You will have to ask. As the good man says in the good book, "Ask and you shall Receive. Seek and you will Find. Knock and the Door shall be Opened."

Be it editing (how to write a crisp copy), features (typical blog material), reports (the nearly extinct species in newspapers today), or media ethics (a classmate declared journalism selfish- "I write about the ill and poor, get a byline and forget,” she fumed. Pinto called her to the dais, applauded her and talked about journalism activism) --- if you have a question related to journalism, drop in a comment on his blog, Against the tide.

Recalling my student days, Pinto thundered with a fanatic insistence on how words should be used and we wriggled uncomfortably initially. He was unpredictable in his insistence for accuracy. One day he would rip us apart while discussing reports- get furious on seeing any adjective or adverb thrown in a report. The next day, in a feature writing class, he would censor the staid language, lament the loss of imagination; the extinction of innovative adjectives to describe a situation. We thought the man a tad too eccentric when he insisted 'write it down' in response to any raised hand to answer a query. Here's a chance, for everyone to benefit from the expertise of a seasoned editor, a real teacher. Learn while you can.

Cuisine, Celebrations and Communalism

Of late, fundamentalism- from all possible sides of the faith divide- has marred things- all over India and perhaps more specifically in the city and state I so much love. Bomb blasts in Delhi, Gujarat, Maharashtra, Bangalore caused an unprecedented unease and cast a shadow on the Navratri, Durga puja and Eid celebrations. I wonder why mindsets cannot gel as easily as cuisine can.

I shall talk about Cuisine, Celebrations and Communalism, the things that occupy my mind more prominently at this point of time. However diverse be the faith we follow and the beliefs we believe, all of us converge at one single melting point without exception- food.

All our ambitions boil up to roti, kapda and makaan. For most readers here, the quest may not be so simplified and the march to luxury must have set quite high standards on all the three fronts. For example, I pay my house-help some INR 775/- per month and the cook another 700/-.We don’t bat our eyelids to spend the same amount- their entire month’s salary- on a single evening of eating out. It is precisely for this unfortunate divide, that each one of us needs to be truly grateful for the sumptuous food we can afford to eat.

I grew up to shouts of ‘don’t waste food’ from my Aaji. Her kitchen was, and still remains, an epitome of hygiene, economy and taste. ‘Eat what is made or go hungry’ was a common diktat. Her fanatic exactions have made us respect food even if we cannot measure up one-tenth to her standards or style. It is for her that my taste-buds are not fussy today. Saying no seems awkward and wasting means guilt.

My Aaji is an open-minded person. So while no one at home was allowed to cook non-veg, she didn’t stop us from trying out. ‘I feel it wrong to kill to eat when you have such abundant options. But the decision is yours,’ she says. Her disapproval is subtle and democratic. It is with such a background that I not only grew up to be a first rate foodie, but also tolerant and receptive to different cooking styles.

Like I learnt to appreciate the classic Malayalee cuisine at my friend’s place. I first tasted fish here under the watchful eye of my Baba. ‘What if the bone gets stuck in her throat. She eats way too fast,” he said and seriously believed. But aunty just laughed this out. She took the piece bits by bits and literally fed me my first mouthful of fish. Since then, be it Onam or Christmas, I would go there and hog away all the mallu preparations with glee.

Post Eid, I got to sample the most amazing bowl of sevaiyyas at the house of our Urdu teacher. I still remember the breath-taking taste of the spoonfuls of chicken biryani another Muslim classmate’s mother had made.

And how can I miss the kesar-dhoodh aaji boils to perfection for Kojagiri poornima? Or the diyas she makes out of chana-dal for the ‘Jeevti’ puja on the Friday of the Saavan month? Or the Pooran poli for Sankranti?

Cooking is a major part of all festivals and cooking is what has the potential to bring people from different walks of life in one happy union. When we can sample delicacies of different castes and communities with fervour, why can’t we be tolerant to the different modes of thought? Why are we bent on seeing things in black and white? Why is it that a viewpoint has the scope only to fall in two extreme categories today?

I am scared that the way things are going in India, a migrant in Mumbai would soon be forced to eat nothing but pithla bhaat and a north-Indian techie in Bangalore would have to learn and write in Kannada before he ventures out for a job. Only the masala dosa has become ubiquitous. It’s high time that familiarity leaves the boundaries of kitchen and paves way in the minds of people.

One can think right only with a full stomach. All of us here have the good fortune to eat without a worry for tomorrow’s ration. Let us all be a little more broadminded in wake of the recent spate of tension all over the country.

When the Parsi community first landed on a shore in Gujarat, they dissolved sugar in milk and said they would mix with the native population just as easily. The community has remained true to their symbolic word of promise. I suppose it can’t be that difficult for each one of us to follow suit.

-Gauri Gharpure

This article first saw light of the day on Internations, thanks to Hans' prompt kindness, and recently, on Sailaja's excellent food blog. Many thanks to both. If you like it enough, feel free to reproduce this article on your blog too...

Nano behind my house

The site chosen in Gujarat is as near as it can get to our home... When we shifted there some 15 years back, the area was fields and jungle, mango, mahua, jamun trees, hares, partridges and jackals and what not. We had a time of our lives for about a decade, but then, highways cut through, multiplexes came up, areas underwent a massive (and rather haphazard) construction spree. The face of Bopal changed. Farmers became millionaires overnight in the neighbouring areas and very slowly, a little grudgingly at first, we adjusted to the change that development brings.

I was jubilant when M messaged that Nano is now to be in Gujarat. Being in Kolkata though, this seemed the wrong emotion to express. People were still stung and sulky, and a beaming face was misfit. :D I don't know the nitty-gritties, but Baba's happy voice was enough for me start smiling.

Gentleman bids goodbye

Friday, October 3, 2008
Kolkata: It was in a rich baritone, with poise and dignity, that Ratan Tata announced the decision to move the Nano small cars' project out of West Bengal in a press conference post the meeting with the chief minister today evening. He was appreciative of CPI (M)'s breakneck efforts to retain the company in Singur but remained firm on his stance. He strived to assure one and all of no hard feelings, either with regards to the state infrastructure, its people or its governance.

In his farewell speech, Tata reiterated his dream to usher in industrialisation in the state. "We have taken a very regretful decision to move out. We came here two years ago attracted by the investor friendly policy of the current government. I personally had a great desire that this part of the country, that has been ignored, should be developed and we should be a part of that. I still exceedingly confirm that this is a very investor-friendly state. We are leaving not because of the governance, but because of the agitation of the Opposition led by Ms. Bannerjee. We continue to be bullish and enthusiastic about what can happen in West Bengal. I just hope that West Bengal can be the state of huge development and not a state which stands only for agitations, strikes, rallies," said Tata.

Asked why he did not accept the government's offer to provide foolproof security to ward off the agitators, his response was very unlike a baron who means nothing but business. "The meeting took a long time because he (the CM) was very persuasive in his desire that we not move. I had to explain to him that the well being of our employees and contractors happens to be my responsibility and that's something I cannot pass on to him. Unless there is a congenial environment, we cannot stay. Please understand also that you cannot run a pant with police protection," replied Tata.

When asked that wasn't the decision to move out against Tata's legacy, he crisply replied, "I am the wrong person to ask this. I am not leaving Bengal on a whim or a fancy. You better ask this to Ms. Bannerjee."

Tata's commitment to professional ethics and social responsibility is unparalleled. This post, may seem contradictory now. While the way land acquisitions are dealt with in the country are quite an issue of debate, for this one case, something has really gone amiss. Lord not propel leaders like Mamata Bannerjee to associate with issues as delicate as these.. Yes, leaving Bengal seems a sad, sad thing.

There's a man I love

There's a man I love. He is mischeivous, he calls people names, he winks. His ancient blue kinetic survived a bad accident. He also survived, btw. Came out of the neurosurgery cracking jokes to be precise. He is eighty and he has more gusto than you and me. For my sake, and for the many others who adore him, I wish him many many more birthdays.

Mumbai Meri Jaan

Yogesh Vinayak Joshi, the writer, must be someone who has genuine empathy to understand different lines of thoughts and consequent actions. He refrains from passing judgments but lets the movie send a message through its subtle dialogues and amazing body language of the characters. Of course, for this, the credit must be shared with co-screenplay writer Upendra Sidhaye and director Nishikant Kamat.

Mumbai Meri Jaan brings to you five very humane characters: Tukaram Patil (Paresh Rawal), Suresh (Kay Kay Menon), Nikhil (R. Madhavan), Roopali (Soha Ali Khan) and Thomas (Irrfan Khan). These are people in whom you may recognize the hawaldar standing near the pan shop, the youths drinking tea and biscuits at a kitli, your well-earning thoughtful friend with a clear set of rights and wrongs, an ambitious young media person and the roadside tea vendor you seldom look at for more than thirty seconds. They all come alive and confide in us with a touching simplicity in Mumbai Meri Jaan.

The film follows the lives of these five characters beginning the morning of the blasts to a week post the havoc of death and doubt. But in the end, the things discussed in Mumbai Meri Jaan are simple - how a man grapples with his way of life in an age that is enveloped in prejudice, doubt, inequality and extravagance?

These questions become all the louder after the Mumbai train blasts of July 11, 2006.

Paresh Raval is brilliant. His gentle, prodding good humour is delicately dressed with irony and sarcasm. His portrayal of a senior constable is perhaps the voice of many like him who slog in government services, become part of the red tape and have their own bitter regrets and reasons for the same. Kamat, plays his underling who is a green horn in the bureaucratic juggernaut and finds it difficult to digest the senselessness of it all. In his patient, good humoured chaffing of the young constable, Raval conveys many a poignant things in a tone that is unjudgemental and rational.

Thomas, the coffee-vendor played by Irrfan Khan conveys it all with his eyes. There is a blatant contrast between his frugal existence and his mute witnessing of the splurge of excess. His matter of fact resignation brings on screen a sense of disquiet, perhaps even a taunt to the well-fed multiplex audience. Thomas is the face of the vast divide of Indian economy. Watch out for his expressions when the mobile is thrown and crushed beneath the wheels.

Suresh (Kay Kay Menon) is a man filled to the brim with prejudice. You must have seen such people, you may be one of them. Though his reconciliation with secularism is a wee bit drastic, the story does its best to send across a message in the short time that a film offers. His character is detailed and sometimes his dialogues edge on dry humour. At least I had a good laugh at the Mohammad Rafi bit. The reason for his staunchness has been given cleverly in the scene where his father passionately discourses about Hinduism in their small flat.

Roopali’s character (Soha Ali Khan) has portrayed in precise words and scenes the irritation we all feel on the sensationalism of the Indian Television media. My rants in this post are now redundant. Mumbai Meri Jaan is dot on in conveying how mediocre television media has become today.

Nikhil (R. Madhavan) is one of those few young professionals who choose to stay back in India in the face of lucrative opportunities to rush abroad. His convictions falter after the train blasts. Perhaps the choice he makes is clear when he boards the train again.

Mumbai Meri Jaan is worth investing in a CD if the film is off your theatres by now.

-Gauri Gharpure
August 29, 2008

Mr. Crow and Ms. Dove

Read how they fell in love...

Ab ke bicchde to

Ab ke bicchde to shayad khwabon mein mile
Jaise sookhe hue phool kitabon mein mile...

Ahmed Faraz, who wrote these immortal lines died in Pakistan yesterday. He was 77.

Anonymous Smiles

The idea of Anonymous Smiles struck on one of my many day-dreaming phases.

The experiment is simple- I aim to gather addresses of people I don't know and send them one of my postcards.

If I happen to come across sketch pens when I am doing nothing, and if the mood seems right, this happens:



Sending a postcard is my version of leaving a message in a bottle in the ocean. How soon (or how leisurely late) the petite yellow card can reach its rightful owner never ceases to amaze me. I feel its potential to spread a moment of joy with colours and words has not been exploited to the maximum...

After playing with the idea for quite sometime now, I am taking the first step to further my postcard sending spree and see if I can spread smiles beyond my circle of acquaintances.

So here's what I have done so far to give my idea a concrete shape:



Now, as you can well see, I have more cards with me than I have addresses. Here's where you can come in the picture. If you know anyone to whom you would like to send one of my postcards, send me the complete postal address at anonymous.smiles@gmail.com

It could be your friend, neighbour, your parents or grandparents. It could be the address of people living in old age homes. It could be anyone whom you wish to send an anonymous smile. Even you, yourself. My interest lies only in seeing that the card is posted at a correct address and when it reaches, it ensures a moment of smile. This exercise will make me feel good about myself and hope its the same for you.

The blog http://anonymoussmiles.blogspot.com/ attempts to answer all the questions that you may now have about this idea. Please visit the blog and let me know your suggestions...

If you have addresses to share, please mail at anonymous.smiles@gmail.com

More memories of a deluge (Part 2)

When I woke up the next morning, the bus was still parked on the side of the highway. The driver decided to proceed after sometime. But the progress was slow and discouraging. The entire highway was littered with buses and people.

People were getting uneasy. Just like I couldn't stand the stuffiness of the train after a hopeless long wait, my fellow passengers in the bus were restless and discussed all the possible ways of reaching home. The problem was with a narrow patch of road a short distance ahead. Water seemed to flow very forcefully at this point and no one could quite gauge the depth. We heard that one bus driver who had attempted to pass that patch ended up with the bus dragged a good distance away. After this, everyone had taken cold feet, put the brakes on and traffic grew static. No driver would risk going beyond that point.

Incidentally, just beyond this patch, state buses were plying as usual. People had two options, to go ahead towards Kheda and cross the flooded patch somehow, or walk the way back to Nadiad and find a night's halt. Everyone was clear on one thing: Not to spend yet another night inside the bus.

Has it ever happened to you that someone asks you something extremely important but puts a cap on your thinking time. Something like, 'Do this and do this now or you are out'. It is not an exaggeration when I tell you that something happened in less than five minutes which made all the passengers throw their hands up and they started wading out of the bus, either towards Nadiad or towards Kheda.

I went to the two women and asked what they were going to do. They seemed already geared up to begin walking to Nadiad. I asked them to wait and let me figure out what to do with my luggage and how to convey the decision to Mitrajit, but they just wouldn't give me the time. So I rushed to the driver and asked if he assured my luggage would be safe. His answer seemed convincing enough. I was to collect my luggage from their office whenever the bus reached Ahmedabad. Everyone was doing the same and the bus was almost empty with the exception of a few passengers and the driver. He also let me make a call and all I could tell M was that I was leaving towards Nadiad and my luggage was in the bus. The women were getting impatient and I was afraid they would leave. So I conveyed just this and ran off to them.

One young man from Bhavnagar and another man from Junagadh also joined us in a minute. So after little time, I realised that here we were, five strangers who would be with each other for quite sometime now in this moment of accidental brotherhood. The road was full of people wading in knee deep water. The women took their shoes off and after sometime I realised that was the best thing to do. My shoes kept getting stuck in the mud and they would shriek me to hurry every time I stopped. There were hundreds of people wading along with us. This was the first time I understood the meaning of what people mean when they say that people come together in the times of calamity.

We must have walked some two-three kilometers when we got a lift in the tractors that farmers were plying to ferry the stranded passengers to and fro. We reached inside the town. Now ever since I got down from the bus I had started inquiring about the residence of a relative. Everyone seemed to know him by the virtue of his position, but my fair ladies got impatient every time I took a stop to inquire. Finally we reached this town square and I asked where the police station was. With the influence of that one name, I entered the police station along with the four others. Now, the policeman seemed quite doubtful, but he couldn't refuse us. I got to know that my relative's house was practically an island now and the area was inaccessible. I asked them to allow me to make a few calls and called home this time. Baba would know better how to explain the relation to the cops. Besides, he could contact my other relatives too.

Presently, we were given tea and biscuits and some nashta and the ladies were feeling really grand. They were like, 'So you really know someone!' After sometime, I was called in the officer's room. There was a call for me and my maasi was on line. She told me one of her relatives would come to pick me and that I stay with them as long as things are fine. (The officer seemed totally confused ever since I had entered the office, introduced my connections and conveyed telephone numbers to my family and phones had started pouring in). Next, baba called. His instructions were clear and to the point. "When the gentleman your maasi had told you about comes, introduce the people who are with you and take them home too. Say you cannot leave them". I was shocked and started contesting his order. "How can I? I don't even know him, how can I take four more people whom I don't know to his house?" He shouted at me and told me to do as told- I was not to be selfish to leave the people who had accompanied me this long.

I grudgingly admitted to myself that he was right. In less than ten minutes, Vinayakbhai came riding his scooty.

"You are Gauri? And these people are with you? Follow me". The women were chatty as ever and though all of the four strongly refused my suggestion that they come with me, I had to be firm for in spite of my doubts, baba's instructions were clear. We all went to his house. It was in the old city area and in a 'pol'. Now 'pol' is a typical Gujarati word, meaning a narrow lane on both sides of which are old houses, some often surprisingly huge and majestic. The lanes are confusing, with one mingling into another elusively so that a newcomer might just go round and round the area without a clue.

When we reached his house, which was very nearby, his wife was waiting at the door. She welcomed us in and talked about how rough the weather was and imagined how tiring the journey must have been. The couple was so generous, so natural that it put me instantly at ease. She didn't say it out of formality when she asked them all to stay with them. We had tea and hot snacks before us in no time. The men said they would rather stay at the railway station and were quite firm about their choice. They wouldn't even stay back for lunch. But Vinayakbhai's wife said they must at least freshen up and have tea before they leave. The two sisters said they had a relative who stayed very near by and would go and find them out. After tea, the men went their way and them sisters went to find their relatives in spite of our cajoling to stay back. The sisters came again in the evening to say they had found a place, chatted, had tea and left. I got a call from all of them in Diwali.

I stayed with Vinayakbhai till the next afternoon on July 2. He came to see me off at the bus station and I got home in two hours. They were more than happy to have me there. He talked a lot about his daughter who was settled somewhere in London and how he didn't like staying there in spite of having some solid visa permit. "We were there for six months, but I have to be back. We go for our daughter, but start missing this place in no time".

We talked on phone a few times. We couldn't meet as he had some wedding to attend. I sent him a postcard on Diwali. He called a few months later to thank me for it. He had again gone to London and had got the card only on his return. We sent him an invitation for our wedding, but he was out somewhere again. In another wedding this February, I got to know he had died of a heart attack.

In those four days I learnt a lot. I learnt how simple people can be if they so choose. And how open and how honest. I never met my four companions again, but I have the most fond memories of them. Hospitality is what I learnt from Vinayakbhai and his wife. They took me as their own with a warmth and simplicity that is peculiar to their community. I also felt how right Baba was and how selfish I must have regretted being if I had gone to Vinayakbhai’s house alone. Baba’s insistence was worth it for I came face to face with a couple who had the charm to welcome strangers in their house so graciously. I saw for myself how a host ought to be and how some strangers can find a permanent place in memories…

Handmade wonder...

The second (and better) lamp that I made after an entire day with scissors, glue and cloth... The first one was a result of impulse when I made the frame after battling with wires and covered it with an extensive cloth cut-work. But this one is real neat and a lot better than my first attempt...Our drawing room looks so good now. Chalo, praise me :D

A windy evening

A windy evening

Jalsa Chhe

Dalwada ane majja boss,
Amdawad, O Amdawad...
Cutting ane jalsa boss...
Amdawad, O Amdawad...

Nothing can deter the Amdawadi spirit from swinging back to life. Not even this

Dark Comedy- UPA wins the trust vote

Just seeing the parliament proceedings live.

I so feel like mollycoddling them and planting a kiss on their cheeks. Don't they seem like unruly first standard kids? The way the honourable speaker has to repeat-- "Go back to your seats, behave, sit down, stop this noise, quiet..." O, I so remember my school...

Coming to think of it, many of our respectable members of parliament are illiterate and some have come straight from prison to cast life-saving votes.

The cash for vote allegations by BJP were a fascinating thrill but this failed to ruffle the UPA. SP leader Amar Singh though used many a words to show his displeasure.

The UPA won the trust vote a few seconds back with 275 votes...

8.25 PM, July 22

Related: Cash in the well and UPA wins

Stop Senseless Slander

Just read the article on Aarushi written by Masooma Ranalvi in Outlook dated July 28, 2008. Masooma, mother of Aarushi's close friend has voiced with precision and passion the serious pitfalls of scandalising media coverage.

The callous depiction of the Aarushi murder case brings to light how the police and the media have become hand-in-glove accomplices in the road to slander.

Repetitions in the form of the same visuals, leading questions, questions that encourage drama and speculation, sexed-up discussions and debates about murders and crimes on prime time news- we seem to be blood-sucking vampires drooling on the gory and the obscene to a majority of production houses today, isn’t it?

And then there’s this angle about the callousness of police.

What kind of investigation is it that fails to find a dead body from the crime scene and discovers it the next day. (The first short brief I read in The Telegraph was that the girl was found murdered and police suspected the house-help, assumed he had fled after committing the crime)

I fail to see the reason why the police feel compelled to hold press conferences and shed light on what they think would have been the modus operandi, speculate about alleged killers on air? Why they can't mind their own business without light, cameras and action.

Gone are the days when the crime departments did their own work and the reporters did their own news briefs that were small, crisp reports and nothing more.

As of this date, there still isn't a set of laws framed expressly to control the audio-visual media. Could this be the reason why nonsense goes on the Indian television so effortlessly?

Talking about censure, yes I do feel very strongly that a free press that head bangs callously in each and every aspect of personal life need not be applauded and celebrated as the living symbol of 'freedom of speech'. Of late, hasn't the Indian television gotten a bit too free? A section of it needs to be leashed, and leashed firm and proper. And soon.

We need news to keep informed. For thrills and frills, we might as well read cheap detective novels, thank you.

We attended this guest lecture from a person from CNN-IBM. I still remember his sly smile when Jyoti asked him 'Sir, do you seriously think there is a need for 24 hour news channels?'

I guess that question sums it up all.

Tagged-- again :)

Dharma has tagged me this time. And if I remember well, this is the same tag that Gaurav forwarded a long time back. So now, given the power of meme with the same tag landing up twice from two people located at two distant corners of the world, I feel I really must keep the game going and do what is asked of me right away.

I did a recap of some of my favourite posts, and this tag is somewhat similar.

What you have to do is simple: Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the 5 key words given : family, friend, yourself, your love, anything you like. Tag 5 other friends to do this meme. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will do) so that you get to know them each a little bit better.

Family--- I don't think I have talked a lot of my family here. Of course, references could have come up in other posts (for the influence of baba and aaji on me is more than I would like to acknowledge :) but there are no posts in which I have actually, consciously talked about them. Except in this one, the post that happened in an impulsive, nostalgic moment. This post will give you a glimpse about my baba. I have wanted to, thought of and many a times willed myself to sit and write about what I remember of growing up. But my mind evades the pen, the pen the paper. Some memories are so beautiful and so sad, I dare not freeze them, not just yet.

Friends-- I have less than ten friends whom I really call 'friends'. (Dharma's musings about the randomness of categories and stuff often perplexes me too, but then, I believe if you know where you and others stand in your life, so much the easier) These are the few people I have tagged along with since kinder garten, a few whom I began to love for no special reason along the way in high school and college. Though I am not regularly in touch with them, it's with a fierce Virgo trait that I keep thinking of them, remembering them and bitterly missing them without letting them know I do. I wish I were a little more open with the best of my friends and reach out more often... :) Here's what I have written about my friends.

But then there's one person who hears my rants day in and day out, who takes pains to make meaning of my random blabber and who even tolerates the songs I sing just before falling off to sleep. My best friend...

And my ever loving sis, who tolerated the late night lullabies I sang for me before the task was transferred to M, who I always pushed off a gathering of friends out of insecurity and jealousy. (My friends always had nice things to say about 'Didi' and that irritated me no end) With time, I have realised what a great fool I have been all along. Whom I strictly classified as 'family' , 'sister' and such stuff, was after all the most constant, most un-judging, most tolerant friend I ever had. My friend who reminds me of the most hilarious times of growing up together... The four year gap never made itself felt between us.

Yourself--- How dumb! All that you read on this blog takes you an inch closer to confusion of knowing who I am, who I am not. Pick what you choose of these writings and see if you think you know me.

Love--- Ah!! Hop on to the other blog that has most of the little scribbles born out of love, longing and happiness. Or let me narrow things down- you may want to read this, this and this...

Anything you like--- The most direct way of getting in a trap is giving me a choice- A question like "This or That?" leads me to a labyrinth of confusion, nerve-wracking moments and leaves me with a simplistic solution and twinkling eyes: "Both!!" This fifth point comes with a similar rider... Anything I like??? I adore this entire blog of mine, how unfair to ask me to choose... If you have read till this line, I say, cheers! You are what an ideal reader should be like... :D

The tag goes to

True fiction (Glad you took the earlier one.. I know another comes too soon, but would be great if you do this too!)
Void ( " " " " too!)
Atul
Suren

Also, Apu and Sudhanshu, do take this tag up and keep coming here more often!

The conditions once more-- Tag five or more people, two of whom should be new acquaintances you have made...

Gerald Durrell: The one author I adore

It's after a long, long time after which I am reading Gerald Durrell. I find myself curled up somewhere cosy, smiling, nodding, moving my lips silently to read some lines I like the sound of and letting out shrill laughs every few pages or so. These bursts of mirth startle Mitrajit from his single-minded dedication to television and my complete oblivion to all things else puts a faint pout on his face at times.

Gerald Durrell, after all, means you keep turning one page after the other laughing out loud at Larry's audacity, his parade of friends who turn up announced, their endearing 'Mother' and Gerry's endless collection of animals- from frogs to owls to baby terrapins.

His role as a crusader for wildlife conservation slightly sidelines Durrell’s recognition as an accomplished author with an impeccable, original writing style. His proficiency with the written word per say is not as thoroughly acknowledged. I, for one, love Durrell not only for his wonderful tales on Corfu, but for his much extensive vocabulary and his power of description.

If you can dissect the sentences from the story, you will see just to what heights can Durrel take the art of description to. Even if you don't fancy reading about a battalion of animals, read Durrell as an exercise in writing, to read about how refreshingly can one use colours, smells and the most unlikely similies to describe people, places and situations. I feel his works, especially the Corfu Trilogies, should be made a compulsory reading for students learning how to write features.

The Corfu trilogy (My Family and other animals followed by Birds, Beasts and Relatives and finally The Garden of the Gods) fills up the most fun within the pages. I still remember that chapter in 'My Family...' when Mr. Kralefsky, his tutor takes him to meet his ancient mother. The description of the room full of flowers left my head spinning in admiration and happiness. I lingered on that chapter for a long time, making notes, copying beautiful sentences and generally awestruck by such beauty on paper...

I am truly grateful to Rani maushi who gifted me with a copy of My family and other animals some five years back. Since then, our love affair with the Durrell family began. However when we got enthralled by his writing, we discovered his books were really hard to find and were very atrociously priced, as is with all good books. It’s at the British Council here that I discovered a wealth of his books after a long hiatus.

I have only about ten pages left to finish The Garden of Gods. I feel slightly sorry when any good book is about to come an end. It's a silly, eccentric quirk, but then finishing a lovely book means being no longer able to turn the pages in anticipation...

A delightful read.

Tagged

Atul has tagged me. And this is one very interesting: list at least five things that have changed in you thanks to your better half (or any one person who has influenced you).

This tag calls for more than just a list. So let me expand.

Given that he says I am the most stubborn person on earth who is immune to change, this is some challenge. We often have arguments that go something like this:
M: "I have changed this, this, this..... that... for you. Tell me the one thing you have changed for me"...
Me: "Ummmm... ummm" (I attribute the ummm to my poor memory and the long list to his sharp ability to remember almost anything)

On serious notes, earlier, before getting married, or even before meeting him, I was averse to the idea of changing to adjust in a relationship. I reasoned that if things are worth it between the two, the need for 'change' won't arise. And then I met him. I changed without my realising it and for the good. Same with him. I know now how silly my assumptions against change were.

The far-fetched idea that things should fit in like a jigsaw has now gone. Small things here and there make all the difference. I repeat, small things- for we don't find ourselves bitterly fighting on leftist or rightist theories than we find ourselves shouting about insisting on changing attitudes and habits that call for putting the bin out in the morning, the wet towel on the bed, replacing missing caps on water-bottles, the cell that is allowed to intrude at all times...

I am essentially the same person. So is he. But with time, I feel the following has changed in me thanks to him:

1) I am not as slow as I was before. My sis said I did everything in slow motion for the first hour after waking up. My husband said he had never seen someone so frustratingly laid-back. I think have changed a bit on this front.
2) See more movies than ever before.
3) I try to see people as he does, he doesn't judge. I have started keeping a tab on my Virgo traits.
4) Try to watch what I speak when I am angry.
5) I cool off much faster, have chucked pulling arguments out of spite than reason.
6) I have started cooking more often
7) Lose things a little less now.
8) His idea 'Why pay to eat veg?' means I eat more n-veg than I have done in my entire lifetime. These bong food traits scare baba no end though...
9) I try not to stuff my bags, pull the straps rashly and damage an item before its time has come.

You can also do this tag by mentioning how the influence of any one person has changed you. Remember, list five or more points and don't forget to pass the tag on.

I request
Feddabon
True fiction
The alphabet makes stories
Dharma
Void
to do this tag...

100th post

I realised last night that the last post was the hundredth on this blog. Felt good!
In the process of writing these hundred posts, I have met many new people whom I am glad to know through their words.
Each post happens to be a little expectation, waiting to hear what others think of the writing and the thought. I have not been disappointed so far. Thanking all those who come and read... And hoping I have your company in the posts to come.

Less is More!

I spend most of my time longingly lingering at some delicious food blogs I have listed in the Yumm Corner.

Nupur is hosting a Monthly Blog Patrol (MBP) on her blog One hot stove on behalf of Coffee (who initially came with MBP). The idea behind MBP is that participants must cook some of recipes they have come across some interesting food blogs and present the preparation with due credits at MBP. Each month follows a different theme and the theme this month is 'Less is more'. Participants will have to cook and then post those recipes that include five, or less ingredients.

Now it so happened that today, on a very hungry impulse, I made something that fits the 'Less is more' bill completely.

I realised this after I finished off more than half of the piping hot pasta. So I again peeled and cut one cucumber, peeled garlic, got a tea spoon of black pepper, scooped spoonfuls of butter and arranged all the ingredients neatly to take a photo to accompany the post. (Signs I am getting blogaholic.. :()

The problem is, in my drooling phase, I focus more on the wonderful food pics.(And on Nupur's hot stove- her neat collection of crochet purses, gloves) So to my disappointment, it occurred that my recipe doesn't follow the basic MBP rules (i.e. you should cook someone else's recipe and not your own). Here's the recipe anyway, for the pasta turned out pretty well and you can count the ingredients on the tip of your fingers...



Pepper-Garlic Pasta

Ingredients:

Garlic- One small pod (Or about 15-20 cloves)

Whole black pepper- One teaspoonful

Kheera i.e. cucumber- Two, medium sized

Amul Lite- Two tablespoonfuls
(Or normal butter-- More, but not less, in this case though!)

Granora Penne Rigate Pasta no.26- About 200 gm

Salt to taste

Method:

Pressure cook the pasta for ten minutes, this boils the pasta just right, al dente. Don't forget to add a little oil before putting the pasta to boil, and do not over-do the ten minutes time. If you choose to boil in a vessel, may take slightly more than ten minutes.
While the pasta is getting cooked, peel the cucumbers and slice in rings, like you would do for a salad. Also peel garlic cloves. (This apparently tedious job is done in a jiffy if you wet the garlic cloves first, slice in half with a knife and then peel) Grind pepper and garlic in the chutney jar (or using a mortar) to a fine paste.
Exactly in ten minutes, take the cooker off the gas. Drain the pasta completely.

Heat butter well in a heavy-bottomed pan and then add the garlic pepper paste. Once the butter starts leaving sides, and the pepper-garlic paste gets a light reddish tinge, add the cucumber slices. Saute for 2-3 minutes, till the cucumber slices change colour and are cooked. Now add pasta. Sprinkle salt to taste and mix well.
Just don't be stingy with the pepper, garlic and butter and the outcome will surprise you. Tastes as delicious as it is easy to make!

Go to Nupur's blog to see the simple, wholesome recipes she has posted as a part of Coffee's Monthly Blog Patrol...

Via Darjeeling

The movie verges on the boundary of good and a tad boring. The reason for this tricky combination is that the film has brought together some very convincing actors but the story fails to engage the audience enough.

Without delving much, here's the basic framework of the film: Sonali and Kay Kay are on their honeymoon when one of them disappears. A policeman (Rabin) is called for investigation. Period. He recalls the incident to a group of friends and a session of speculation begins.

The film literally takes off with a rough start (courtesy a rash driver) and remains engaging for a while. It's at the adda session in Ranu's (Rajat Kapoor) house in Calcutta when the pace begins to falter slightly. As each narration differs only in some intricate points and most scenes and shots remain the same, a sense of redundancy piles up somewhere in the middle of the film. Though the story gears up again towards the end, to finish off on a teasing note.

Vinay Pathak (Rabin) with his cigarette-sniffing act repeats the magic characteristic of him. Rajat Kapoor (Ranu) looks wow in the new look. Sandhya Mridul (Mallika) looks rather too bored and sullen. Sonali Kulkarni (Rimli) plays the part of a pampered, rich daughter well, but newly married Rimli's character is not very likeable on the whole due to her soft, overtly sweet drawls most of the time and the occasional hysteria. Proshant Narayanan (Kaushik) (guess a few 'r' and 's' are missing, but nevermind) is good, so is Simone Singh (Preeti). Parveen Dabbas (Bonny) disappoints with a rather drab and dull performance, which was also incidentally expected of his character at most points of time.

Given that there are certain people who like ambiguity and insist on it with a creative compulsion, we can assume that it was intentional to leave the viewer with a set of unanswered questions. But a little more detailing would not have hampered this intentional ambiguity. The end is such that it will probably compel viewers to review the characters as per their own perceptions, discuss, debate and ponder on. Via Darjeeling is an ideal prelude to a round of discussions.

The film is more about the perception of mystery than mystery itself. And had this rather interesting idea been worked on more comprehensively, the movie would have been more appealing.

But why doesn't Via Darjeeling cross rightaway into the 'good' territory? The redundancy when the friends speculate their own versions, for one. The story versions could have done better with more punch (I loved Kaushik's version btw, and the conversation thereafter) or more variations in the shots. Secondly, all the characters could have been etched better.

All said and done, I am waiting for friends to go watch this movie so that we can discuss things out. Am really keen to know what they made of the story. In fact, in spite of the tad boredom, Via Darjeeling gets all the more interesting after it ends. There's much fodder to let the brain start ticking away after the credits roll.

CoralDraw experiments

I have been listlessly fumbling with Adobe photoshop and getting more and more saddened by how people love to complicate something as relaxing as drawing. Anyways, with my limitations that allow me to crop and adjust image size, I doodled some drawings using the lovably easy Paintbrush. Have put these up to accompany the scribbles on the other blog which gets very rarely visited :(...
So be there, have a look while I find something to post on this blog.

The last article on 'Writer's block'

"There is no story which has not been told before, or that has not been imagined by Vyasa in his epic Mahabharata. So whatever you write cannot be entirely your own. So said the old woman. So says Pamuk. So in essence, all our efforts at novelty can ultimately bear the brunt of being labeled as plagiarism only if some eccentric book devourer puts his mind to proving the point.

There is nothing novel worth talking about, given that the thousands of years of history of human existence has witnessed, has been almost pickled to a pungent perfection of knowledge mixed with scorn about all the possible combinations of human relationships and their fall-outs. And so, it is a tad discouraging to know what me and you are doing (i.e thinking to write and sometimes writing to think) is only redundant work. All that need be said has been said before.

We writers are merely here for we humans are a peculiar race, a majority of which needs to be told what to do, what not to do, and most often this majority derives a masochistic pleasure on being told things are not done the way they should be. We merely need to be told things a thousand times over in order to convert a truth to a lie and vice versa. Since ancient times, people in power got stories crafted to suit their own motive. Writers helped them meet their end by writing according to the briefs given to them. With a little skill, legends essentially remained the same to the prospective buyer who flips pages leisurely to taste what is in for platter, but once the copy was bought, once it was invested in, and then when it was read (at times grudgingly so for a book bought and not read seems unusually heavy on the pocket), the skillfully altered nuances of fact and fiction were successfully thrust in the mind of the engrossed, ignorant reader. Altering bits and pieces here and there, history changed. And when it had changed enough, when the new powers thought it right to invest in a re-run of facts, members of our clan were employed again to tell 'new stories'.

Writers often end up being dumb mediators of thought and idea they fool themselves in believing is their own. Thinking thoughts and raking up extinct ideologies versus the so-called new schools of thought is nothing but the mechanical pursuit of masking the present life with a sense of achievement. Most ideas that gain momentum do so not because they are worthy ideas, but because a few smart people decide it is profitable that the idea propagate. And so, old stories and revamped to be presented as a new and novel idea. So, my dear friends, this is reason enough for you and me to put an end to our writer's block".

Thus said the old man in the last article of his much-read column called Writer's block.

His fame was in part due to the attention attracted due to the many charges of defamation, libel and plagiarism that thronged his career and which he faced with dignity, wit. Till he died of a comfortable old age in a sprawling villa placed at a location conveniently cut-off from civilization, he wore a mischievous gleam that seemed to own up an acceptance of the accusations. But a gaze of aloof shrewdness (that often signifies wisdom acquired of an age of reading and age itself) immediately followed the momentary mischievous gleam and dismissed the enquirer instantly of any further questions, or doubts.

Back

The bus ride from Manali to Delhi killed me. I have never been so tense and so 'in the moment' in my life as I was for those 16-17 hours. My tickets to Ahmedabad were booked for the 12 PM flight and I reached the airport around 11.40. God knows how I managed to board, and God bless the sweet staff who let me in after saying the routine, 'Sorry ma'm, Check-in closed'. The time in the flight and the ride back home was like a delirium. It was only when the Amdawadi heat pierced me in that fond, old way that I realised I was home, in the same dreaded, wonderful heat of my hometown. I actually miss the Ahmedabadi summers and it felt especially blissful to be back home this time of the year.

The trek was wonderful. The base camp was at a village called Chakki in Naggar, about 25 km before Manali. From there, we walked up to Rumsu, Pulag, Chans Falls, Gom Karari and finally the Chandarkhani range. On the first day, when they took us to this real short orientation trek and rappling, I found myself breathing so heavily and in such a bad shape, that the seven remaining days scared me no end. But as we progressed, things became better and before I realised, I was on Camp 3 at 13,000 ft.

I discovered I am unusually quiet and at a loss of words more often than not. I also verified that I am a very boring person compared to the constantly chattering girls and guys who can find ways to turn into tales even routine business like eating bread and butter. These rather sorry discoveries were balanced by the assurance that I could spend time on my own in complete bliss. It irked me sometimes when people spent all their free time in the pristine environs singing film songs at the top of their voice, playing cards or talking about prospective or broken love affairs. There was little scope for silence in the company that I was in- effervescent collegians with a passion for getting themselves clicked. But then, being able to talk in Gujarati after a long time, being in the company of that lovable tribe after ages was a treat in itself. Being in Gujju company means having an unlimited supply of snacks- and it was no wonder that their stock of khakra, mamra, ladu, wafers and what not did not exhaust even till our way back. (I am sure they have enough food left to see them through the train journey from Delhi to Bhuj too)

Himachal is breathtaking. The comparitively remote place that we were at and the trek through some remote up-hill villages allowed us to see the lifestyle pretty closely. Describing the place is an effort in itself and this impromptu post won't do justice to the beauty and simplicity of the people and the place. I would post the photos once I am back in Kolkata. Talking about photos, there was yet another blunder very characteristic of me. I have nagged friends to pose in cameras without rolls, I have spoilt many a rolls as I never learnt how to insert or wind those properly in one piece and I have lost many a newly printed albums. This time, I managed to wipe out the memory card while i was fidgeting with the camera menu on Camp 3 (for I had taken extra batteries but forgotten to take extra memory cards). In effect, all the photos that I clicked on our way up were wiped out. But I didn't cry to my surprise and decided I would click some wonderful photos on the way down. Some consolation!

On the last day in Naggar, we went out to see the town in an open milk-van types tempo- the dozen of us standing in the cold wind. To my utter embarrasement, they sang songs at the top of their voice, with all the villagers staring at us disapprovingly. It's a pity when (and how effortlessly) the thin line between pure fun and vulgur pleasure can be crossed by tourists. Anyway, we went to a very quiet area uphill where we came across a beautiful bungalow of the famous Russian painter Nicholas Roerich. (I hadn't heard of him though baba and aaji immediately recognised and beamed with appreciation on hearing the name) We were there after five and the house is then closed for visitors, so I could only click the place from outside. There was this Music centre and someone was singing really well. Then we went to a 1460 years old castle, which has now been turned into a hotel (The Castle, Naggar, HP Tourism). Waiters were taking up drinks and food and the interiors were beautifully lit, the wood carvings were breathtaking. I must go there again with Mitrajit asap. Just outside the castle, I marched on the shopping spree I had promised myself. Bought a wonderful shawl for didun, the himachali jute chappals just like the ones that mummy had, long woollen socks and ofcourse, a handful of cherries to eat on the way. I also got a pair of some really neat wooden combs with intricate carving, and a very heavy, beautiful, but apparantly useless small dabbi whose lid is so small, it would be even uncomfortable to use it as a sindoordani. Nevertheless, I was jubiliant after the shopping, as always.

Photos here

Incommunicado

I don't really appreciate words that seem to be stretched for the heck of it. Incommunicado is one such. But doesn't it make for some whacky title of a post? :D

I am off to a place where there would be no mobile and no electricity to charge the dumb thing even if I take the instrument along. Wow!

The prospect sounds good, but been really long since I have been really alone. Not sure of the venture, not prepared in the least, but I know I must go.

So then, the earliest I will be back here is 27th.

Cya then,

(O, also check Sailu's blog where she's has put up this small poem which all of you have ignored till now. Accompanied by a small little painting I did to go with it. If you are not into poems, you can always try her lip-smacking recipes)

My daddy strongest

Dharma has been on one of his bummy nights again and somehow, his post took me back in time when I used to drive home late after college.

We used to live quite far away from the city. There were no street lights beyond the highway, the four-five kilometer stretch was pitch dark in the middle of fields and farmhouses. I would be home pretty late. Baba and aaji would be at the edge of their seats, watching TV, but always looking at the gate from the open door. When I look back, I can't really pin-point what to make of their parenthood. (Talking about parenthood, Void has also asked some interesting questions...)

My parents could easily have been those careful, mindful parents who don't let their daughters alone at night. They should have been, if you think conventionally. For there were more chances than less that I could have met with many of those sorry incidents on the long, lonely stretch. And they weren't the mobile-happy types either- 'This and call, that and call... No way! (So when my baba called, it would be a cue that he's really worried and time to move asap, which I didn't...) So what was it that made them let me be the way I was?

Someday, I am going to ask them, what made them give me the liberty they did. And how they managed to keep a tab on their anxiety on all those late nights. But for them, I would not have felt the thrill of being alone, nervous, happy---feeling so completely on my own on the long roads home. Perhaps it was their way of throttling us with cartloads of trust. Their trick was to trust us completely, with a child-like innocence and a fanatic reverence.

Someday, I am going to tell them they have been the most fabulous people I have ever met. My parents may not exactly qualify as guiding angels, the kinds who chalk their child’s future with a neatly planned itinerary of courses, degrees and careers.

Aaji consistently nagged me to work hard, but she never nagged me to be this or that. Baba, when I look back, was only concerned with my being happy. In his vocabulary, perhaps Happy = Full-stop.

I remember once when I was particularly scared before the boards, I sat with him.

“So, you think you won’t even manage to pass, is it?”
“I am not sure”
A short pause.
“Okay, never mind. Nothing matters, actually. Just stop being afraid. I hate it when you move around with that scared and sad face.”

And then, he said something some other time. From his bed where he sleeps all his time after office, shaking the right leg, reading a book, and always ordering this or that (his constant demand is fresh nimboo pani), my lazy, often irritating, but consistently loving and innocent father promised me late one night:

“Remember, no matter what you do and what the world says, I will always be with you till I am alive”.

At that time, though I was touched, what he said really didn’t make sense given that I hadn’t done, or didn’t even intend to do, anything outrageous. But today, I know. And it feels so good.

I leave you with a painting he did a few days back. (I can imagine his child-like glee if he reads this post, especially when he sees his painting online).

Shubho Nabo Barsho

Kolkata is a city that grows on you.

It would be now close to two years here. It is due to the amazing warmth that Bengalis are capable of, I have come to love being here- more than I had ever, ever imagined I could. Warmth is everywhere in the city. Also simplicity. And that hard to miss 'value for money' streak.

I started off hating the city with all my guts. The gloomiest part was sunset around five in the evening. Yes, the street lights are on around five thirty in winter! Back in Ahmedabad, on some days light persisted even till eight in the evening...

So every evening it felt extremely gloomy when the sun set unceremoniously. Mummy would fidget around, looking at me from the corner of her eye. Always around, offering this, that or the other thing to eat or do, her sole mission was to make me comfortable. But come evening and for an hour or two I would feel miserable no matter what. And then she would be at her sweet, confused loss of remedies and settle down in the corner of the room praying. She must have been flirting with bouts of asthama, as her preoccupation to keep the 'notun bau' comfortable just didn't leave her for a second.

Mummy smothered me with a constant presence, unrestrained affection, a stream of compliments coupled with a 'amaar bau khoob mishti' annoncement even to the people she met randomly on the street that left me red faced. I know how little it takes to make her happy. A short call, a dinner, a few chapatis is all it takes for her to go on the 'amaar bau...mishti' routine. I was initially psyched off with all the fuss, but if I love Kolkata today, she has a lot to do with it.

If you have just come to Kolkata and are not a Bengali, you might be grumbling and swearing and making faces about the lazy Bangali babu and the Cholche Cholbe attitude. I would advise you swear, shout, grumble and malign Kolkata to your heart's content. This would only be your initiation in a saga of undefinable love. Kolkata knows her mysterious ways to get loved and remembered.

You love Kolkata for the same reasons you hate it. The traffic jams left me fuming and cursing. I wondered why the hell should I have fallen for a guy from the opposite end of the map and consequentially spend lengthy hours of my newly-wed life in a traffic jam. Today, the same jams come and go and I am amazed at how the city has mellowed me down, made me patient.

I still have not been able to pinpoint what is that one thing that makes Kolkata so lovable.

It may be the passion that flows freely in the city. The passion to dress, to eat, to travel, opine, to lead or follow rallies, attend the Brigade, side with Mohun Bagan (or East Bengal!), to be lazy, to be laidback, pay respect to the thakur, discuss the stock and price of ilish, celebrate the puja, to do the puja shopping, walk miles to go pandal hopping to see the almost identical idols in different decors, to slog in the sun, pull the rickshaw and earn a petty sum, be grateful, to be honest to the point of being naive...

Bengalis come with their eccentricities, but in no time you start loving those. Yes, Kolkata grows on you.

The Beach

Could see the storm scheming up at the horizon. The storm announced itself through a confusion of colours that played smokily over the berserk foam - gray and black, orange and dusty brown, a bit of red overpowered by a blue so dark, it competed with black. I was sitting at the far end of the hotel lobby facing the sea. It was not exactly comfortable, nor could it be classified as romantic. The weather was too sticky and too sullen for any idea of calm to prevail. In fact, too much silence can get eerie for the unpolished soul. Silence was looming large over my cup of tea. Barring the gushing of waves that fizzled out on the beach and the splash of unruly large ones that hit some scattered rocks, all was silent.

A few more days and I would be back. I couldn't decide, what was worse - going back or staying here in the forsaken shanty of a resort. Three days had swept past in the freedom of loneliness, another three would pass in the contemplation of society that would flood me in near future. Soon I would neatly fold a week of recluse and leave it in the pages of a book to lie forgotten, forsaken.

The three-legged bitch was howling again. I could make her out from her silhouette, the way she slumped forward and moved gracelessly about made her special out of all the mongrels. All the dogs on this beach looked alike with their matted brown or black coats, multiple bites, flies hovering behind their arse and fleas hopping above their ears. But this bitch stood out because of her melancholy puzzled with a peculiar will to survive. She had a certain charm. She was strong and high-headed and more than ferocious when need be. She wasn't as reckless as the others, though. She had a certain style, a slow gait which she must have acquired over a painful period of maggots and healing.

I had tried to get friendly with her the first day I saw her howling on the beach. She had shot back a brief, vicious growl with her wet red muzzle stretched back to expose sharp yellow canines in full view. She had dismissed me decisively and limped away further into the sea. I had stayed behind on the beach feeling like a fool rightly snubbed for trying to mix pity with love.

I avoided her on all my walks from the next day and she ignored me just as majestically. I was getting restless hearing her sad, deep howls.

I abruptly pushed the cup of tea aside and started walking to my room. My bed was littered with clothes and books, pens and colour pencils, a cheap drawing book. I made myself some space on the bed and slopped on my stomach, face propped up by my hands, feeling utterly useless. My penchant for mess left me disappointed wherever I went. Even with an army of servants, I could manage to make a pile of useful useless things in my vicinity.

The morning looked a tad meek to glow in full brightness. The storm had apparently threatened the sun not to get to business right away. The morning looked a bit undressed, rather unkempt and unwashed. The beach was littered with carcasses of jelly fish, a huge turtle and innumerable thick, oblong calcium bones of cuttlefish. I pocketed a few for the birds.

I walked till the farther end, just where the beach curved suddenly and a brown rocky range came in view. The beach took a sudden change here, the sand got coarser in degrees till you only walked between sharp rocky edges. Here and there, the sea water rushed into a depression and stayed back for good. Small, colorful fish and transparent fry would dance about from one small end of the stony depressions to the other. At the bottom of dark holes lurked crabs that would wait for their prey with razor-sharp pincers.

There was a comfortable rock that I had mentally marked as my own from the first afternoon. Just below the rock was the largest of such inland ponds with a dizzying display of multicoloured fry. I had found a recluse within a recluse at this silent, risky spot.

No sooner had I sat on a rocky edge and had made myself comfortable watching the school of fry zig-zagging their way aimlessly, than the bitch silently appeared by my side and wagged her tail. I couldn't decide what surprised me more: her sudden presence, or her friendly gesture. I was still stung by her growl and her denial of me and gave her the cold shoulder. I was not going to talk with a dirty, self-engrossed bitch, I decided.

She looked the other way and sat down beside the water, curiously looking at the fry. She struck her paw in and out of the pool and amused herself as the school went off track with each of her well-timed splash. I was too irritated at the invasion of my privacy to actually admit I was enjoying her game.

She stole a glance at me when I unwrapped a sandwich, but a sniff later she looked away unamused and got busy with the fry again. This pissed me off further. I was hoping to have an upper hand by throwing a crumb with a proud swoosh of a hand aimed at her salivating mouth only after she had wagged her tail enough. She had denied me this chance to feel mean. The bitch, with all her attitude, left me fuming with decisive anger.

I knew she didn't quite approve of me. She knew I hated her guts. We both knew. And in full knowledge of our dislike, we struck it big time since that afternoon. For three days, we seemed to meet undecided, un-appointed. For three days, she snuffed off the sandwiches I ate with utter disgust and for three days I grumbled about how bad she smelt when the wind was in our direction. For three days, we kept each other company, a two-legged bitch and a three-legged bitch who both didn't quite like and yet understood the other so well.

Sometimes you don't need love, friendship or pity to strike it big. Anger, envy or dislike works just as well. Only if you don't hide what you feel, that is.

-GG

Of weddings

All those who have married in the traditional Hindu way, tell me what is the meaning of marriage that you gathered when you sat opposite the fire and repeated the mantras one after the other.

After witnessing two-three weddings, including my own, I have come to a conclusion that traditional, ritualistic weddings offer a wholly unsatisfactory insight and guidance to starting a new life.

Wedding ceremonies are simply an expensive social obligation that each man and woman is made to tolerate. You basically wed for your parents, parents of parents, and the 'society' rather than to understand what scriptures say about what a marriage means.

I have no problems with the celebrations per say. Anything that brings joy and people together is justified and a marriage tends to do both. What irks me are the elaborate rituals that boil up to be an aimless, half-baked, commercial and socially obligatory formality. I find in rituals a certain disregard, manipulation and highhandedness in imparting information and insight.

Many of the ‘Whys’ remain unanswered for weddings or poojas are timed in accordance with hall bookings, catering services and other logistics. It seems that the modern day harried ritual ceremonies are for nothing but a placebo effect- to simply give us a moral conviction of having done things the right way than anything else.

On the other hand, if I were to be explained everything in detail, it would take almost a week. I would rather get my hands on some book and read it on my own and get my husband to read it.

The sweaty boredom of sitting beside the so-called holy fire and listening to mantras in a completely alien tongue (Sanskrit is alien, admit it) is not exactly what you call a pleasant experience. They say that the rituals, if performed with the right ingredients and attitude, can invoke the presence of Gods. Never once in my life, can I digest that Gods can actually concede a descent from heaven in the chaos and hullaboo of a few hundred friends of friends and relatives of relatives to make their way through the stuffiness of expensive silk sarees to bless the couple.

An ideal wedding would be under a tree, with a hand-picked few individuals who are close not by relation, but by bonding and understanding. To do the ritualistic honours should be just about any respectful person whose wisdom we are certain of and who can guide us to a new beginning, who can tell what exactly the Vedas mean by a wedding as crisply as he can. And please, no fire and ghee and all that stuff. Or to the minimum- I am sure we have done enough sins in thought and kind to actually expect Gods coming over to say a hello, so better chuck the formality altogether.

Talking about ideal weddings- my mama mami actually tied the knot under a tree somewhere in the USA while studying there. And so they have the privilege and moral right to stiffly admonish the unnecessary extravaganza that has become synonymous to traditional weddings. I had a very clear idea of what kind of a wedding I wanted but my family dismissed my preference as 'impractical'. (I wanted an extremely small ceremony in my own house in the presence of a few hand-picked people followed by a grand ‘free for all’ reception outside)

I believe that a marriage essentially boils up to be a commitment that you make with each other. Rituals and the presence (and approval) of others is a social adage that developed over a period of time.

Tagged

Life Ten Years Ago-Demanded a few things from me that I didn't realise I should deliver. Wish I was more sensitive, more attentive and a little less self-engrossed. People slipped right before my eyes and the doom struck me too late... But yes, life ten years ago was also pure bliss- we stayed far away from civilisation, enjoyed the sight of sprawling fields. Heaven, when it rained...

Life Five Years Ago- Was the best of the best times of my life. College was one storm of blissful abandon that came and went in the blink of an eye. God has been very kind. Touchwood.

Life Tomorrow- I hope, takes the same beautiful turns that it has taken so far. Yes, agreed some shocks I could have done better without, but wiser? I am not sure. I sincerely hope life tomorrow is the one that I can look back fondly the day after...

Five Locations I'd love to run away to-
Ahmedabad, any time...

Somewhere in Himachal / Uttaranchal with a good camping group... I am not sure if I can walk that much, but still...

Beyt Dwarka and Mount Abu, ideally on a moonless night..

The small villages that come on the way up to Darjeeling have caught my fascination. I have wanted to run away and stay in those small homes packed with large dahlia and chrysanthemum blossoms ever since...


Five Bad Habits I have-

Too much of brooding. Gets on my nerves and my skin.

Carelessness. Irritates me more than it does my husband, though he doesn't quite believe me when I say this...

That I stop taking medicines once I feel a little better. Just can't help it...

Too much of sleep...

Anger and what all I say when I am angry...

Five Things I'll Never Wear-

Stilettoes. I get awe-struck everytime I see a friend wearing a pair.. Sadly, not for me...

Anything drastic is not on my list...

Something to achieve by next year-

A goal, a purpose. That degree I want so much and a satisfying job.
Something that impacted me last year-

Hmm... cannot pinpoint anything specific... Few books lasted long though- To Kill a Mocking Bird, The Alchemist, 1984... Also, the dinner and lunch I used to take in that small house in Pune. That family humbled me.

What will I miss about 2007-

I never ever thought I would. But yes, I miss being in Pune a lot and will continue to do so for time to come...

Five things I want to do before i die-

Tough!

Let's see, has to be some land and a nice house. Children. Travel and see the places I read about. And a sense of living a good life. I guess that sums up everything inclusive, no?

Thanks Pranay for tagging me... Please carry the tag on, all of you who are up to it...

How Marathi is Marathi?

How Marathi is Marathi?
How Migrant is Migrant?

I safely landed in Mumbai and zoomed to the house thanks to a very traffic free road left unventured by a scared / cautious public. Mumbai was on fire once again thanks to the ancient 'Marathi manoos vs. others' debate.

All thru my drive home, I met with different opinions, different theories and none seemed to convince me enough. It might be a virtue of having grown up in an environment very indifferent to politics but I, for one, try not to digest any set of theory readily, however logical it may sound, if it has a political tinge of thought process behind it. I take my own sweet little time and exert a lot more caution. Be it the very left, or the very right pattern of thinking, as fate would have it, my origin and my residence, both is so strategic that off late I find myself humouring away the diverse set of clear and crisp ideologies that relatives on each side adhere to.

The argument people put here is simple. That the migrant population is an undue, uninvited burden and hardworking though they may, the immigrants by the thousands fill up local trains, erect slums and flourishing ghettos in no time. The infrastructure of this city (Mumbai) is getting burdened and may collapse pretty soon if the inflow of people is not checked. More, the parent states have 'failed' (and so are to be blamed) for their people need to leave their states in such large numbers to earn their livelihood.

There are a few basic things that come to my mind to counter the above logic:

1) Can anyone in this country decide who can come in their state or city and who can't? Such a notion / decision / belief is unconstitutional, even if we may stretch our imagination to accomodate it as logical.

2) How Marathi is Marathi? I might be a disaster case, for one.

3) How Migrant is Migrant? There must be people, who have accepted this city as their home since more than five or six decades. Will they still be outsiders or migrants? And how illogical is it to expect that a person staying in your city should have a cultural makeover overnight? Is culture such a simplistic thing that can be accepted / modified suddenly? And is abiding by your culture, rituals and language a show of disrespect to the other?

I am a Maharashtrian, born of a Gujarati mother, grown up in Ahmedabad. My grandparents and their parents also stayed in Gujarat for a long time. Aaji can speak, read and write Gujarati as well as she can communicate in Marathi. It would be now close to sixty years or more, that we are based in Gujarat and I have a huge soft corner for Ahmedabad. And yet, it would be a painful and illogical dilemma if I am asked to pick one of my two origins and shun the other completely.

The uproar that arose in Mumbai recently raised a very simplistic and genuine sense of empathy with all those who were bullied and beaten on camera. The question is, how you will measure the marathi quotient of a marathi manoos. And how will you decide how migrant is migrant?

Actually no. The more important question is who, in the first place, gave you the right to sit and judge and sieve out people based on their origin, caste and language in the largest democracy of the world?

Mass Media mush, News & Saas-bahu saga- The quest to find a connection...

We are being injected with millions of sharp little needles every single second we see television, read newspapers, listen to the radio or surf online. Without an 'aah' or 'ouch' even, in fact, so much so that we all happily get ourselves pierced again and again with generous dozes of thoughts, ideas, aspirations and longings.

That's what the Hypodermic Needle Theory, or The Magic Bullet Theory, or the Almacht van de media-theorie is expected to do to us: to directly influence the masses via the mass media.

Just like a doze of injection pierces under your skin and in no time reaches the recesses of your tissue and cells, a doze of media, however small or big it may be, is potent enough to remain in your psyche and influence to levels even you yourself cannot imagine.

Today, the audience is assumed to be far more active in churning out meaning and symbols out of the creative products thrust on its face. And though new research coupled with aggressive market surveys says that the audience is not as dumb as thought to be earlier, I feel the Hypodermic theory still has a huge fan following. In fact, the needle theory seems to be the underlying driving principle of any mass media campaign, be it advertising, politics or PR.

What is it, but the conviction of the media barons that the audience is so dumb, and so much of a puppet, that it will gulp down anything, absolutely anything that is coaxed down their throats? And we, as an audience, have proved their boardroom theories right time and again with a maniacal reverence.

Take immortal Saas-Bahu sagas for example. Though generations after generations face scandals of different social complexities and varieties of extra-marital affairs, these Saas-bahu dramas still have an ardent fan following.

In case of pure entertainment, given films and serials, even these statistics could be implemented straightaway to churn out profit and get high TRP. For entertainment wears no masks of reality or morality in most cases. At worst, even if it were downright vulgar, the audience knows what to expect and makes a conscious choice when he chooses to see serial X instead of serial Y.

The real problem is with the pollution of the media that disseminate news. There's a horrible, and very dangerous mix of 'reports' and features' in the current media fashion.

A report is meant to state what happened, as verbatim as possible, without any leading verbs, adverbs or adjectives that may lend the reporter's personal stance on the matter. A feature, on the other hand, is that powerful tool of the same reporter where he is free to pen his opinions as harshly as he may want and associate those opinions with his byline.

A news reader today does not have the privilege, least of all an opportunity, to make opinions of his own based on a news report. This is because the 'report' that reaches his hands has already been doctored, consciously or unconsciously, by opinions and leading language. Such a carefully toned piece of information hits the psyche so effectively and so stealthily, that it rules out any remote possibility of an unbiased, objective decoding of information.

Newspaper articles today are laced with preconceived moral, ethical and political stances than ever before. This brutal penmanship, in effect, kills the right of the reader to chaff out information from opinion, just as it denies the reader to form an opinion based on unbiased information.

The unfortunate thing is, media today, especially the traditional print and broadcast media, have achieved a God-man status and a large majority still looks up to the media to validate any piece of information. We are influenced by the media more than we may want to acknowledge.

We are still injected with opinions and ideals, we are still driven to think what the media or political conglomerates want us to think, and we are still slaves to the Hypodermic Needle Theory...

-Gauri Gharpure

Read about the Hypodermic Needle Theory