Look who came calling- 2

  

And they are back! Also, don't miss this related post about peacock chicks. (For all you know, one of these might be from the same batch!)

Closure

All closures come with bittersweet nostaligia. #SixWordStory

Notes to myself

In no specific order GG must remember the following:
1) Be comfortable with your parents in public. Everyone has a weird lot. And as much as Maral may want to innovate, there are no 'parent gardens' yet.
2) Baba loves you.
3) Don't think who called last. Call. Write. Email.
4) Please remember to swallow your ego in friendships, love and generally when dealing with everything else.
5) Eat before you go shopping.
6) Do not hog to celebrate a good shopping spree.
7) Eat with your hands, you were born Indian.
8) Don't let anyone, ANYOnE, laugh at your dreams.
9) On the same note, that people laugh at your dreams is not a reason to stop dreaming aloud.
10) Play with puppies.
11) Look long and good at a handsome guy. If men can stare to "appreciate" beauty, women can do so too.
12) Do not let elder sis laugh at your fashion choice.
13) Listen to elder sis once in a while.
14) Accept that elder bro gives good advice even if he sounds downright cocky and insane when he does so.
15) Do not give up on people, the past.
16) There's a very thin line between being naive and being hopeful, but it's worth being naive 8/10 times if hope materialises two times of those ten.
17) Call friends you haven't talk with in a while when you are stuck in a traffic jam.
18) Call family and write quick emails.
19) Do not boycott relatives who love to gossip, they love you in their own way.
20) Buy good shoes.
21) Make time for reading.
22) Spend less time on the net.
23) Try to sleep like a normal homo sapien.
24) Do not smile so much that people stop taking you seriously.
25) Try to ration your talkativeness and in other situations, speak up even if you are too bored to yawn.
26) Know when it's time to stop blogging and take a nap.

Alu wadi / Patra / Colocasia rolls

Patra (made from colocasia leaves) is a very common Gujarati snack that is available for sale at all the "farsan" shops alongside dhokla, khandvi, fafda and jalebi. My maternal grandmother used to make patras at home and I learnt how to make these sometime back. Sharing the recipe:

Ingredients:
Two bunches of colocasia leaves (about 25 nos.)
About 150 gm. chickpea flour
50 gm. tamarind
50 gm. jaggery
Ginger, garlic and green chilli paste- 1 tablespoon in all
Salt and red chilli powder to taste
A tablespoon of sesame seeds, teaspoon of black mustard, a pinch each of asafoetida and turmeric, 3-4 dry red chillies and 3 tablespoons of oil for tadka / tempering.

 Pictorial (clockwise) 

  

Method

Take the tamarind and jaggery in a small bowl and microwave for 30-40 seconds with a cup of water. Keep aside and let it cool and then extract the pulp (add water as required to do so) by discarding the tamarind seeds and veins.

Take the chickpea flour in a mixing bowl. Add tamarind-jaggery water, ginger-garlic-green chilli paste, salt, pinch of asafoetida, red chilli powder. Mix well to a thick batter consistency by adding very litter water at a time (and chickpea flour to adjust the consistency if required).

Soak the colocasia (patra or alu) leaves in a large container filled with water and some salt, then wash well in running water. De-vein the leaves from the pale-green / back side. The bright-green surface of the leaves shown in photo 1 is the front side and the batter is applied to the other side. To de-vein, scrap the thick mid-vein and the first two-three thickish lateral veins with a knife. Apply the batter to this de-veined side.

Clean the kitchen platform well and then spread the biggest leaf, the de-veined, posterior face up. Evenly apply the batter on the surface. Then place the next leaf, also posterior face up but with the pointed edge of the leaf facing the opposite side of the previous leaf. I have made a diagram to make things simpler.

Apply batter on the second leaf, and go on arranging about 10-15 leaves in the same manner. Then begin to roll. Press very rightly and firmly as you roll up. You may tied the roll with a thread, but that's optional.

Next, steam the rolls in an idli-container or the vessel used to steam momos and dumplings. You can also steam the rolls by arraning them on a large seive (cover it with a lid) that is placed above a vessel of boiling water. Once the rolls are well-steamed (will take about 25 minutes), they will change colour distinctly and look a dull dark green and will appear somewhat shrunk and sorry (see photo 3 above). Do not worry.

Immediately remove the rolls on a dish and let them cool well, leave aside for at least 30 minutes or more for the excess moisture to evaporate. Once cooled properly, you can also put rolls in the fridge and resume the next part of the recipe just before serving. The boiled patras can also last overnight in fridge.

Next, cut the cooled patra rolls as shown in photo 3 with a good knife and swift, sharp cuts.

We usually saute the patras cuts in some oil tempered with mustard seeds, dry red chillies, garlic and sesame seeds (shown in photo 4). However, in Maharastra many prefer these deep-fried (photo 6). I deep-fried the stuff after I got to know of this preference. :)

Serve with raw mango chutney (as shown in photo 5) or ketchup. Tastes best with a glass of piping-hot chai.

Coming up next: Methi na Dhebra (Fenugreek and millet flour pancakes) :-)

Wordless Wednesday

#ArtsyAunt for the #CrazyPilloo

Bel Sharbat- Aegle marmelos cooler

Last week, everyone in the family was sick turn by turn. First Aaji was down with fever, then it was Indiraben with sudden and severe stomach upset. We are not used to seeing Indiraben go silent (she talks non-stop and has an opinion on every word that reaches her ears) and sit still. Our gardener, Bhaiyyaji, happens to be her special friend - they gossip a lot over many cups of tea - and as soon as he heard that Indiraben is unwell, he ran to a neighbour's garden and got me a ripe Bel fruit for her complete with instructions on how to make the cooler: "Make it NOW and give it to her."

Pictorial: Making bel (or bael) sharbat The bael fruit is said to have medicinal properties and can bring relief for a number of small disorders from stomach upset, acidity, cold, etc. The fruit Bhaiyyaji (he had a headache today :-() got was the size of a biggish cricket ball, with a hard yellow shell which had a crack or two. I had to knock it on the kitchen platform a number of times before I could maneuver the knife and break open the Bel into two unequal pieces. The core is a fibrous, orangish mass interspersed with soft beige seeds. Once cracked open, the fruit gives an extremely delicate, soft and sweet fragrance that more than makes up for the slightly sticky fibrous core. The photo explains itself, that's how I made the bel sharbat. Add water very slowly to mash the fruit pulp. I took a glass (about 200 ml) of chilled water in all and used a little more than half of it while mashing the pulp in the strainer. Add sugar, salt and lime to taste. Best if served chilled.

Tahiti and Maugham

Tahiti is a lofty green island, with deep folds of a darker green, in which you divine silent valleys; there is mystery in their somber depths, down which murmur and plash cool streams, and you feel that in those umbrageous places life from immemorial times has been led according to immemorial ways. Even here is something sad and terrible. But the impression is fleeting, and serves only to give a greater acuteness to the enjoyment of the moment. It is like the sadness which you may see in the jester's eyes when a merry company is laughing at his sallies; his lips smile and his jokes are gayer because in the communion of laughter he finds himself more intolerably alone. -W Somerset Maugham in The Moon and Six Pence

Female Foeticide, Beed's Dr. Death and motherhood

He reportedly fed the aborted foetuses to his pet pack of dogs. So did a lot of "doctors" in the area.

No. Don't emote as if you were to puke and leave this page. No, not yet. You and me, we have gotten into the habit to conveniently blindfold ourselves to the wretched-ugly-gory facets of life. Hold on just a minute more, please. I promise you won't puke.

So, it has been reported that Dr. Death and his wife (Dr. Sudam & Dr. Saraswati Munde of Maharashtra's Beed region) had an ultrasound and abortion factory that they ran with the help of local goons and corrupt officials. For years and years. They continued butchering even after a sting operation by a local NGO.

It required a woman to die on the operation table (there might be more cases like this, suppressed) when she approached the couple to discard her four-month-old foetus. The woman's family refused to file a complaint and the police decided to (after being pressured and shamed into it by some activists, I suspect) file a suo-motu case.

Because I feel nauseous even as I remember those articles, I will simply link those at the end. But as I have more to say, I request you to read on for another small minute. Please.

My mother cried after I was born. She was scared my grandparents would be upset with the birth of a second girl child. Ridiculously unfounded fears. I know for a fact that my paternal grandmother would never entertain such a sick idea. May be mother herself wanted a baby boy, because when around I was 10, she asked me if I would like a baby brother. I took no second to scream "No!!!" with my wide-eyed disbelief. That was the end of the discussion.

I am glad I cornered her once and demanded why she cried on being told it was a girl. She didn't really say anything as a direct response. But I remember her silently telling me some other time that once when she went for a regular ultrasound checkup when she was carrying me, a woman was waiting to get her female foetus aborted. My mother looked deeply sad and shaken as she recollected that day.

In her typical quiet and mysterious way of withholding herself physically but coveying everything with her silent gestures and eyes, she said, "I would never do that."

Wait. Does that mean someone suggested that mother check the sex of the second child, abort, if it was a girl?

The good news is I am alive. And I am angry. Because millions of pretty, sweet, kind, funny girls (girls are all that and more) like me have been killed even before they are born just because they are girls.

That brings me to motherhood. If and when I become a mother, I want to make up for the harassment I piled on my mother for being the nastiest brat one can ever manage to be. It seems a rather humanely impossible task to be as gentle and patient as she was with a child like I was, but I will try. Baby boy or baby girl. Mine. (Correction: Ours)

End of story. See, that was quick. And no puke.

Now go catch up reading on the doctors who reportedly doubled up as butchers. And puke.

Articles in the Mumbai Mirror, India Today , and read Maharashtra steps up fight
Related essay I wrote for NYTime's journalist and my professor Michael Powell's class.

Jewellery projects: Peyote & ladder stitch earrings

#ThingsToDoAfterJ-School (Check 2)

Recently made stuff

Beaded earrings from a mix of ladder, brick and circular peyote stitches. Got raw material from Michael's on 100 St & Columbus, NYC. Also got myself a very practical, super-convenient set of plastic storage boxes to keep the delica beads from this hobby store that I highly recommend. Sourced the faceted sand stones and faceted black onyx from a store in Fremont.

Feels so good to be beading again!

Shooting Stars

There was still light in the fading evening sky, just enough to delay the gloom of dusk. I was waiting then and I continued to wait for months worth of hopeful days and yearning nights. I wished on shooting stars that fell just for my eyes in the quintessential New York sky suffocating with concrete silhouettes.

Shooting stars lie.

The No. 7 Train

Languages clash on engrossed cell phones
that are unmindful of public space.
Black and brown shoes rest in different pairs of legs;
Keep their distance like respectful strangers.

I keep my face down,
resist the view of the big city flying below;
For eyes can't reach where the mind is now:
Home.

Red manicured fingers tap iPhones;
When will fashion come natural to me?
Large studded earrings dangle music
from ear plugs and mock my loneliness.

I see shadows of gloom as bright white morning light
falls on sloped roofs and cars and Taco Bell;
No one told me that New York City looks
poor and lonely from the no. 7 train.

I am on the no. 7 train;
A long, long way from home.

-Gauri Gharpure
October 27, 2011

Heena tattoos, fridge magnets & more: A little bit of fun at the Columbia Journalism School

Know the feeling when you have been wanting to do something since long and it finally materializes? Well, I wanted to put mehendi on people's hands, spread the crafts stuff I make, and share Indian trivia with people.

Questions like, "What's this dot on your forehead?" or "What's this tattoo paste made of?" can lead to conversations that go deep into Indian cultural roots. So, this little Spring Fest celebration on the college walk of the Columbia University, Graduate School of Journalism, was worth sitting in the sun for hours on a lazy Friday.

The Society of Professional Journalists helped me put this together and the proceeds I could raise went to the SPJ. I will remember the excited girl who was delighted after putting a bindi on her forehead, or the old woman who loved the salwar kameez as the sweet highlights of my *Fulbright experience.

Putting Mehendi on the hands of an Australian exchange student 

For those who have been following this blog for long, you probably know I love to spend midnight hours with scissors and papers, glue and threads, beads and needles. This time around, finding time for my pet passion was an ambitious juggle between school assignments, long readings pulped with statistics on the poor, the homeless and the drug crisis of the 90s, a Harvard Business School case on LinkedIn and professional networking sites, job hunting, and more, and more. But it was worth it. This is the kitchen table in the wee hours of Friday:

That colorful table with scissors and scraps :) 

 I made fridge magnets, something I have wanted to do since years after I saw hobby ideas on How About Orange's site. Then, there was the staple bookmarks and cards. I love to mark my readings with these bookmarks; in school I used to copy-write stunning paragraphs and poems by my favorite authors on the back of the bookmarks and get high on good writing just by flipping the bookmark over. Don't you think bookmarks are perfect little non-intrusive presents for friends young and old? And the cards, they liven up the long letters sent by snail mail.

 Some bookmarks and fridge magnets

I got mehendi cones from - no two cents for guessing - from Patel Brothers in Jackson Heights. They have a mind-boggling range of Indian products, so many desi items, sometimes I feel even a store back in Ahmedabad, India, would be put to shame. These were very good cones, it was an absolute pleasure to put mehendi with these. And Lyuda, who's a graduate Biology student with an interest in neuroscience, she loved it. In fact, she was the first person to come by the table, go back to get cash, and actually linger around while I finished decorating someone's hand. Time is such a precious commodity in NYC and that patient wait really meant something to me.

  

Lyuda loves the mehendi!

Starting with the artsy stuff, I plan to go the tummy route now. What better way to make India come alive in NYC than cooking some spicy (OK, not-so-spicy, to suit the taste buds here) Indian food? Next week I plan to make deep-fried pastries with potato-peas filling: samosas :) 

*The DEADLINE for the 2013 Fulbright scholarships is July 15. Go to the USIEF site for details.  


 

Shokhiyon mein: Prem Pujari, a song translation

A man in a khaki shirt with a bright red jacket balances a butterfly net on his shoulders and flicks his muffler in place as he walks to wild yellow flowers. A red chiffon stole coyly sneaks into sugarcane bushes. With a cerebral twitch that he made into a style statement and his signature tilted hat, he continues looking for his lady love. He finds her after she hits him with a twig and jumps down to him from her perch on a haystack, skinning sugarcane with her teeth. Meet Bollywood actors Dev Anand and Waheeda Rehman as they take romance to another level in the song ‘Shokhiyon mein ghola jaaye’ from the 1970 Hindi film Prem Pujari:

Mix the youthfulness of flowers with these playful moments
And top the blend with some wine,
The intoxication that would result,
Is love.

He nods as she moves away from him and walks from haystack to haystack. Her stole falls on the golden pile and the camera zooms on it to pan to Dev Anand who waits with a smile. She hides her face behind the sensual chiffon cloth and then drops it, Dev Anand catches it. Without the drape covering her slender body, with the feeling of freedom that every young woman in new love feels, Waheeda begins to climb a haystack on a makeshift wooden ladder as she sings:


It was a laughing childhood; it’s a tempting season now,
If not dealt with carefully, it’s a ball of fire
If you touch it gently, it is dew (2)
In the village, in the fair, on the road or when you are alone:
The one you remember again and again,
Is your love.

Her beau throws the stole back to her, the fabric glides towards her, she catches it and flicks it on her shoulders with a laugh. Then she glides down the stack and is surprised that he is not in sight. He sings from his hiding place in hay and she bites a dry strand of grass while looking for him. But, she doesn’t look for long. As if she’s confident he’ll walk back to her, she rests on a stack. The camera zooms to the red heels she dangles, then we can see her man walking towards her. He comes close, she doesn’t mind the proximity. He tells her how beautiful she is:

Gold melts in your complexion,
Nectar oozes out of your body as if
A note is being softly played at night,
The one who waits for you in the sun, in the shade or in the dancing winds,
That is your love.

Butterflies fly out of the net in a whirlpool of air and flutter by the lovers. They then run in the fields. She almost stumbles once, and that adds to the romantic simplicity of the visuals. They celebrate their love again:

If I remember him, my loneliness vanishes,
It feels like someone has started playing the wedding flute in a desolate town,
The pride that doesn’t fade whether you are uphill, downhill; any time of the being,
That is love.

‘Shokhiyon mein ghola jaaye’ penned by Majrooh Sultanpuri blends innocence with longing and intense courtship with playful patience: something almost extinct in these days of speed-dating.

A diva of romance and with a career as an actor, director and producer spanning close to 60 years, Dev Anand died at the age of 88 in December 2011. He still makes hearts flutter. Kishore Kumar’s voice complements Anand’s charisma well, the playback singer had a knack for matching his voice with the persona of all the screen characters he sang for. Kumar developed his own distinctive style of yodeling, blending classical notes with the funky, the mischievous and the sensual as and when it called for. His greatest hits were with music directors Sachin Dev Burman, who also composed this song, and his son Rahul Dev Burman.

Waheeda Rehman (born 1936) has aged gracefully. She still plays character roles, the more recent performance was in a film called Delhi 6. Lata Mangeshkar (born 1929) has sung 'Shokhiyon mein.' She still sings, her next song is for a film that is expected to be released in 2012.

-Gauri Gharpure
March 26, 2012

This was for John Bennet's magazine-writing assignment. Long shot, because the Indian dancing-round-the-trees routine seems very lame to the Western audience. That said, I adore this song and went ahead with the unusual choice. Also read this book review that I submitted as a backup.

Raghubir Singh: Catching the Breeze*

Photo taken in Hathod village, Jaipur, Rajasthan

The first reaction is disbelief. It takes time to absorb the simple, delicious freedom in the backdrop of an impoverished Indian village. Two teens are touching the sky. A faithful old Neem tree and a trustworthy jute rope is all it takes to forget that they are women.

As they race against wind, their neighbors, siblings and friends find no novelty in the dizzying heights these women have reached. They look disinterested, as if they cannot determine what makes this trivial breather so interesting to a city man.

But this is as high as the two women swinging on the makeshift swing will perhaps go in their entire life. For Hathod, in Rajasthan, India, is a village where strict caste and class rules still apply. Someone else – the society, their husband, or their in-laws will soon begin to dictate the heights they can reach.

Raghubir Singh took this photo in 1975. The girls, from an assortment of ages between three to thirteen, perhaps even their young mothers, might have yearned to go to schools. Their parents might have entertained the idea for some time, too. But, in such villages, where Hindu women of certain castes are still expected to follow the purdah system, dropout rates are high.

There is no money to buy the books and the shoes, teachers don’t teach, schools have no functional toilets or water, or if everything is in place, the nearest high school may be miles away. Public transport is often undependable, certainly risky for young girls. They do give it a try though, some brave ones. Many daughters walk their way to school, their parents grudgingly, but not without some faint beam of pride, allow. But it doesn’t last long, this pursuit of the dream of a better life.

After months of juggling dreams with duties, girls give up. Because they no longer have the energy to cook, clean, milk the buffalo, and take care of their armies of siblings after coming home. These are the tasks girls cannot wash their hands off in a household with a single earning member. Or sometimes parents cannot afford to teach more kids at a time, and the privilege of education is then is given to the male children. But these women are lucky. At least they are alive.

The government and the citizens (often even well-educated, so-called modern families) systematically ignore India’s female feticide epidemic because of misplaced cultural preferences, socio-economic factors vote-bank politics and illiteracy. According to Census 2011, Rajasthan has a sex ratio of 926 girls between ages 0 to 6 for 1000 males in the same age group. India’s overall sex ratio is 940.

A Unicef report says fetal sex determination and sex selective abortion by unethical medical professionals has today grown into a Rs. 1,000 crore industry (US$ 244 million). The act that targets doctors and technicians who offer illegal ultrasound tests gathers dust in legal jargon, social connivance and corruption. Till May 2006, as many as 22 out of 35 states in India did not report a single violation of the act. (1)

While they were waiting for medical science to catch up, they devised other ways to kill their infant girls. My grandmother told me that in olden days, a euphemism was used to identify people who killed their newborn girls. Gujarati for “Doodh peeti kari,” roughly translates to “We started feeding her milk.” This essentially meant a newborn girl child was drowned in a big cauldron of milk.

In India, if a girl is lucky to be born, she becomes a woman sooner than in any other part of the world. Till then, they let her swing on a tree and touch the rainbow.

Gauri Gharpure

* This is another assignment for Michael Powell's class, Writing about life along the poverty line. I loved this homework, it was to select (or shoot) a photo of a neighbourhood / person / process and write about what emotions, ideas and issues the image evokes. This piece is my interpretation of the visuals, it is personal, and may be completely different from Singh's rationale for taking the photo, or being drawn to the scene.

Links and References:

1) The Preconception and Prenatal Diagnostic Techniques Act: UNICEF India: http://www.unicef.org/india/media_3285.htm
2) http://f56.net/kuenstler/raghubir-singh/raghubir-singh/
3) Raghubir Singh: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raghubir_Singh_%28photographer%29
4) International Humanist and Ethical Union: http://www.iheu.org/female-foeticide-in-india
5) Census 2011, India: http://www.census2011.co.in/states.php

Clarence Page: Giants at J-School

Clarence Page responded to the email within minutes and gave some suggestions for my notes. I have re-numbered the points he mentions in the email (excerpt below), but his message makes sense if read with the PDF.

Here is what Page said:

I'm back!
I read through your notes and congratulate you on your good job.
I would only make the following suggestions for clarity:

I would replace lines 10, 11 and 12 with this:

Politics is all perception, in that sense, all political speech is code. Liberals, for example, like to speak of “have’s and have-nots.” But the conservative governor of Indiana told the nation, in his State of the Union address, that America is “a country of haves and soon-to-haves.” The nuances of difference speak to their different perceptions of opportunity in this country and what government’s role should be --or not be—in reducing income inequality *..........
......... Let me know if you have any other questions and, please, enjoy your weekend!
Best,
CP*

How can you avoid marginalizing yourself, pigeon-holing in a certain niche?

1) Try different things. For example, I wrote a lot of obits. Obits have the essence of everything and you have the last word! Get the name right, get the age right
2) Once you are recognized as good, you have very good chance of not being pigeon-holed
3) Then you have a platform, start writing about politics, social change, then move to Op-Ed
4) When I started out on general assignment, I really wanted to be an entertainment writer. For a year in my early days, I covered the religion beat by day and reviewed rock music concerts at night. I used to say that I was the only “rock-and-religion reporter in Chicago.”
5) Always be curious, always be ready to see

*Point 4 above is in Page's words, as sent in the email.

How important is it for a reporter to be an extrovert? Or can an introvert be a good journalist? I asked this question :)

Like anything else in life, like cliff diving, with journalism, know your own capabilities. We had an excellent reporter. She was not just an introvert, she was timid. She once went to cover a story on elephants in the circus. And in all the photos, she was visibly scared. She wrote a story about how difficult the assignment was for her. But the editors wanted something fun. They asked, “Did you not enjoy at all?” “NO!” But she eventually wrote a happier story and we found a photo where she seemed to smile. She was never comfortable being a reporter, she hated talking to strangers, calling up people. But she was excellent. Eventually she asked to be moved to the desk and she’s doing great. So, it doesn’t hurt to be extrovert, but if you are not, be true to yourself.

Do not use photos, drawings or text on this blog without permission.

Wordless Wednesday

A Walk in Harlem

The signal is red. The M 60 bus reaches the 116th & Broadway stop at 4:00 pm. It has three passengers, five more get in. Buzz-beep-slash: passengers swipe their Metro cards and find solitary seats. The driver’s belly droops over his belt. From behind his black goggles, he looks disinterestedly at those stepping in. A recorded female voice greets mechanically: “Thank you for riding the MTA.”

The bus takes a right turn off Amsterdam Avenue onto W 125 St . Outside the Harlem USA II Nails salon two black women stand smoking cigarettes. The shade of one’s jacket perfectly matches her brown highlights. The other is shorter, plump and wears a black jacket.

Are they poor?

But, poor men and women do not wear an identity badge. Poverty is a human reality that goes beyond color, race and time. The white man’s hunger is the same as the black man’s hunger.

The first sight on getting off the bus at W 125 St & Adam C Powell Blvd is a foot-long red signboard with “Pashmina” written in white all-caps. Below the sign hang red, green, black, navy blue, sky blue, rust, pink, zebra- and leopard-print shawls.

A sweet, fruity smell with the hint of strawberry and vanilla arises at the next stall. In old glass bottles that do not inspire much faith are synthetic fragrances with enchanting labels: Happy Women, Patchouli, Victoria’s Secret, Kush. Incense sticks are labeled Coco Mango, Mango Butter, Sandalwood and Tulasi.

“Nine-ninety-nine dollars,” says a man as his dark glasses fall low on his nose.

“Ten thousand. O good. She’s going for 30K," he says as he stares at the woman walking towards him. He sits on a square-iron fence that guards a barren tree outside the Diallo Cap store at 112 W, 125 St. But she sits instead of walking away, he's taken off guard. “It’s not safe to sit down, don’t you know wonderful? I am jealous of the girl. Sometimes you got to get the moves. Sometimes you got to take rest.”

He stands up leaning into his walking stick, uncomfortable with the woman’s silence and scribbling. He is wearing faded violet-blue pants, a thick jacket with a jean pocket stitched on the left arm, white gloves, gray cap, and a black bag hangs from his shoulders. He takes a short aimless walk but quickly returns to whisper, “You have to move, gorgeous.” As the woman gets up to go, he shouts a parting advice: “And don’t spend too much money!”

Walking sticks negotiate the busy footpath. Sounds of screeching tires, horns and music mix. A child stops to cough and resumes the tantrum, the sobbing. There’s a vacant lot at the corner of 125th & Lenox Ave. Near the fence, two women stand arguing.

“Fucking America. And nobody helps you in America,” says the older woman. The other is dressed in a black jacket with an intricate golden design and a black purse with similar gold work. Her hair is elaborately braided and tied back. The stud in her nose sparkles as she shouts, “Mom! You got the right papers … Listen … I will go to the church …”

A short old woman in a woolen brown cap stands outside a store. She wears a thick grey coat from which only the florescent orange hem of her dress is visible, thin skin-colored stockings and black shoes. She has a white tote bag painted with the stars and stripes of America.

A man in a Quantum A 4000 wheelchair tears open the plastic wrap and bites an orange candy stick. One leg is amputated at the knee, the other at the ankle. The ends of his cream pants are cut and tied up. An old paper tag that reads 11-10-11 is tied to the wheelchair. Near his hands he has hung a white plastic bag that contains a bottle of Coke.

Two men can be heard cursing from far away. As they come near the wheelchair, one of them shouts, “Shut the fuck up.” “I will call the police,” says the other. They walk away only to return quickly, still shouting and cursing with the same intensity.

The return journey is on foot.

The pleasant smell of cleaning detergent splashes outside the windows of the Outside Avenue store. A tall black man in a red sweatshirt diligently pushes a yellow trolley containing the cleaning liquid and mops. He walks with a slight limp in his right leg.

Near the same fence where the mother and daughter were arguing, now walks a blind man obeying his red-tipped walking stick. On the opposite side of the street, a man dressed in an ocean-blue robe and a hat that mimics the crown of the Statue of Liberty distributes pamphlets and shouts, “Taxes, taxes.”

The man with faded violet-blue jeans looks up again from the corner of his dark glasses and smiles, “O, she’s back!” The same strawberry-vanilla smell returns. The same shawls, the same people…

Are they poor?

-Gauri Gharpure

* This is the first assignment for Michael Powell's seminar "Writing about People Along the Poverty Line." It was a very fruitful experience in that that we were not allowed to talk with anyone while working on the piece. All energy spent in observation brought out much more than what is usually got in the hurry to ask questions and note down replies.

Hola!

A tad late. But, as with everything else, I take my own time...


And while I was making this, I remembered this post.

May each one of us find ourselves better than we are now in 2013.

Love and luck!

Yellow leaves

Yellow leaves; their edges cut by zig-zag magic scissors
by a child idle on an afternoon holiday.
Yellow fall on green lawn:
Like hope discarded, like love gone.

Windows fuzzy with cold memories
of sunny faraway morns witness
the flight of orange-yellow leaves
that swirl and tango their last dance.

-GG

Update from home: Lali is not well

When you run to welcome me home, sometimes I feel I need no other love in this world.

I had tweeted this about Lali.

She is one of the four dogs that we raised. Born in November 2002, the litter came under our care, when their mother, whom I called Jhingy, suddenly died. They were a month old then. Lali is the most loyal, her territory remains our house and she guards it against, mostly, the postman and the sweeper.

It is Indiraben, who became a part of our family when I was about six months of age, who lovingly and possessively tends to all our pets. On the night of September 10, Indiraben came to my father, very worried, and said she had not seen Lali for the entire day. Unusual, scary. They tried to look around all over the society, but did not find her.

Early next morning, Lali's siblings Dholu and Sheeba literally dragged Indiraben to a locked plot in the society. There we found Lali: weak, frightened. She's old now and couldn't jump the high walls. Baba got keys to the lock from the society secretary, but it was rusted. The guards then broke the lock. Lali came out to hug Indiraben and Baba.

In recent emails, Baba says how Lali is still in a shock. She has given up barking with gusto as she used to. She only wimps and cries, eats less and seldom leaves our compound. Baba thinks she climbed up a car and jumped into the plot, falling on her face. She has some injuries near the jaw. She runs at the sight of medicine and Baba and Indiraben are too old for the hide-and-seek routine I dealt with. I hope she gets better soon. My family depends on these kids more than we admit or realize. Home would not be home without them...

Janmashtami Celebrations at Iskcon Brooklyn

Audio postcard of Janmashtami celebration at Iskcon, 305 Schermerhorn Street, Brooklyn

Gharpure AudioPostcard finalfinal 0823 by Gauri

Audio profile of a New York street-seller

This is my first audio project.

Being in a different country, a different climate and among people who speak the same language with a different accent, reporting is not the same. Sometimes it takes nothing to approach people and talk to them, sometimes you get cold feet and just can't talk. As I was walking in Harlem scouting for my subject after an unsuccessful recording with an African woman at a hair-braiding saloon, I saw Sean Shawney. He smiled at me and asked if I would buy his tee shirts, pins. The spread looked interesting and we started talking. I found my subject.

Gharpure Audioprofile 0818 Final by Gauri

Shawney's spread of pins. Figures of African leaders and artists



And this is what I bought:



PS

Something about the process:

We had to make a two-minute profile of any person. The process included transcribing the audio, then picking out portions (called actualities) to include in the tape, and to write a narration. Then, in the lab I selected parts of sentences and edited some actualities using Final Cut Pro. Also recorded the narration. The audio levels are high, forgot to adjust. In September, will learn to use Pro Tools for the Audio Storytelling elective that I have taken. After what we learned for the audio slideshow class, I will also try to take more horizontal shots from now on. Indeed, that makes optimum use of visible space.

A new country welcomes me

An update: I earned the Fulbright scholarship and am now studying journalism at my dream school: Columbia University, Graduate School of Journalism, in the city of New York.

It's humbling how many "dream" milestones God granted in 2011.

I assume I shall be hard-pressed for time as the semester rolls on, but this blog is too dear a place to let it remain quiet.

See you with more posts, more musings. And soon!

Wordless Wednesday

My best friend's wedding

It's a morning of hope.
As I look back, I see her
in Jr-Kg group photo:
Two thick plaits, kohl-smeared eyes, a huge grin.

I remember the times we laughed to tears,
Her signature eccentric quips
That gave a whacky perspective
To many a life-changing things...

Tomorrow, you will be gone:
Mrs. doesn't sound as fancy as Ms.
But I know you will live it all up
In your flamboyant, who-cares style.

Remember me even as you get engrossed
in the journey ahead, let it be fruitful.
When you look back, I will always be there;
And it's only old friends who can call a spade a spade.

For S.

And all shall pass

When the storm subsides
And the wind stops howling,
Listen to the silence;
It will speak to you.

Hang in there just some more,
This too shall pass.
The fear will fade;
You are brave.

When love restores your faith,
And trust births in you again;
He will absolve you of all
That now crowds your guilt.

Some more faith,
Some more love,
And all shall pass.
And all shall pass.

-Gauri Gharpure
May 15, 2011

Golya Cha Sambhar / Maharashtrian cuisine

I wanted to learn how to make this gravy since long. My aaji makes it sometimes, and today, I saw the recipe on a cookery show and decided to finally try it.

Golya cha sambhar consists of small, round dumplings made from chick-pea flour, lots of spices and tamarind or lemon for the tang. We add some jaggery too, but some prefer it completely hot.

Ingredients and method to make the dumplings:
About 4 cups besan (I assume it's chickpea flour in English. A friend is convinced I call it gram flour instead :)
1 cup of finely chopped onions
Finely-chopped coriander (optional)
1 tablespoon oil
Generous amounts of red chilli powder, dhana-jeeru powder, salt. And a pinch of turmeric, asafoetida, sugar.

Adding very little water, make dough using the above ingredients. Then, make small round dumplings as shown in the photo. Keep aside.

Ingredients and method to make the gravy:
1 cup finely-chopped onion
2-3 tablespoon grated fresh or dry coconut (I used dried coconut)
Oil, pinch of mustard seeds, cumin, turmeric, asafoetida, raw green chillies for tadka
Goda masala (A typical maharashtrian garam masala, easily found in Pune / Mumbai)
Coarsely-crushed black pepper
A lemon-sized ball of tamarind, soaked for sometime. Use the extract.
1 tablespoon jaggery (Optional)
About 700 ml water (Adjust depending on the number of dumplings you have made)
Chickpea flour to adjust consistency of the gravy. Use as required.

Method:
Heat oil in a heavy-bottomed pan. Add the ingredients mentioned for the tadka, in that order, and then add chopped onions. Saute for a minute or two and add grated coconut. Saute for about five minutes, or till coconut turns slightly brown. Add goda masala, dhana-jeeru powder, red chilli powder. Add water and bring to boil.

Add the chickpea dumplings to the boiling water and cover the vessel with a lid. Put some water on the lid so that the dumplings are steamed faster. It will take about 15 minutes for the dumplings to cook. The dough should be tight, otherwise dumplings may break apart when added to water.

Add a tablespoon of chickpea flour to the gravy is required. (On my first attempt, the gravy became a little more dense than is required, but tasted just fine) When the dumplings get cooked, they float above. Now, add tamarind paste, jaggery, salt and black pepper. Adjust spices as required. Let the gravy boil over once and switch off the gas. Garnish with finely-chopped coriander.


1) Golya cha sambhar 2) Apple, grape and walnut salad in fresh cream 3) Mango pickle 4) Tomato aam-papad chutney

While eating, crush the dumplings with you fingers and eat with rice. Also goes well with chapati / bhakhri.

A Punch on the Left

So you talked about equality, Sir;
As you puffed that cigarette in roundabout whirls.
So you talked about the hungry, abused and the oppressed, Sir;
As your wife fried bhetki after bhetki*.

You snubbed her right in front of your comrades
For you insisted "Women must know their place."
So much for equality and social rights, Ha!
Your woman has lost her voice...

Your arrogance was pungent and sorry,
But your comrades perfectly understood the necessary dominance,
They nodded as you commanded your wife back in the kitchen,
She retreated hurt and hounded, sought solace in her sacred space.

Sir, your hypocrisy is shocking, your doublespeak commendable:
How beautifully chauvinism and culture blends in your town
How intriguing is your politics, how stinking is its stink,
Orwell was right when he conceived the idea of doublethink.

How about first bringing the revolution
you propose for the landless and the needy
within the precincts of your feudal patriarchal regime?
How about letting your wife vomit the words she has eaten up all her life?

So much for your suffocating talks of ideals and equality,
So much for your sham of decency and morality;
You can fool a thousand others who think like you,
But you cannot fool a million others who will still see through.

So much for what is gone,
So much for what is left.
As the ballots are counted, manipulated, maligned,
I just have this to say:

I don't understand politics, but I was brought up in equality;
As a woman, I am disappointed in the way you live your ideology.
Don't try it on me, your wife you could snub;
But I am made of stronger stuff.

West Bengal socio-politics.

*Bhetki : An expensive freshwater fish popular in West Bengal and Eastern regions of India

Related articles : And I am thrilled

The Good Governance

Remembering Bhagat Singh and Tagore's Tota Kahini

Why the goodies? Do not demean Team India's feat

Cricket and me? Indifferent. The World Cup did wake me up and I did try to infuse some enthusiasm, the 2-3 matches that I saw were fun, but frankly, I do not understand or appreciate the hype that surrounds the 11 men all the year round, year after year.

I read a post in which a friend justifies her indignation when she hears the cynics whisper that the match was fixed. I would like to believe it was not: I was extremely angry the first time such an insinuation reached my ears. We Indians can be classic killjoys at most times.

But here, I wish to discuss how I resent the cartloads full of goodies that the government smothers the cricketers with at the slightest opportunity. I mean, nation's pride, desh ki shaan and all those passion-packed punchlines seem more advertorial-oriented than anything else. I remember getting annoyed and let down when Dhoni and Harbhajan skipped the ceremony at Rashtrapati Bhavan to accept their Padma Shree award around April 2009. I mean Hello??

I am upset for two reasons:

A)Why the largesse in the first place..

We may have a hundred other worthy sports and a hundred other sportsmen who are really good. But we are talking about Padma Shree and Padma Bhushans here, not cookies and candies! Kajol gets one, Madhuri gets one, even Saif gets one. I digress. Cricket, Dhoni and Bhajji: let them stay around for a while, a good two or three decades before conferring such honours!! Their callousness may just go on to show that the men really mean business, such hullabaloo of cash rewards and awards may be actually embarassing, irritating them too for all you know!

B) Talking about World Cup 2011. Team India did a brilliant job. Exactly. They were doing just that, their job. We are happy and proud and we love the men in blue, but the God-like reverence seems inane. It seems very cheap and unfair to other worthy professional sectors of our country: farmers, army, navy, police, healthcare workers, teachers and so on that need immediate attention and bureaucratic commitment to meet decades-old demands for better working conditions, easy loans, higher pays. It seems a fickle government that loses hold of its stoic to announce cash awards to the tune of crores, plots in prime locations the country over and a dozen other such lavish goodies to the cricketers at the flimsiest of opportunity possible.

For me, even the World Cup is a flimsy reason when it comes to crores and crores of "official" impromptu cash rewards. Would I be wrong to say that at least 0.0001% of the tax I pay shall go into their Audis and what not? Big money, luxury stuff for winning a match, rubbish I say. I cannot afford to be lavish with gifts for my own kin. I do not dispute for a second that the men-in-blue made us proud, we are happy and grateful, but are these bounties not taking things a bit too far? I have enough faith in Team India to believe they will play well, perhaps better, without these cheap gimmicks and political pull and push. Dhoni and his men earn crores by the way of commercials, let them. Do not commercialise their hard-earned game on the field.


And last question. Is money the only way to show your appreciation? Has India as a country grown so cheap and materialistic to equate appreciation with cash rewards? How can you announce such extravagant gifts on my behalf, me the tax-payer? Did you consult me? Minute as my stature be as the citizen of this country, I would like to believe my money matters and my opinion counts. How you disappoint me every time. Sorry Mr. Pawar and kin, but this largess stinks. And you, incidentally, also head the agriculture ministry. In this country getting a loan for buying an SUV is easier than getting a loan to buy seeds and fertilizers. How about less pricey onions and easy loans for farmers, Mr. Pawar?


-Gauri Gharpure

April 5, 2011

Gudi Padva wishes

Padvya Cha Hardik Shubhechha*

Happy New Year, here's wishing for a new year that is happier and more promising than what all the preceding years have brought in their totality. Now that's an ambitious wish! But I can wish and hope so much only because God has been giving and because I have faith in his unassuming, mysterious ways.

Hope to upload some photos towards the evening and edit this post. So drop back later if you can.

Wishes!

*Gudi Padva is when Maharashtrians celebrate their New Year.

Edited to add a few hours later:

This is what I made just after posting this.



Ghavlya chi kheer

I made these little vermicelli-like brown bits from dough made from flour and milk. These look somewhat like wheat grains, and so the name "ghavle". Ghav in Marathi and Gujarati means wheat.

Wonder what are those leaves there in the small dish? Neem leaves (Azadirachta indica).. We start our New Year day by eating this bitter leaf. Many people have these neem leaves / juice or paste for the entire month... Been a very strong tradition, and my grandmother offers no other fancy explanation other than "it's supposed to be good for health."

Chief Logan's Lament

A moving piece, worth sharing, worth being re-read and being passed on.

Reference: Edited excerpt, information and complete speech from Chief Logan's Lament, page 30, The American Reader, Words That Moved a Nation, Perennial Publication (2000) edited by Diane Ravitch

Background:

In 1774, there were violent clashes between Indians and whites in the Ohio River valley. Whites were reportedly enraged after a series of robberies assumed to be commited by the Indians and white soldiers wiped off a large number of Indians, including the family of Logan, the chief of the Mingo Indian tribe.

Logan was known as a friend of the whites, but the massacre, and the murder of his entire family at the hands of the whites, prompted him to retaliate. Led by Logan, the Indians went on a rampage, killed several till they were finally defeated by the Virginia militia in October 1774. After defeat, Logan refused to join the other chiefs as a supplicant before the victorious whites. Instead, he sent the following speech to Lord Dunmore, royal governor of Virginia.

Thomas Jefferson included Logan's speech in his Notes on Virginia (1784-85) ... as proof "of the talents of the aboriginals of this country, and particularly of their eloquence."

The speech:

Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one.

I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat: if he ever came cold and naked, and he cloathed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, "Logan is the friend of the white man." I had even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, not even sparing my women and children. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it: I have killed many: I have fully glutted my vengeance: for my country I rejoice at the beams of peace. But do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? - Not one.

Broccoli, etc.

Broccoli, cabbage, carrots, cucumber, slices of raw mango, ginger, lemon grass, lemon leaves, green chillies... Sauted in some butter, pepper powder, a pinch of oregano, thyme, pinch of sugar to bind it all and 2-3 tablespoons of cornflour. Before serving, grate some cheese.

Aaji was irked and did not spare a boiled baby potato for me when I refused to eat the alu paratha she was making. :) Otherwise some potato would have done instead of the starch.

Catfish

A film about identity, and how freaky easy it is to manipulate, fantasize and deny that what we are born with in today's virtual age.

I love Vince's words towards the end of the film. Yes, there are some people in our lives who are like catfish, constantly nibbling us and keeping us on our toes. We need catfish. Then the film makes you think about the confusion that comes between acceptance and wants, between desires and reality, between love and lust. But most of all, as you see the drama unfold, it makes you feel here you are seeing real people, good people. The bottomline, I guess, is that you have a chance to be yourself and be happy with your true self if you choose to be. Catfish (2010) leaves you with a sad, inexplicible doubt about the Facebook generation of which all of us are becoming integral, unwitting participants.

I am not giving the Wiki link as it is a spoiler.

Blogosphere month to write about Child Sexual Abuse

Posting an email that IHM forwarded. Please take up the cause if you have the time and commitment.

Dear Friends,

As we all know and can vouch for, sexual abuse of children is not an isolated instance, in fact I can ( thanks to informal discussions with friends and family) aver that 90 per cent of all of us have in some degree or the other experienced some form of sexual abuse as children.
In most families, the abuser is always someone known to the family or even an immediate family member who has unrestricted access to the family and the child. Very often the child does not say anything to his or her parents, and if the child does muster up the courage to do so, often everything is brushed under the carpet.
I'd like us all, as social commentators, bloggers and parents, to take the initiative to communicate to the world that child abuse is more common than you think and that parents need to be alert and watchful before some warped soul robs their child of their innocence.

I propose a month (April) of posts on the topic of Child Sexual Abuse (Prevention/Signs/Help) across the blogosphere.If you remember, I see this as a similar exercise to the one on Food Allergies and Learning Disabilities we had done a while ago.

All you need to do is post one post (or more if you feel like it) on anything relevant on the topic. It could be a personal experience, or what you do to protect your child, or tips from experts or teaching a child good touch/bad touch, anything you can share. We will have a badge relevant to this topic and all posts participating in this awareness month should carry this badge. We will do a round up of all the posts at the end of each week on a common blog so that the blog is there in perpetuity for anyone to refer to.

I have discussed this informally with most of you, and am delighted to see such an outpouring of support. Those I havent discussed it with yet, but have included in this mail, do let me know if you would be keen to participate. Once I have a final list of participants, we can go about deciding posts, publishing order, etc. Please do feel free to forward this mail to anyone you might feel would be interested in contributing/participating.

Thank you so much for your time and effort in advance. We owe it to our children.

Cheers
Kiran


--
My blogs:
www.thirtysixandcounting.wordpress.com
www.karmickids.blogspot.com
www.indiahelps.blogspot.com
www.kiranmanral.wordpress.com

Learning

Today was a day full of learning. Learning to deal with emotions of people close to you, learning to empathise with emotions of those you have just met. Learning in many different ways.

My calling is such that puts me in touch with people from varied backgrounds. Today, I met three special women. All of them strong in their own special, God-sent ways.

It will take time to digest what I heard at the first meeting. Evening gloom has set in and I wonder what might she be doing now in her dingy room? She would most definitely be in the same pain she walked in when I first saw her...


This is a pessimistic song by the 13th-century poet Amir Khusro. Sad that hundreds of years later, at some point in time, most of us may have had this thought.

Attempting to translate part of the song:

You have done this once, don’t do so the next time;
Don’t make me a daughter again.
What is this fate that each girl gets?
The ones she believes her own turn out strangers instead…
She leaves her father’s abode, her mother’s bosom
To become an innocent bird caught in snares;
Only to be counseled at the top of it all:
“Don’t complain.”
Discarded like a child throws away a new toy after his fancy flies,
Where do we go?
You have done this once, don’t do so the next time,
Don’t make me a daughter again.

If I have the same parents and the same friends, I would like to be born a woman again. May be even if that's not the case. But does she, in her dingy room, think the same?

Translation (C) Gauri Gharpure

Teacher is decisive in class

“I've come to the frightening conclusion that
I am the decisive element in the classroom.
It's my daily mood that makes the weather.

As a teacher, I possess a tremendous power
to make a child's life miserable or joyous.
I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration.
I can humiliate or humor, hurt or heal.

In all situations, it is my response that decides
whether a crisis will be escalated or de-escalated and
a child humanized or de-humanized."

~ Dr. Haim Ginott

My teacher regularly sends me inspirational quotes. Some of these have been extremely providential. They were right in my inbox when I needed them the most, sometimes reassuring me that I was on the right path, sometimes giving me a direction that I was unable to see due to the smog of apprehension.

The above quote was also sent by email. He also asked his students to share how he is in class. So, this post.

Joseph Pinto is a taskmaster. He is the one who insists on moulding us to the best of our capabilities. So demanding was his insistence on precision in editing and writing, that we, most of whom were fresh graduates with nothing but starry dreams about journalism, had a tough time trying to live up to these academic expectations barely a few months in the course.

He did not tolerate vague elongated sentences that stretched basic information worth eight words pulled to 25. We got half a mark straight for IDK (I don't know) and serious flak for beating around the bush in an attempt to fill the answer sheet. The teacher is decisive in class and the teacher cannot be fooled.

Thank you for the support, the guidance and for being the demanding teacher you have always been. We need more such teachers. Teachers like Joseph Pinto who steer the direction of your professional and personal growth by just being themselves, by not mincing words and by not compromising on what they have stood up for. May be, in the time to come, their wisdom will give us the courage to go 'against the tide.'

Wordless Wednesday

Of food and foodies

Basic gravy with fresh rajma beans, two onions, one big potato, four tomatoes, ginger-garlic paste, lots of red chilli, dhaniya and garam masala powder. Lots of coriander. Pressure cook (three whistles or 15 minutes). switch off the gas and let it cool. Then add the spices and salt at the end, simmer again for 5-7 minutes.


Maggie in a tomato, onion and corn gravy.

The unbearable randomness of being

The colours life has shown me in the past one year... From the muddled, matt, stinking colours of grime and grey, from the hopeful light green colours of a new-born leaf, from the vivacious red of a newly-married woman's sindoor, from the promise of the pink and orange of a satisfying sunset, from the bright yellow of laughter, from the white of the blank wall staring me in the face, yes, I have seen it all. White, let's talk about the white of the wall that stared back at me as I lay thinking about nothing and everything all at once. White conceives within it the entire sphere of colours and thus, emotions. As I lay thinking, blaming, hoping, loving and forgetting, that white created a thousand different possibilities that future was to bring for me. And I gave in to the unbearable randomness of being*.

Random. Life is random. When time freezes and you have no hope left, you stare at that blank white wall and cry. And as those tears sparkle in the light of the bulb, as they soil the book you are attempting to read and make the pillow uncomfortably wet, you are shaken back into a mortal existence of money and materialism in spite of all your precious, sacrosanct emotional turmoil. "O, that book cost me Rs. 395!" And "O, I hate sleeping on a soggy pillow". The triviality of such mundane worries that can find precedence in your life even in the time of some profoundly disturbing moments makes you smile. Trivia remind you to take it easy, to go with the flow and keep the faith.

Unforgiving. Life is unforgiving. Your past is etched in iron, it won't change. The person you were shall be, safely frozen in the abyss of time. It's up to you to be the person you want to be. Lock your past and lose the painful key for tomorrow is another day. And tomorrow will be better, tomorrow you will be better. Life is unforgiving for a reason: it wants you to be your best every single waking moment, every single sleeping moment.

Loving. Life is loving. No matter what past did to you and what disasters you inflicted on your past, life still loves you. It calls you ever so softly, ever so warmly, inviting you to live. As I write this, I remember a friend from college who killed self. Jumped into a river after parking his bike by the highway. His body was fished out some days later, all eaten up by fish. If I were to meet him today as a ghost in that rotten body, I would slap him tight. He had no right to go. Life was waiting. Don't go. Even if you think no one loves you (and you are grossly mistaken there if you think so) life loves you. Life is loving, don't go.

Colours. Let's get back to colours. The colours of songs, of lyrics, of those words written by strangers hundreds of miles away just for you. Let's talk about the colours of hope, of wait, of denial and of shy acceptance. Let's talk about everything in between life and death, day and night, you and me. Everything happens for a reason and it is not our business to be Sherlock Holmes to get to the bottom of that reason. Leave reason be, make your own poetry in free verse.

Woman. Let's talk about being a woman, a lover, a mother. What would this world come to if it were not for the feminine? What the world were to be if it were not for our tenacity to soak pain and indifference, digest unfairness and inequality, gulp down chauvinism and abuse with a smile that hides it all? All the violence, sex and massacre- both physical and emotional- would multiply many times over if it were not for those sacrificed women who kept on taking blow after blow for only one reason: their gender and the paramount expectation of strength that comes with their sex.

Today, I am happy. Tomorrow, I shall be so. For I have moved ahead from fantasizing the mushy colours of the rainbow to accept and respect the lovely colours of life. Matt, dull, glossy, vibrant, hopeful, mauve and pink, red and blue, beige and golden- all colours are mine today. I am sinking in the unbearable randomness of being.

-Gauri Gharpure

Title inspired by Alexander McCall Smith's book 'The Unbearable Lightness of Scones'

Carrot herb rolls

I wanted to try these ever since I saw them on Nupur's blog more than a year back. As the link on her blog is not working, I googled and followed this very-nicely-written recipe on Sizzle and Spice.

There are some variations I thought would do well to the recipe. I added one finely chopped capsicum, one roasted tomato, a spoonful of ginger and one finely chopped green chilly. Also, used oregano, thyme and pepper powder in equal proportion instead of using any Pizza masala. Rest all is as given on Sizzle and Spice.

Served this to Baba, I am sure he will get used to home-baked stuffed soon! :)

Playing for Change

Between wrongness and rightness there is a field. I will meet you there.

Rumi

Something Inside So Strong

Thanks Atul, for this.

Something Inside So Strong by Labi Siffre says it all.