doodles........

NRP Sagres

2010-12-18T02:04:00.000-08:00

It was an invitation for the boss, filtered down by editorial discretion and busy schedules to the photographer and me. There may have been a slight departure from the norm, wherein the sibling went along on my pass to see the beautiful Portuguese sail ship, but better sense prevailed. We needed to get the picture captions right.

So I went along in my Raggedy-Ann best, looking fatter than ever in a certain polka dot (not large, I might add) number. We got lost to start with. Not surprising - I was present. No matter, when we finally arrived, there was a certain chill in the air snatched away by the lights picking out the outline of the masts. But the light mist was undeterred by a stealthy wind creeping across the Arabian Sea. Clicks and I paced the length of the three-masted barque on the dock, ignoring our bladders and awaiting the signal to step onto the gangway.

The Consul General of Portugal Antonio Sabida Costa shook hands with the other guests waiting outside and nodded at Clicks. I melted into the tarmac. Best to be unseen for fear they might turn me away on account of shabby dressing. When it was time, the first few guests climbed the gangway and down onto the deck, to be greeted by the commanding officer Luis Pedro Pinto Proenca Mendes and several other important looking people. The Portuguese were perfect hosts, staid and reserved in their crisp white uniforms. The trainee sailors, uncomfortable in their new waiters' roles, weaved through the crowd carrying wine and bites. Clicks and I left the wining and dining for later.

Not many were familiar; they all looked high-society and proper in their starched shirts. The band struck up, softly picking out the soulful melodies on the Portuguese guitar strings while Sonia Shirsat's versatile voice broke through the whispered conversation with melancholy Fado renditions. We positioned ourselves in a spot where no champagne flutes would be tipped and no fancy china would be bumped off the tables. Watching the ambassador's wife sing along, seeing the wistful look to a far-off countryside in her eyes, made me belong in a small way. A very small way. Most of me felt like a sore thumb with bright blue nail-polish. After the guitars were packed away and the good-looking sailors began weaving through the crowd with tasty tid-bits from Portugal, we made our way to the important people. Work beckoned.

Predictably, Clicks did his job well. Predictably, I tagged along like a lost puppy, jotting down names and trying not to get pushed away. When our stomachs decided we'd caught enough in frames, we planted ourselves within reach of the buffet table. That's when we met him. Adrian Melo de Melo. South American-born Portuguese who liked "making funny". Actually, we met his voice first. A deep polite timbre from over the shoulder which suggested we try the bacalhau. Needless to say we pigged out on the tender cod fish. I tried, very hard indeed, to listen to the voice explain trivia about Portugal, but I was more interested in the bacalhau for the moment. Then Adrian lost himself in the crowd.

Just when we were deciding whether to leave or take some more pictures, the voice piped up again. Would we like to see the bridge while we wait for dessert? Yes, we would. We found him clicking away at a computer showing us how the navigation worked, giving us perspectives on how much of the sailboat disappears under water in a storm and how high the waves rear before they crash onto the deck. Dessert was being served when we got back on deck. The pasteis de nata were quite unlike anything I'd ever tasted. They appeared savoury but were incredibly delicious, lightly crunchy on the outside and melt-in-the-mouth soft and sweet on the inside.

Then my bladder sent urgent signals to my brain. I needed a pee spot before a puddle (not made of sea water) appeared on deck. So it was back to Adrian and he took us downstairs to the loo before we got a private tour of the spaces below, spaces most other guests did not get to see. First up came a showcase of ancient navigational instruments that are apparently still used by the greenhorn cadets as part of their training. They were taught to steer their course with the help of the stars and the sun, and find out other important data that would take them safely around the world and me over the edge.

The officers mess, with plush seating and fancy paintings, along with an ancient map of Goa caught my attention. We spent a while there before moving on to the Captain Proenca's office, where Adrian handed us a tiny Sagres tie pin. It was a deep red in the office, and although it appeared a little cramped, it was fancy when you thought of what the ship was actually meant for - training sailors. We were shown into the room where presidents met and treaties had been signed, the long oval wooden table standing testimony to names that made decisions affecting millions... And not everybody gets a chance to have a picture with the ship's captain (unless you're on a cruise, which we were most definitely not!).

I had my first trip into the roaring heat and noise of the engine room and marveled at things that didn't make much sense, but made me thankful for anyway. We spent ages chatting with Adrian, asking him questions about the things he loved, about sailing and travelling. He seemed to love what he was doing, but he dearly loved home too. We were introduced to the man who made the luscious pasteis de nata, made broken conversation with him in French and laughed at how he was fleeced by the local taxi driver.

Adrian told us about Portugal and the Somalian pirates who still prowl the waters. How many of the attacks are never reported and how it still is perilous to be on the high seas. And long after we called it a night and left with a "Muito Obrigado", Adrian's words still rang in my head. "There are three kinds of people in the world - those who are alive, those who are dead and those who are at sea."

We salute all sailors.

Langkawi

2010-07-12T05:17:00.000-07:00

A word of caution to book tickets for our ferry to Langkawi in advance was flung into the hot breeze as we enjoyed our last day in Penang.

We woke up an hour later than usual and had to contend with taking the unbeaten track to Malaysia's spectacular beach destination.

Over-stuffing ourselves with free breakfast at the BnB in Penang, we waddled our way to the ferry station, only to hear the next ride was late that evening.

So we opted for the bus and found ourselves in a rickety unit, not unlike the ones at home, sitting among locals getting to work or returning from school. But it took us from Butterworth to Alor Setar, the capital of the state of Kedah, where we waited at the shelter for a bus heading towards Kuala Perlis. An hour and a half later, the right bus rattled to a stop, picked us up and wound its way to our ferry point.

Heavy-headed from the groaning travel, we endured a 45-minute ferry ride to Pulau Langkawi, the Jewel of Kedah. We spied knob-like islands in the sea as the ferry bumped along the surface of the glassy Indian Ocean and we were greeted by Langkawi's sentinel eagle which stood guard at the entry to the tourist destination .

Our taxi driver knew where to take us, and threw in a free conversation about the sights and sounds of Langkawi. A fierce Malay, the squat man with a keen foot insisted that the island was the best part of Malaysia.

......

This was by far the best hostel as far as value for money goes. Based on trust, you take what you want from the fridge and browse the internet only to add up your own usage and stick it on the front desk. You can cook your own meals, provided you wash up after yourself. Bang opposite the beach and sitting nestled close to brunch spots that served "No American" food, the hostel was our home for three days.

We took a walk to Pantai Cenang that first evening and couldn't stop marvelling at the wonderful blue of the picture postcard ocean. All along the sidewalk towards the beach were stalls selling anything from curios to bikinis, flower-print slippers and bags. It was tourist exploitation at its exorbitant best.

Prawns the size of my fist lay curled up on display platters beside red snapper and some of the largest kingfish I've ever seen as we walked past the numerous shacks, restaurants and pubs juxtaposed with hawkers' stalls on the sidewalk. Five minutes of haggling and we had three pairs of slippers to carry home, all at a "special price".

Another item we got at a special price was beer. At nearly half the price compared to the rest of Malaysia courtesy Langkawi's duty free status, drinking Tiger Beer was no longer a second thought. Hangovers were washed away with a large brunch of beef rendang, nasi lemak and a salty batch of crunchy chicken feet to go on the side.

Hiring our tiny car with Tielke and Anne ensured the road trip around Langkawi was full of chatter and culture quirk swaps. First stop: underwater world. Giant gouramis floated by with grotesque smiles, silent spectators behind protective glass panels to our gawping mugs. Space-age jellyfish glowing neon in the dim lights propelled themselves around their cubic world while sea-horses darted under ocean vegetation to shield themselves from the prying eyes of curious visitors.

Back into the blazing sun, the air-con was turned all the way up as the car wound its way to the cable car and bridge that would give us a glimpse of Thailand. But it was the curse of the holiday horror when we saw the signboard that read: Cable car - Under maintenance for two days. Inconvenience regretted. Bah... something had to go wrong on this trip, and we'd flown across the seas to see this. This was the sight that brought upon the split-second decision to visit Malaysia.

Cursing, we stomped our way up the stairs to the Seven Wells or Telaga Tujuh Waterfalls, where a gushing stream tumbled over stoic boulders to collect in rocky pools, overflowed into a new waterfall and new pool over and over again. At the handicrafts bazaar on the way back, knick-knacks made of bamboo, wood and coconut shells filled up empty corners in backpacks, small reminders of our visit and little gifts for friends and family.

Hungover from the beer at 8 the next morning, we dragged ourselves to Pantai Tenggah right in time to hop into the speed boat as it lifted its prow clear of the water. With wind in my hair and water everywhere else we meandered through the smattering of rainforest islands reminiscent of those flying mountains in the movie Avatar only these were in the sea, making one stop at Pregnant Lady island (it really does look like a pregnant woman lying down) and then heading on the Geopark.

I have no words to describe how absolutely awesome it is to swim in the middle of a volcanic lake. The warm water slips away into a bottomless depth, a swimming blackness that is both slightly frightening and exciting at the same time. It stretches hundreds of metres to the other shore at the base of the wall of rock that rears straight up into the sky and stops just short of eternity.

We left fellow tourists still swimming and playing in its pristine waters to walk the narrow bamboo path back to the jetty, tip-toeing past the bands of ravenous, mischievous monkeys munching stolen Snickers' bars.

Colourful fish bounced sunlight off the backs when breaking the surface at the island beach we visited on our last stop. The sea was cool and very clear, and the white hot sand made children skip into patches of shade from the trees where their parents sat on gnarled roots with the picnic bags.

We spent our last few hours in Langkawi on the shores of Pantai Tenggah, wading in the shallows under the heat of the afternoon sun before we paid our bill and said our good-byes.

The ferry would take us back to the mainland, from where we caught our "supercool" bus to spend Vikas' birthday in Kuala Lumpur.

Penang

2010-02-22T05:28:00.001-08:00

It didn't take long to figure out that night trains between KL Sentral and Butterworth, Penang, were not very popular. There were all of nine people in our coach, five making up a group of giggly schoolgirls on a day trip to the Malaysian capital.

From 34C outside, our bodies struggled to cope with the freezing 16C in the train as it chugged along the coast, lights ablaze and air-con whirring.

I was desperate to find a tandas as soon as we got off, so had to use the ferry toilet as it crossed from the mainland to Georgetown. Bladder relieved, we picked our way to the first hotel we stayed in out of India.

...

Georgetown is a wonderful mix of culture - Chinese, Malays and Indians living shoulder-to-shoulder in a mass of buildings that trace the city's history as a trading base for the British and later as a waterfront commercial and financial hub.

On our first day, we just walked around the little streets, getting used to trudging in the sun as the humidity hung heavily. Georgetown rightfully holds its UNESCO World Heritage Site title, with architectural samples preserved in the colonial splendour of the Eastern and Oriental Hotel, the Islamic Museum and Leong San Tong Khoo Kongsi (the Khoo clan-house).

...

Penang revolves around its food - there are stalls everywhere, sending delicious aromas of simmering duck, beef and seafood wafting up to your delighted senses. You slump down on a plastic chair at one of the many tables, thankful for the shade of the large tent just a furlong from the jetty. Now how do you pick your supper?

I have a simple formula for food. First is the price - if it's within your budget, take your pick. After that, I just point to what looks good and say "May I have that please?" Works wonders everytime.

Penang puts on a food show quite unlike anything I've seen. And this is not for the tourists. It's part of everyday life. People walk in, wave to those they know, find their flavour for the day and wash it down with Guinness and Tiger. Perfect. We were part of their lives for three days, cheering on football teams and wolfing down satays until our prawn mee, laksa or thai rice came along, and then alternating between craning our necks to watch the game and struggling with the chopsticks to gobble our food.

Later, we'd saunter down China town, stopping at the food stalls (again!) to see what was cooking, digesting what we'd already eaten and stocking up again. It was a gastronomical adventure at sickening levels. Two things I wished I'd eaten again before leaving was the peanut ball dusted in sesame seeds and the square pork snack. Awesomeness in batter.

There were strange multi-coloured momos steaming on bamboo-leaf stoves, one bite sending a blast of seafood tastes across your mouth and filling it with soft meat and subtle juices. But the fist-sized white bun stuffed with pork didn't quite catch my fancy. It tasted like someone had forgotten to salt the dough, while the stuffing had an odd kept-in-the-cupboard taste. Perhaps I'd picked one that had been in the larder for a while!

...

With all the food swimming in your belly, there's nothing like some good sight-seeing on foot to finish it off. Pouring sweat in the humid heat, we took in the sights and sounds - the red and gold Chinese temples, quiet Burmese ones with giant reclining Buddhas and majestic Thai spaces.

Penang Hill gives you the best view ever of Georgetown, and when the sun goes down, you find the lights twinkling across the port city and find yourself in a wonderland. It's worth braving the skewed electric train up the steepest hill you've seen. On the way back, don't forget to hope for a Chinese New Year celebration at the Kek Lok Si temple.

Lady Luck was with us that day as we joined in the celebrations with a thousand lights turned on simultaenously, the sky lighting up with fireworks at dusk with the giant Buddha looking on from a distance.

The Temple of Supreme Bliss truly puts a visitor in thrall as the Buddhas peek out from every corner of the Pagoda of 10,000 Buddhas - the main pagoda of the site.

They seem to follow you as you make your way across the state of Penang to Balik Pulau, guiding you to find the beauty of Malaysia. Batik cloths and open fields mark this little town as does its very own kind of laksa and the carts selling the creamy, but odd-smelling durian.

Staring out over GeorgeTown from the balcony of our cozy hotel, we sipped our last Tiger beer in Penang, watching the stars tease us into considering another night's stay.

But our time was up and we had places to go and things to do, more importantly catching the ferry to Langkawi at the crack of dawn.

Day 1 in KL

2010-02-16T23:02:00.000-08:00

It was a blast of hot air and the most massive airport I've seen. Kuala Lumpur's Low Cost Carrier Terminal was expansive, steamy and clinically organised.

We took the free ride to the railway station. When you're travelling on a tight budget, you'll take anything that's free. You could tell they were palms as we landed, but up close you realise just how different they are from coconut trees. They cover the wide stretches between the airport and the city centre, filling up every space with large pokey green leaves.

My first taste of Malaysia had to be the national dish - nasi lemak. Of course we were conned into taking the 'set meal' which also included a drink that promised an immediate brain-freeze (all drinks in the country are like so). The creamy coconut rice softened the sharp spice of the tender beef rendang, while the peanuts and dried anchovies were - to me - an unexpected, but nice combination with the whole meal. I finished it off with two slices of cucumber. Can't forget the veggies!

Jonathan decided to have mee udang, and it was one of the best choices he's ever made. Prawns hiding among the noodles in a tangy hot sauce... yum. Unfortunately, Vikas kick-started his vacation with a soupy mixture that set his ass on fire, while his brain whirled trying to find out what he was eating. I could have sworn one of the bits in there was a windpipe!

A journey 'Scotland' in India

2009-11-27T03:12:00.000-08:00

For most of the journey I slept. It was either drift away or chuck up, so I drifted.... into bouts of fitful sleep where I constantly dreamt of falling off the edge of the world.

The closer we got to destination Coorg, the more relieved I felt. Motion-sickness had pretty much evaded me following a year of bus journeys not less than an hour long, cramped amidst kind (but mostly non-deodorant wearing) villagers. But for some reason it reared its ugly head on this trip.
Winding roads and twisted trees, lack of oxygen (or so I felt) and the smell of air-conditioning didn't make the situation any better, so I stuck my head to the seat and forced myself to sleep.

I nearly screamed and threw up simultaneously when told the coffee estate was another 40kms further than we'd thought. Prepared to kill, my hands clutched the sides of the seat and the car wound its way up the hill until we were lost in the clouds.

...

Three kilometres up a stone track in a jeep devoid of suspension, I looked at one pair of eyes obviously sick of the journey and another suspiciously silent and hidden behind sunglasses. The third pair alternated between the rough road and the cigarette butt. Fuming and procrastinating, I was probably vocalising what everyone else felt but politely chose not to say - screw this journey and screw the roads in slightly more explicit terms.

The cottages were bare, shorn of luxuries in the most literal sense of the word. I could already imagine rats and snakes crawling through the chinks in the wood. But I wasn't worried about that. Thanks to Mr Sinus, someone would be up all night looking like she was being asphyxiated. It obviously wasn't the brightest idea to sleep in a log structure of sorts with wildlife creeping in and you creeping out every time you felt like a leak. Heaven only knew where the loos were.

...

I was happier on the journey going back than I was getting to Coorg. Not because I hated the place, but because I enjoyed it. We slept in a four-bed room with attached bath (hot water and all), spent the night in the balcony feasting on Coorgi-style pork, chicken, pakoras and KF. The trek was one I enjoyed after ages, despite the invasion of leeches, some of which - don't ask how - got up my shorts and stuck to my thigh. Blech.

We saw our first white elephant in the far distance...

It rained and poured, I got drenched and couldn't breathe, my struggling respiratory system echoing across the room and ensuring it was a topic of conversation the next day. Huh
Our home for the weekend was nestled in a valley full of coffee plants and the clouds could be seen suspended mid-way between heaven and earth.
We ate "home-cooked" meals, drank lots of strong coffee, played 'guess the nationality of the new guest' and forgot we lived and toiled in a dusty city a hundred miles away...

I've never been to Scotland, so I'm not sure why it's called the Scotland of India, but Coorg estates are some of the nicest places to spend a holiday. Just don't drive there. Bring your chopper.

The miraculous making of a conditional cook

2009-08-24T02:15:00.000-07:00

Ever since I've been thrown far far away from home on work, it's been taken for granted that I'd learn to look after myself. Part of that has happened, part still taking place. Even in college, there were people you had to learn to like, others who forced you not to like them and those who made your life living hell even though you wouldn't like to admit it.

But apart from all the humdrum of making life a life, something just doesn't fit. I've actually had to get down and dirty in the kitchen (take a check on those filthy minds, people) and cook my own meals.

At home with the omnipresent mother, there's never a chance that you'd get into the kitchen, whether she asks you to or not. At college, you have to put up with the hostel food and you aren't allowed into the kitchen, whether you like it or not. In your own tiny rented heap-of-clothes-and-beer-bottles-away-from-home you have to spoon your own food into your mouth whether it tastes like food or not.

Roommates have given up charity cooking for one reason or other. For whatever reason, I've put on the apron and got down to work. Logically since my grandmother is the world's best cook, my mum and aunts coming in a close second and the sibling a distant third (though he would think otherwise) I would have turned into an amazing cook among the likes of Jamie (at home or elsewhere), Curtis and probably Nigella.

But as fate would have it, I've inherited half my father's cooking gene. He makes breakfast i.e. eggs - scrambled, bulls-eye, omelette, boiled. He also makes rice, curry, fish and fries better than McDonald's. And that's about it. As for me, I make noodles - cup, Maggi, Top Ramon with cheese, tomato, peas, capsicum and maybe some potato. Note to reader: Quit making gagging noises. But, I have also devised other ways of surviving on one stop shop consumerism. Bingo Mad Angles, Twix, the odd Bounty, salted cashew nuts and cheese.

I've actually been on the lookout for Nature Valley bars for the past year and cheese nachos for a few months. They seem to be off the shelves. Cookies of any sort are good, as long as they've got bits of chocolate in them. Pringles are for when I'm feeling rich or slim, either of which is rare. Although I have only recently discovered the "joys" of working behind an apron, good food is rare to come by.

I ate some chicken at a restaurant some time ago and slumped into slurpy reminiscence of mother's thick steaks and beef burger patties, cold chicken salad, chick peas and Aunty Lee's spinach and corn quiche and stuffed squid. Scrumptious. In sympathy of your deprivation, I will kindly leave out Nan's bakes, Aunty Rachel's awesome chocolate gateaux and light eclairs and finger-licking dishes made by my mother's other sisters. Note to reader: She has six.

To my undeserved credit, I have managed a prawn and fish curry, thrown together a fish macaroni and cheese bake, a miraculously unscathed vegetable and prawn pulao, a hardly-get-it-right parsi style fish curry and a few veggies the recipes of which I conjure up on my own. After all, it's my own to eat.

Oh MOTHER! Where art thou?

To those who "were there"

2009-08-04T03:02:00.000-07:00

I want to thank you
Very sincerely
For showing me the kind of friend
I would not like to have
And more so, not like to be

You leave an unexpected brokenness
That only fools will dwell on
Perhaps I was finished with you
Before we even started
You're not even worth the pain

But haven't you realised?
You've caused a lifetime of damage
To someone who believes in close friendships
You are the thorn permanently stuck in flesh
That is bleeding the hurt away

Fly foul memory, away for eternity
Rest not on white hearts blinded by the ideal friendship
Take with you the thick palor of hopelessness
Take your pent-up, ghastly frustration
And vent it out on me.

%$#@&

2009-07-20T05:08:00.000-07:00

I never expected it. Who hasn't had a fever and felt they were going to die, but not surprisingly, never really got there?

There had been a similar situation when I was 12. I thought I was going to die before my 13th birthday, or in all probability, on it. Nothing I'd eat stayed in. When my friends came to see me, I thought it might be the last time I saw them. I think I was laughed at when I voiced my concerns. Thankfully, I lived and learnt that it was "simply" a bad case of viral tummy infection.

This time it was worse. I was freezing, but it might have been the air-con. That really didn't explain the incontrollable rigeurs, splitting headache and weeping eyes. I don't like to cry in company, so every time someone looked at me quizzically I had to say "bad cold, watery eyes".

It went on for a couple of days after which I was admitted to the hospital. This was the most insane decision I thought my friend had made. I instantly felt fine as soon as the "admitted" word was mouthed. Slight fever, may be, but nothing a popped pill wouldn't help.

Still, it turned out to be my worst nightmare. I kept my friend awake for most of the night, screaming obscenities at no-one in particular and hospitals in general. I took about 5-6 jabs that night and they must have stolen a litre of my blood. Oh the pain, the agony! One of the jabs I bravely bore, silently, was administered "as a test", to see my reaction to the anti-biotics. I should have screamed my lungs out.

Two days later my left hand had mutated to accommodate a bucket of fluid just beyond my thumb. Bloody drips. It didn't stop there, no. They just squeezed, yes, squeezed out half my blood and shoved another needle into the other hand. The audacity of medical operations.

My mother finally arrived four days into my hospital stay. By then I was bored to death and the only words that came out of my mouth were: "I'm fine. I want to go home." No one listened.

Mum mainly cooked and told me what to do - how out-of-shape my house was, how she couldn't imagine the pig sty we lived in was actually something we lived in. She talked about recipes and what to cook, how to stay healthy and what to drink. The usual stuff mothers talked about.

Maybe it was mum's luck. After days of sucking on my blood for purely (so I would like to believe) sadistic purposes, they finally told me I had typhoid. Fine. So let me get over and done with it. I spent hours roaming the hospital corridors in the hope that the nurses would observe my perfectly healthy condition and kick me out without second thought. But they left me jailed for the rest of the week.

I was so happy to breathe fresh, clean, non-disinfected air. Aaahh. Wonderful. I'm never going back to hospital again. That's for sick people. I hadn't been there since I was born and I can't believe I went there and came out alive.

Anyway, for the record. My friend, constantly the victim of my discontented whining, thank you for braving the gross violation of conduct on my part and still staying my friend. Thanks (and no thanks) for the ride to the hospital in the middle of the night.

Everyone who visited me, brought food and kept me company (whether I was awake or not!): thanks a million. Much appreciated.

Doctors, nurses and staff of the hospital: How could you???? But well, I owe you.

Canteen: Gosh you suck.

Miss Neat

2009-06-11T04:11:00.001-07:00

She's impeccably neat. Obssessively-compulsively neat with herself. I really couldn't say much for her home or work-station as I have been to neither.

But she passes by like a porcelain doll on stilts, placing one foot ahead of the other in an accurately-calculated step, down to the last fraction of an inch. Everything will be in place - her hair, make-up, necklace, earrings. I feel awfully uncomfortable in her presence.

She is hardly ever around, just passes by in a stately aura with a trail of not-so-neat almost adoring friends following closely behind. But you know when she passes. The air is broken with the friction between obssessively impeccable and incorrigeably untidy. There's a slight click-click on the tiles and Miss Neat floats by, swishing her hips carefully eyed by 20-odd pairs of male eyes full of hope and an equal number of female eyes full of perceived disdain.

I've had more than one opportunity (I'm not sure whether it classifies as one) of being in the women's rest-room when she walked in. They are usually quiet entries, where she sneaks up on you. Perhaps she does not want to be noticed for not having her make-up on right. But she doesn't know it's fine - exactly the same way it was when she arrived at work in the morning.

She will proceed to comb her hair that has already been combed, pull it through into a pony-tail or curl it into place. Her manicured hands and shapely nails will pull the zipper of her clean (disinfected?) handbag to rummage neatly - if one can do that according to the laws of life - through its contents and retrieve a lipstick. It's really not needed, but it seems like a ritual now.

Carefully, with deft hands and keen eyes decorated with mascara, she outlines her mouth and purses her lips for effect. I am way passed my comfort zone and really, don't see me as a stalker or confused heterosexual. No, this is not attraction. It is wonder, amusement, repulsion and awe all rolled up in one.

I sometimes have the urge to shake her like a rag doll to stop her from being so perfectly "Barbie"-like. But then I stop myself. She just might break.

Coffee break at work when it's raining outside

2009-06-05T07:09:00.000-07:00

You sit on the steel chair lost in a large room full of others just like them, nursing a cup of free coffee. The deep smell wafts into your nostrils as you lose yourself in a maze of time, watching the rain drops fall in a movie-like fashion - slow and meaningful - outside the glass windows.

It's that time of contemplation, dreaming, hoping and pining. Your coffee break at work when it's raining outside. You realise you're hungry only on some occasions like these. Other times, you just sit alone and ignore time passing away. The atmosphere is so meditative when the clouds burst. Rain falling like a sheet against reality, screening you from what you wish to hide. You wonder about silly things. At least I do! - How big is a raindrop to grasshoppers? Do ants drown in the flood of a puddle? What would it be like if I was that small? Stupid existential questions of what ifs and how sos.

It still isn't nice having to go back inside when it's pouring outside. So you struggle to rise and help yourself to another thermacol cup, unmindful of the damage to the environment, arguing with your own mind that you deserve another shot of diluted caffeine. You slump back in your chair and revert to the comfortable vacuum of bored expression. Doodles on the table-top and eavesdropped conversations are such time-consuming and interesting passtimes.

You decipher gossip from the table nearby and feel good about your wonderful ability to understand the complexities of an unknown relationship just by listening to a stream of bitchy words. If someone you know passes by, you smile vacantly and get back to listening to the conversation, uninvited. It is still raining outside.

Alternatively, if you are the chatty sociable sort, you will still be in the cafeteria only this time with friends or colleagues. The conversation will be among yourselves and the bored loner seated at the table near you will be patting his back as you regurgitate gossip. You still spend hours at the table, eat the over-priced food, drink the free coffee, be anti-institutional and plan for the weekend.

Finally, whichever sort you are, you decide it's time to go. There's work a-pending and a boss to satisfy. You stand, stretch (as inconspicuously as you can), drag your feet to the office and give the world outside a last parting glance. It has stopped raining outside.

ZZZZzzzzzzz....

2009-04-03T00:04:00.000-07:00

Bliss. Quiet oblivion. Unknowingness, fuzzy images (sometimes) surrounded by darkness. A curtain away from reality.

I try to fight the shadow, swim back to consciousness, reaching for the veil to pull away the darkness and see my window.

Tiny slits open. A flash of light, and grills, very conspicuous in my frame of vision. Steady breaths get steadier, slow with the rise and fall of my chest. I sink back into the darkness.

How long has it been? Half an hour, an hour, ten minutes? It feels like seconds...

I reach out again. A watch appears in my head, numbers and a voice, my voice saying "Nine. Work at nine."

Now I can imagine where things are... I see the window, the cupboard, the clothes. Though they have no clear outlines, I ready myself for the familiar.

With a great amount of energy and an equal measure of will power, I force my body to sit up. My head follows suit.

Hair obscures vision. I draw my hand mechanically, like the driver of a machine, wipe the hair from my face and let it fall lifeless. I lean against the wall and sleep again.

I jolt awake. I've had a dream, but that is not the reason for my wakefulness. Strangely, I am alert. My body is mine again and my head connected with it.

Refreshed, I stand, steady myself from the slight spinning. Then down a glass of water and I'm off to the loo to pee.

If I just had the time...

To me

2009-04-02T00:59:00.000-07:00

I know it's seems odd and not possible, but somehow I have the word 'journalist' written on my job profile.

As part of my job, as is with every journalist especially the arm-chair sort, there's not a day that goes by without calls. The constant introductions every five minutes, the repeating of names (like mine or Sholin or Jolandra or Balakrishnaprasad Subramania Kumaran Harisundar Chattopadhyaya, without insult to anyone or any community) over phoneline static, the interpretation of Hindi-, Bengali-, Konkani-, Kannada-flavoured English.

It was going great yesterday. Everyone decided to speak to me, although most times the conversation ended with: "I don't know much about this. Please contact Mr/Ms X, who will be in a better position to answer your query." I finally got the elusive Ms X and rang her up.

(Heavy traffic sounds. Honking)

D: Hello, may I speak to Ms X please?

X: Yes, speaking.

D: I am Dielle D'Souza calling from the P... A....

X: Who??

D: (very slowly, trying to be very clear) Dielle D'Souza from the P... A...

X: Yea? ok?

D: I'm doing a story on dolphins and I wanted your help. I spoke to Mr S and he told me you work with dolphins. (bla bla bla)

X: Yes, I do, but who did you say you are again?

D: I'm Dielle D'Souza from the P... A...

X: Is this a joke?

D: (to self) What?? Would I call sources to chat them up just for the heck of it? Waste money and time? Introduce myself to random strangers who will almost never get my name... and screw opportunities for developing a source like I did the other day?

D: (in conversation) No, this is not a joke. I'm sorry to disturb you but I'm doing a story on dolphins and was told you work with them.

X: This is an April Fool's joke isn't it? (laughing) Who's this?

D: (almost cracking up) No, this is not a joke. I'm really doing a story and I need your help.

X: (between bouts of laughter) I'm sure this is a joke...

D: No Ms X, it's not. (watching everyone around crack up incontrollably and finding it very hard not to laugh)

X: Listen (laughter), could you call me back at 8 o'clock please?

D: I really need your help. Will you be able to speak to me then? (to self: and not think it's an idiotic friend on an April Fool's loose-end)

X: Yes yes. Call me at 8.

D: All right then. Thank you.

(Puts phone down. Bursts out laughing)

Call at 8:05pm unanswered. Story up with someone else's two-line quote.

Happy April Fool's Day.............. to me!

Note: This post was not meant to hurt the feelings of anyone/any community. If anyone/any community does feel insulted, I apologise profusely.

Happy April Fool's Day to U

2009-04-01T02:36:00.000-07:00

Oh yea... April Fools Day. I've never really been made a fool of (intentionally, on this day.. otherwise.... yea!). I can't remember fooling anyone, except mandatorily my mom, other than someone we'll call U.

It was a pretty stupid thing but U got fooled anyway. It was over the phone of all things and U was completely baffled. U had called earlier and I pretended I couldn't hear. When U called again, I pretended like it was the first time U had called that day. U thought the first call had been placed to someone else and U had said things like "idiot" and "stupid" when saying "I can hear you". The only other person registered under 'D' on the mobile phone was probably Dean of the University.

Now, U wouldn't want things like that, would U? The call lasted about 10 minutes, seven of which consisted of "But I'm sure I called you. Who else could I have called? I know I heard your voice and you said you couldn't hear me" and "No... there's no one else at home and this is the first time this phone's rung all day. I was studying near the phone and if I didn't hear the phone, it means it didn't ring. Think logically, will you?"

Thoroughly confused, U put the phone down. I let it lie for a while because I knew U would spend most of the time wondering what just happened.

Surely, when I called again after about half an hour, U was still confused. I asked U about the problem in chapter 5 and U said it was left out.

I put the phone down, but not before saying "Happy April Fool's Day".

U pelted stones at me the next day.

Happy April Fool's Day to U!

I live for vacations

2009-04-01T02:03:00.000-07:00

I really do live for vacations. It's the thought that I'll eventually be off again that keeps me going in the first place. Not the hope that I'll be first on the team, or that I'll get a salary hike next month (well, maybe that too!).

How far along can you go without a break? And I'm not counting weekends here. Those are the breaths of fresh air mandatory for your survival in this wicked work world, where you break through the surface at the end of every week to grab the life-giver.

Cynically, weekends are the days you're given off to recuperate so you can work the next week to the "best of your capacity". Don't for a second think they're actually wishing you a good weekend when Friday comes round the corner.

Weekends or week-offs (if you're one of those unfortunate souls who slog a six-day week) are the days unofficially assigned to you to finish your laundry pile-up, pay your bills, explain your late nights to your landlord, and cook for the rest of the next seven days. That's the only time you work for yourself. The days when you're the boss, not counting the landlord of course, and the state of your house clearly tells how much of a boss you are.

Too bad for those several years and a couple of kids into a marriage, where wifey dear is undoubtedly boss of home and hearth. For those, like me, sworn to a life away from home with room mates and flatmates, landlords and neighbours, it's the tussle to keep everyone happy including yourself, the hope that you'll make it through the week without a complaint that you left the gate open and the dogs came in, or the pulling of lots and unspoken authority on who should clean the dismembered rat lying outside your front door.

I've seen shared houses where logs on the wall spell out chores for the week down to who pays for the milk on which days. Horrible stories of money-hungry roomies and landlords who stake out lobbies and kitchens reminding you day after day that you owe something to someone. Worse, stories of how roomies are tricked into paying for another's bed and breakfast.

Strangely enough, it's an interesting world. One that you can get tired of easily, hate all-at-once, but never really escape. I suppose it's the human obsession with the fact that one must belong - to a family, to friends, lovers, spouses, God, past, present or future. It would be so easy to just float into oblivion. But then, would you belong to oblivion?

As I said, I belong to vacations. It's the closest to oblivion for me. I can leave the dirt of office politics and forced ethics behind and get to a time that I designed. No work, no laundry, no schedules, no tempered expressions.

Just me.

Marriage plans

2009-03-23T02:32:00.000-07:00

Knew that would generate interest and lead you here. Now that I've turned you into the Sucker For Today, you can read on....

Loads of people seem to be getting hitched these days. Rather bad time for an investment, don't you think? Sure it seems like you're saving money by sharing costs, but if you look at it really carefully it's not much more than cohabiting. With the damned strings attached.

Poor losers... anyway, my father has long treasured his Asterix collection and he's said he'll place them into my jealous hands as my "dowry".

The wheels are turning and if I am to get that collection before long, I'd either have to swindle my father out of it or get married.

Now pops is not one for getting swindled so there goes my option. The easiest way out is to catch some sucker, get hitched and ditched. That way, I'll have the Asterix collection, alimony and no tag-along.

Yes I know I can buy them all for myself. But the whole point of them being a collection 'inherited' with all the stains and memories just gets wiped away. I won't see that patch of oil on the corner of the book when I indulged in the forbidden activity of eating while reading.

The little bug that was mercilessly murdered as we slammed the book shut and squished around where we thought he might be... Later we'd open the book to see the splatter of the 'enemy'.

And the page I ripped in half as I fought with J over who ought to read the book and the face I had to look at when my father found out...

"The Magic Carpet" which has literally travelled across oceans and is hopefully now in Melbourne, and will stay there till I hop on a plane to go get it back...

The yellowed pages of hilarious creativity and friends we'd wished were real...

The little notes on the front page:
"Darling Dominic,
Happy birthday!
Love always,
Marise
13 March 1983"...

Or maybe my dad will get fed-up of waiting and sick of my consistent whining that he'll dump them on me one day... (hope!)

"These women are crazy"

It happened to me

2009-01-25T04:04:00.000-08:00

There'll always be old faithful, whichever way you look at it. Book, movie, place, car, friend and your old shorts. It's your comfort zone. But, sometimes you just have to give them up.

I'd had a good swim and we were deliberating an idli-sambar breakfast. It was the end of the month and liquidity was nil. Even a packet of peanuts was a 'Do-I-really-need-it' situation. We got stuck at a traffic signal. A bus stopped alongside and I reached into the pockets of old faithful (not-so-deep, cottony, familiar) to see how much money I had. A coin fell out.

It was only a buck, but in this hour of financial crisis, it could mean the difference between breakfast and tummy-grumbling hungry. Should I have left it there for a beggar? Let it go since I'm an earning member of my family? But wait, that's the point. The sweat and blood that went into that Re 1 was my story. Ok, so I sub stories for a living. Yet, it's still my money and I wasn't going to leave it at a traffic light.

I hopped off the bike. There were only a couple of seconds before the light changed and I didn't want to be the reason a trail of children arrived late to school. Quick as lightning I scooped up the coin and hopped back on. There came a heart-rending scream, stomach-churning sound, a heart-stopping moment. Old faithful had given way. She couldn't take my selfish jumping about anymore.

So she left me sitting on the bike with a rip through her vital organs (the largest rip you've ever seen), the peeking of bright blue and shame-faced embarrassment from the beggars' curse. I couldn't get idli-sambar for breakfast that day. Horror!

Chandni Chowk to China

2009-01-17T06:57:00.000-08:00

Really, what the hell was I thinking?

We thought we'd go for Slumdog Millionaire, but when we realised the movie hadn't released at the theatre near us, we should have just had dinner and come home. But, no. We decided we had to do something on a Friday night and ended up whacking our heads in frustration over one of the most awful movies known to mankind - Chandni Chowk to China.

True I'm a new addition to the movie-watching club. True I don't know art from fart. True I have no idea how to critically assess the essence of technical virtuosity of bla di da in visual effects. But I sure as hell know this is not a movie to watch.

It's a movie that goes from nowhere to everywhere. A reincarnation of the great Chinese warrior Liu Sheng is born as a vegetable cutter with a Mangal Pandey handlebar mustache - a man who only knows how to cut potatoes, but loves Luck so much she decides to give him a miss everytime. Until he's cheated by a fake soothsayer called Chopstick (what???) and shipped to China. Among all the mish mash appears a perpetually weepy heroine who cries even when she's happy. For that matter, there's a lot more crying in this movie and it's not just from the audience who have by now wished they'd strangled the director. EVERYONE cries. And it's supposed to be a funny movie. Whatever happened to comedy?

The songs are terribly unbearable. Lyrics unworthy of nursery rhymes and seasoned actors 'acting' like they are drama school rejects. Some poor soul decides to get himself killed to take the script forward and incite the potato-cutter to learn Shaolin kung-fu in revenge. So eventually, the vicious skilled Chinese kung-fu villain is defeated by a vegetable chopper from Chandni Chowk. And so the story goes on to the happy ending of reuniting part-Chinese identical twins with their Chinese father who knows kung-fu and the subsequent opening of a Dehli-ishtyle food cart right near the Great Wall. Chop chop.

Any saving grace? Hell, no. Even the crowd in the cinema hall consisted of college-going adolescent boys complete with dry comments and gelled hair. Now, where's my lawyer?

Shanti in paradise

2009-01-12T23:32:00.000-08:00

Hi,

I was sat down and told there was something urgent to be talked about, that it couldn't be left for later, that it all began because of me, and the final decision was mine. The next day I was whisked off to paradise by a group of friends.
We drove the 5 hours to Gokarna, stopping only for breakfast at a little roadside restaurant to have idlis and sambar with septuagenarians after their morning walk. I missed the country music, but it was well made up for by metal and trance to keep the spirits going.
You really must stop when you're on the hill before Gokarna. The 'om' of the beach is quite clearly visible and you certainly feel you're a million miles from nowhere on the empty road. You know that feeling when you're about get some place with the anticipation of a good time, don't you? Well, that was exactly it.
We stayed in one of the many mud houses and shanties that dot the beach. The owners rent out more willingly to firangs than to locals, but speaking politely in sufficiently unaccented Indian English should do the trick. There's not much to offer on the menu other than humus, eggs and pasta, but you don't need much apart from a cold beer and a sandwich.
The sand was lovely to touch and the water a perfect 'swimming' temperature. The gentle waves grew in strength with the rise of the tide and I could hear them thunder all night long. Remember the time at Palolem when we were in class 5? The thatched hut, the cold night breeze, the smell of salt and perfect peace? It was a trip to the past and I wished you were with me, so I could share the wonderful solitude with you.
The great part about Gokarna is the three beaches connected and paradoxically separated by hills. We trekked around them to get to Half-moon beach and then to Paradise beach. I spotted dolphins and then the cheer went up as the others realised they weren't just a figment of my imagination. From way up, I watched mum reprimand a playful youngster as he swam dangerously close to the rocks. I know you'd have wanted to just jump into that clear blue water and romp around with them. I did too. It was sparkling with the sun at the farthest horizon you can imagine. I was stopped short by the sheer beauty of earth meets water meets sky. Mesmerising.
It's a hippie paradise, just the sort you like. Freedom to wear what you like, do what you like, eat what you like. Those Rajasthani lamps you thought would look great in your dream house twinkle all over the place. In the night, the sky is clear and you can find Orion and the dippers (at least what I thought were the dippers!) without much difficulty. It touched full moon when we were there. Lucky us!
I spent a lot of time alone, thinking of you, missing you and feeling close to God. You've read my post on Him painting the sky, haven't you? It's quite the same emotion. I walked on the beach, felt the sand sift through my toes, sat on a warm comforting rock and looked for shells the way you used to.
My friends gave me a wonderful birthday gift and I'm really thankful for that. I had a great time and want to go back there soon.
I know you're just the same as when I left you - confident, responsible and free. Me and my self rolled up in one.

Keep in touch
Love,
Me

PS: The next time I go there, you're definitely coming along. :)

The carnivores

2008-12-29T08:30:00.000-08:00

Dad took me to the meat market for a bit of Christmas shopping. We headed past the fish vendors and stopped at the stall selling mutton.

There were three headless carcasses hanging from their hooks, cleaned and ready for the pot. Dad pointed out the piece he wanted and explained how I ought to buy meat. “Look for this… This is how it shouldn’t be… If it’s this colour, the meat is old,” bla bla bla. While the man chopped up our meat into the size required, my eyes roved around. I couldn’t see too far over the counter without my head touching the meat, so I peered as much as I could. I saw three goats squashed in a corner, waiting to be slaughtered. They looked frightened, and I’m still glad we didn’t buy any of them. One of the two men in the stall was cleaning a fresh carcass. I couldn’t see the carcass, but I tried identifying what he was cleaning. It looked to me like the intestines were being washed and what came out of it wasn’t a very pretty sight.

They were chatting animatedly, the two men behind the counter - one chopping meat, the other cleaning the carcass. I turned to my right. Two goat heads stared at me mid-air. I looked to my left. There on the floor outside the next stall were three heads. The unseeing eyes stared right back, their bodies now on a hook or on someone’s plate. “They eat everything,” dad had said, when I asked about the intestines.

What about the men who killed for a living? How did it feel? Was it something they were forced to do, or did they choose the occupation? Was it a family business? Blood-covered hands and feet, lives passing through your hands every day, people bargaining for lifeless bodies, the aim of the game to break the toughest bone, to be desensitized to blood all day… How different is it from the man in the meat market, standing in his dirty slippers and chopping meat with his hands, reeking of a fresh kill all day every day to the man in the supermarket with his buttoned-up shirt daubed in cologne selling meat cubes in small packets? It’s the same meat, the same end, the same beginning. But it’s a different price. For everyone.

For a second, I could imagine why some people turned vegetarian and those who’ve always been so aren’t ready to try meat. In the helter skelter of world business, not much thought goes to those most affected, the lowest rung of society. It’s a squeeze-the-most-of-the-lemon business. And it forces you to turn a blind eye to everything else. But what binds the vegetarians and non-vegetarians in a blood-thirsty fight is the greedy hunger for money that surpasses all culinary or spiritual divides. It doesn’t matter that my local farmer dies a slow death because the middle man pays him two bucks for what I pay the supermarket 16 green ones. I couldn’t care that my world is falling into environmental extinction because I’m too lazy to get a pollution check done. How does it matter that I take my vehicle to the nearby store because I can’t be seen walking? My status is everything. I don’t give a damn that the leper outside my door is dying from starvation more than sickness because I’m too busy making millions. My diamonds, my cash, my jewellery, my cars, my clothes, my furs, my extravagant soirees, and posh vacations are more important than anything else. It doesn’t strike me that my delectable mutton korma garnished with fresh herbs spilled blood on a dirty knife held by an innocent man. The guilt hangs over my head, not his.

Four eyes from two hanging heads almost laughed back. Where the greedy go, there is no salvation. I had learnt my Christmas message from two heads of meat.

Dad paid the man for two kilos of mutton and some chops. We headed down to the fish market and whetted our carnivorous desires. As we headed out of the market, I glanced at the mutton stall again. There were now three heads hanging from the hooks, and the man who spilled the blood suddenly looked very clean to me.

A Christmas carol

2008-12-12T02:40:00.000-08:00

I received two CDs in the mail the other day. One said - Christmas Classics, Various Artists.

It slid smoothly into the player and the familiar sounds of Christmas jingled through the room. I was alone, the walls were bare, the temperature soaring and the refridgerator empty. My walk in the evening the previous day was just as sombre - no lights, no stars, no cribs. It's nearly December 15, and time for that Christmas feeling. That tingly, goosebumpy feeling you get when you want to love everyone and wish them a 'Merry Christmas'. That heart-tightening emotion when you give to someone needy and see a different kind of joy on their faces. That happy new-curtains-and-cushion-covers, family time feeling that you wish you felt all year through.

I could see Frosty running by the traffic cop across the streets with the Jackson 5. I wanted to get up and paint Christmas trees on the walls, make baubles and hang mistletoe and holly from the door-posts and imagine the fridge full of Christmas goodies. There was a longing urge to wrap presents and scribble 'Love, Santa' on handmade cards.

I sat on the floor, closed my eyes and sang out loud to every song I knew. I've never seen fire in a hearth or smelled acorns popping. I've never seen snow or reindeer, or eaten turkey for Christmas dinner. But I imagined it all - the sound of crackling fire, the pop of acorns, the taste of turkey, a belled reindeer and the cuddly warmth of a Christmas hug right after freezing your fingers off while building the snowman.

On my errand that evening, I was fuelled back into a world without stars and trees and cribs. It was a cold world, so 'unChristmasy', and unfestive, an every day world of pollution and chaos. I turned down a back road to avoid getting run over by office-goers. And there through Metallica from my earphones I heard 'Feliz Navidad'. A group of carollers were carolling in a house garden. Passers-by stared as I peeped through the fencing like a street urchin at the store window. The words flew from my mouth and soon I was singing with gusto.

They didn't hear me, they didn't ask me to join in and then come in for a cup of tea. But as I left, hearing the strains fade away with wind, my step was lighter and my mind happier. I couldn't wish for a better time, a time of advent, the Christ-child was coming and we would be together as a family for the best time of the year.

So I'm singing, "I'll be home for Christmas"...

What not to do at the Mysore Dasara

2008-10-12T22:29:00.000-07:00

Dripping wet with sweat, sweet sugarcane juice on your tongue and the throng of thousands all around. The Mysore Dasara isn’t just a parade of elephants and the Chamundeshwari goddess. It’s a show of cultural splendour, and to be bang in the center of it all is something you wouldn’t want to miss.
People from across the country come in droves to be a part of the festivities and to witness the famous jumbo savari. It’s a time to knock shoulders with your country brethren and feel the spirit of Dasara.

Still, to be a part of this joyous occasion, there are some things you really mustn't do.

Booking: Don't ever be the last to book, either your tickets or your hotel room. There's no way you want to land up in Mysore without a place to stay. People book well in advance, so if you want to get a good hotel room, call in early. You might even get a bargain.

Try too hard: Don't bother with tickets for the street parade. Just go early and plant yourself at a good spot on the sidewalk. Carry a bottle of water and munchies and you're geared up for the 2 hour walk-by. The parade has bits of many things - from folk musicians and dancers in their colourful costumes drumming their hearts out with every beat, to floats with social messages.
Acrobats performing the peculiar kannadiga routine of dancing with a masthead on their heads and climbing a tall ladder without dropping it. Your mouth will drop at the sight of the royal elephants bearing the Mayor and the Devi, draped in kingly purple robes and adorned with colourful patterns. It's a great time for the army too. Latest defence weaponry and proud men sit astride their tanks soaking in well-deserved glory.

Pack too much in one bag: Security is tight at the torchlight parade, so to avoid getting frisked everytime a copper spots you, don't put too much in your back-pack. Just throw in a sweatshirt (the nights could get chilly), something to munch on, a bottle of water and your tickets. It's all we needed to enjoy the nerve-wracking daredevil display. They were truly amazing.

The palace: Whatever you do, don't miss the palace - the one thing you go to Mysore for. It's a creamy melange of royal purple and rich off-white. The Islamic touch to the architecture is accentuated by the domes, cherry-like on butterscotch towers. And later at dusk when the lights come on, it's a gem with a million facets each twinkling in golden splendour. You can't stop looking at it.

Trust people: As much as you'd like to believe in the goodness of all humanity, don't. People aren't as they used to be in 'the good ole days'. Unless travelling penniless and singing for your dinner are your ways to enjoy the Dussehra, hold on to your wallets. Your vacation really does depend on it.
Rickshawwallas in Mysore don't seem to understand the meter system either. They will charge you a ridiculous amount for a very short distance. I suppose a bit of haggling will be in order.

Public transport: Chuck the rickshaws and the horse-cart and jump onto a public bus. Conductors roam the bus-station selling daily passes. For Rs 30, it's not a bad idea to travel where you want, when you want. The government made it cheap to travel in comfort with a Rs 10 to anywhere by Volvo for the nine festival days. Bus conductors and passengers are very willing to tell you where your stop is if you make a sufficiently confused-tourist face.

Food: You shouldn't roam the whole of Mysore looking for posh places to eat. The idli-vada at the inter-city bus station is soft, white and perfect. Have it steaming hot with sambar, chutney and very sweet coffee at the self-service restaurant. Their dosas aren't that bad either. If you insist on high-street meals, try Hotel Parklane and the rooftop restaurant next to it. I couldn't vouch for them, though. I had no money to try them out. Most of these restaurants are within walking distance from the palace, spotting the area around the clock tower.
You can't leave Mysore without gorging on Hotel RRR biryani. They serve meals there too, but judging by the number of people with biryani on their banana leaves, there's certainly something to it. There's a waiting list, but don't worry. Sit where you find place. So what if you're sharing the table with a family from half-way across India? That's the fun. You can see what they're eating (out the corner of your eye, of course), and eavesdrop on their conversation (if you understand the language). Partake in their Dussehra dinner!

Go only for Dussehra: No, there's more to see than the parade and the palace. Spend sometime with the wild at the zoo. They've got the only gorilla in the country (so says the signpost) and the chimp will entertain you with his antics. You might be lucky to witness the peacock boast his beauty in the pen, or the free bird fly into a tree nearby. Loads of visitors ignore the signs, but do point out the 'Do not tease or feed the animals' board to them. It's time we learned to grow up.
Chamundi Hills is another place you should visit, with its temple and famed sunset sights. Romantic, you think?
Despite being a little way off from the city, Vrindavan Gardens is something you cannot miss. It's clean, for one. And when the lights come on at 7pm, they light up the reds and greens, yellows, and blues and purples while the sound of gushing fountain water simply adds to that breathtaking feeling. Loads of stalls sell what-nots, and you'll get a decent fruit salad and boiled egg. Avoid the fried fish, though. It's dripping oil.
Top off your trip with some quiet time at St Philomena's church. It isn't old. But it's majestic, defined by tall spires in brown stone styled with strong Gothic influence and a make-shift catacomb tomb housing a relic of the saint. Names of the faithful are inscribed along the walls of the catacomb in black stone.

So when you've had your fill of quiet spirituality and overwhelming devotion, colourful Yakshagana troupes and mighty royal elephants, gardens, hills and food, you will know it is time to leave. Only to come back again, next year.

I love the sound of home

2008-10-01T04:49:00.000-07:00

I waited days for it. And still couldn't believe it was coming. Dad kept sending messages - docket number so-and-so, dated so-and-so, weight so-and-so - and a litany of instructions on connections and the mysteries of electronic equipment.

Yet, on the 28th, I went to the ATM and withdrew some money. And waited on the edge of my seat on the 29th, subbing stories mechanically till the call from security came in. Three parcels, 21 kgs in all. I couldn't wait to rip them open and set it up. And when Vikas, Namitha and I carried them home, thoughts ran through - 'If anything's wrong with it, I'll never forgive myself for letting it lie with security for so long'.

Smooth, black and shiny. Amp, speaker, speaker. Wires. I'm challenged here with no idea what goes where. I've carried dad's little instruction sheet with me. Despite the funny names and elaborate explanation, I still had to call him at least 5 times before anything looked remotely connected. I had to wait hours before I could hear anything. We went shopping for the missing cable, Vikas and I.

In the auto, I cried a little. For dad to send a custom-built XX grand music system just so I could listen to good music, something had to be wrong somewhere. Or right. Maybe the fact that it cost more than I earn made it look so sanctified. How was I going to repay him, not in cash, but in a way he felt what he did was amazing? Yes, I would listen to music everyday; I did that at home and I love doing it. I will keep it clean and safe; and I am, if not completely, but just a little possessive about it. That doesn't seem enough. How do I do enough to mean "Thanks. I love you"?

I came home after dance class that day, plugged in my player and listened. It doesn't matter what I listened to, but I do remember Metallica, Elton John, and Eric Clapton (not in that order). I sat on the floor near the shoes, in the heat because our hall has no fan, hugged my knees because I missed my home. And then I closed my eyes and heard the same sounds I hear at home, the same timbre and volume, depth and quality I live with at home. I realized I wasn't too far away.

My family sent me something that can bring me home in a flick of a switch. I couldn't ask for anything more. Not now, not ever. Thank you, daddy!!

Untitled

2008-08-14T04:33:00.001-07:00

Sunny smiles and coffee cups
Purple wild flowers along winding roads
Hot pakoras with steaming tea
And a practising mouth organ from an inner room

Flip flops and shorts cursing the muck
Wet faces in raincoat hoods drinking
Tear drops from trees
While we help to make the evening meal,
A sing-along in raucous chorus

Grandpa's chair lies empty in the balcao
No one can take his place
We remember, never miss
Futile attempt: bringing back the dead
The laughter shows they never were

Feni? Of course. One kop will do you good
Fresh stock vs seasoned smells
The debate goes on
Just like the one about politicians
Badkars and mundkars

Of green fields and open spaces
Tree-lined roads and happy faces
A reminiscent trip into the past
The circle of life; an abyssmal fate
Once again, it's far too late.

Being deep

2008-07-30T22:03:00.000-07:00

A silent self-loathing
A love-hate relationship with myself
A testing of new waters
A hope of new endeavours
This is (selfishly) about me.

My life, my hurt
My pain and my joy
An umbilical chord with my family
Parents I warred against
A brother I want to die for.

An obsessive desire for independence
An ache for 'true' liberty
Swallowed by dreams for a homeland dispossessed
Her rape is mine
Of sun, sand and sea.

Shut the Pandora's Box of life
There are others worse of than me.
Surface the quiet desire to be hurt far, far more
To render me strong
And unyielding.

A surprise visit

2008-07-28T21:02:00.000-07:00

This is a funny place for a restaurant. Oh well, Mangalore's a quaint place anyway. Upstairs.

Huh?!? No way. I'm not going to the doctor. That's ridiculous. One silly cold that refuses to part with me and you behave like I'm dying? You can't do this to me. Why didn't you tell me; I could have at least prepared myself - the wait outside, the sick, the questions, plastic smile, thanks a lot doc.

Fine. I'll shut up. Won't talk. Ever. Half-wet from the rain. Probably get a cold for this and nothing else. What about dinner, huh? Bare feet on cold tiles. I'm not used to that anymore. Yea, yea, we can keep the raincoats anywhere. Not outside, you idiot! Under my chair.

There's that hospital smell again. Reminds me of grandpa's death. One day I see him, unable to talk, but still there, invincible. The spot of blood on the floor. Next day, he's gone. Just dead. Looked like he was sleeping. Except for the smell of phenol. And then Nan's operation. Different hospital. Same bloody smell. Fist-sized malignant tumour and 50% chance.

Annoying kid. Hospitals are meant to be quiet. Why are you looking at me like that? Freak, yea, I know. Most everyone thinks so anyway. Don't give a damn shit. Go play skipping tiles. Wish I was a kid again. No worries. I only ever come to the doctor with Mum. I never know what to tell a doctor. And anyway, Bhatkuly is a family doctor. Deep fatherly voice - "Hellooo0, Dielle isn't it?"

Mai-gaa-bla bla. Medicine names in Hindi. Weird. I wonder what he keeps in that fridge. Home pregnancy tests? I should ask him for one. Loudly. Just to see the reaction. When we went to buy one for her, the guy at Spencer's never flinched. Good. I like that. What's their problem what people do with their lives anyway.

Next, me? Finally. Hmph. Message. Jesh! He better get me in Battle of the Bands for free. I better delete all these old ones, and those phone numbers I don't need. I hate waiting at the doctor's. No ants to follow here either. Just great.

Arthritis? She's so young, what 45, and she's got arthritis. Shit! She better hurry up. I'm sick of waiting here.

Ha, good. "I suffer from a constant cold. I'd been to a homeopath and she told me I had sinusitis, but I never finished the treatment, so it's kinda stuck with me I guess.

"No, no. No fever. The whole sneezing fit I used to get in the mornings has gone too. Occasionally, yea, but otherwise I'm fine."

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Same bloody shit. Sinusitus. Pharynx something. Mild inflammation of the left tonsil. Where the hell did those two come from? Whatever. Back in 7 days, a whole truck load of medecines to take.

"Not studying, I'm working. With P.... A.......... at Mphasis. Not Infosys. Mphasis. I work with a newswire agency." Or so, I like to call it.

Pink and white. White. Blue plastic. Syrup. Stop, enough. Morning, afternoon, night. Morning, night. Night. Forgotten already. S'okay. Wow. A whole month's 10 buck lunch. On pills. I feel like a junkie. Only there's no high.

I still owe him a cake and dinner. Even though he said it's cool. Poor guy. I really make him suffer. Thanks. I wish I could wipe that face off him. It's horrid when he puts it on. I don't like it when he's mad, or upset. I don't like it when anyone's mad or upset. What am I supposed to say? Sorry? It's been said so many times before. But I really do mean it.

Wishful memory

2008-07-28T01:26:00.000-07:00

I'd like to be a memory. A nice one, one that is remembered with fondness, leaving a little ache where I'm missing.

I dreamt of my funeral - lots of people, open casket. As I've always instructed, no black allowed. I want bright colours. I want lots of "Remember?....lol". White flowers, but no roses. I can't smell them. And a party for afters. Where everyone can eat resois, just like I ate at grandpa's funeral. He is the perfect memory. "When you're in my house, you can do whatever you want." Sock slide across the floor, eat in the bedroom and feed the fishes until we eventually killed them (though he didn't endorse that).

I don't want pictures anywhere. I want them in people's minds. With Eric Clapton as my background score - Tears in Heaven. And then, Metallica's Nothing Else Matters as my message to Jonathan. I requested that song for his 21st birthday. We heard it at home on Worldspace. They said his name and mine, and they got the pronounciation right. I was so happy I stopped eating.

Finally, only family. Every last member together at the beach. The sunset and the shack. Shorts and slippers and chutney sandwiches. The salty breeze whipping around. U Rui and his piano, U Bosco and his mouth organ, the bongos and one of the kids shaking the tambourine as they run across the sand laughing. A strumming guitar and beautiful voices, a little tipsy and getting higher, singing songs I know and those I don't. And A Queenie's soulful Ave Maria, a prayer for me.

And I will sing with you. In the breeze, the clouds, the whispering sands, the trembling leaves. I will sing, and never be scared again.

Do not miss. Remember.

My first love

2008-07-21T03:00:00.000-07:00

He could have raped me and torn me, so I could hate him.

He could have been there for me and kissed me, so I could love him.

But he loved me and left me, so I ache for him.

In the depths...

2008-07-08T03:39:00.000-07:00

Blank your mind out. Completely devoid of emotion. Think yourself friendless in a hostile world. Believe you can do nothing right, that anything you do is flawed. You are Flaw.

Dust the cobwebs from the corners of your memory. The past means nothing. Feel abandoned by your family and used by friends. Love is hopelessness; a complete and utter tragedy. Distance is perfect.

Refuse to cry. Think of a burial in an empty yard - a simple mound with a marble cross. No tears, no goodbyes, no rememberances. Discover how much it means to be spurned by all.

Remember the groups of laughing friends as you stood watching from the shadows. The pain at being the only one, the heartache of emotional failure. Surrender yourself to sorrow.

When you hate yourself this much, remember Sigmund Freud. There is the real self and the ideal self. Try as hard as you can to meet the ideal, even though you know it is impossible. If you think you can meet the ideal, make it impossible. Fight back from the depths despite the miserable knowledge that it is your fate. With the power of an Infinite Grace, defend your soul from the most cowardly notion - giving in. Paradoxically, succumb to a will to fight.

If you must go down, go down fighting. With all your heart, soul, mind and body.

Thoda think, please..

2008-07-04T03:15:00.000-07:00

Vikas and Namitha want me to learn Hindi. Why the choice of Bollywood where there's more Hinglish than anything else beats me. I tagged along for fun!

Thoda Pyar Thoda Magic seemed like a teenage meal - too many rights make a wrong. I began to see allusions from the start. It was a terrible imitation of Mary Poppins. The magical nanny who befriends all and helps them see the light, the little kids who want to do things their way and the uptight father figure who needs breaking in.

There was a Morgan Freeman'esque' God replete with the white suit and common man persona. And the birthday party just had to be a trip to the museum where things come to life a la Night At The Museum. Oh, were they thinking of The Fast and The Furious series with the speeding taxi and the scene where the parents die?

The same 'gyan' about forgiveness and loving is spewed in high flung Hindi; probably the only scenes where Hindi is spoken fluently. The song they keep playing in the cafetaria (naturally the one with the least clothes on) sticks out like a sore thumb. Little animated figures keep popping up everywhere - from poop dropping gulls to ninja spiders and trigger happy lobsters. It jerks you out of your slumber to wonder whether you sleep-walked into Screen 3 instead.

The movie is not worth a visit to the theatre and if you really want to find out, rent it out. That way you can crib as much as you like, take your smokes as soon as the craving arises, and watch it in 10 minute bits. Fast forward the songs and keep another movie at hand. Be bored.

With your head in the clouds

2008-06-30T21:04:00.000-07:00

My eyes wanted to pop, and my sinus was overwhelmingly excited. I couldn't see 10 feet away. The rain, whipping in from all sides, drenched me; my umbrella useless. From 4,000 ft above sea level, it was nearest to feeling like I was in heaven.

Talacauvery is the sedentary man's nightmare. Roads wind on and on for two hours, the monotony of the bus engine and the giddy curves make your stomach squeamish. The unfortunate who do not grab a seat when they get the first chance have to hang on to whatever they can find, and hurry to a window as soon as their stomach speaks.

The temple architecture at Talacauvery is simple, full of planes, made of a stone that felt like rough granite. Ganapati, an avatar of Shiva and Cauvery - the resident deities - watch as devotee upon devotee brave the weather to pay them homage. Remembering the auto driver's words about the wildlife, stealing a quick glance every few minutes to check for tigers is not uncommon. It's useless. The fog is too thick and the rain too heavy.

Do we leave, or do we stay? It is freezing cold and we are wet from the rain.

The place is serene.

There are the 400-odd steps to climb to the top for a breathtaking view.

We have a bus to catch.

298. 299. 300. It's time to go. Turn back and keep the job. Carry on and miss the bus.

Turn back it is!

The 3 mistakes of my life

2008-06-22T00:53:00.000-07:00

It was a flash back to 'Five Point Someone' - the little known young man, two inseperable friends, and the ever-present unattainable woman.

The situation, this time more serious, paved the way to a look other than those we saw in the magazines. The earthquake in Godhra, and the riots in Ahmedabad feature here, but Chetan Bhagat brings the small-town businessman with a big-town dream to the front. It sounds cliched; perhaps it is. As for the allusions to 'Five Point Someone', well, Govind is Hari, Omi resembles Alok (albeit in a small way) and Ishaan is Ryan.

The magnitude of the problems here is greater than in Five Point: no stuck-up prof to deal with, wailing mother to support, or hurt ego to soothe. Communal clashes and the cricket frenzy make big points. As with his previous book, there are lessons to learn. Friends seem to be a big deal to Bhagat. There's a black spot on the best of friends, and you tend to miss his lesson to overlook the flaws and live with them since it's been done before. You hear the nagging voice of an old lady and read the book for the story.

Despite a few tugs at your heart strings during the riots, there isn't an overdose of sentiment. Bells ring when there's a mention of booking tickets on the S6 bogie of the Sabarmati Express or when Govind wakes to the shaking of the earth and runs to find his new store razed to the ground. You sympathise for a while and then carry on. After all, life has carried on, and with it the scars remain. Deaths will be remembered, friendships lost and hopefully won.

Like Five Point, it's a quick read. You sometimes know what to expect, at other times you don't. Chetan Bhagat doesn't want to be the world's most admired author (as he says in the preface), but the most loved. We'll have to wait and see, won't we?

Ponnappa - A 'brush' with fame

2008-05-20T10:10:00.000-07:00

The house looks modern from the outside - one of those cosy villa sets with a little garden and small car park. The man is comfortably dressed in a blue kurta and jeans; his wife in semi-casuals; and both very warm and friendly. At first glance, Prakash Ponnappa brings back memories of Veerappan - the handle bar mustache, slight figure, and intelligent mind. But on second thought wipes away all trace of the notorious man, and replaces it with fun, creativity, and talent.

Ponnappa, a Coorgi, has made Goa his home for a while now, and over the years has transformed his house into a quaint lesson in history and passion. It is filled with little knick-knacks collected from various places and people, going back generations. Right from his door step, antiques and paintings are juxtaposed with every day items, not in-the-face, but sufficiently interesting to make one stop and take notice. He picks up the mouthpiece of an old telephone near the entrance, the kind one sees in a Laurel and Hardy movie, and shows you that it can still work. All it needs is the connection to the telephone line.

The walls of his living room house three guns, all crafted from wood by the man himself. They are exact replicas of the original ones and have been borrowed time and again by directors of Bollywood movies for use in their films. Along one wall, rests a showcase with myriad things from the world over. It's a museum in a museum, a place to learn history through stories, little jaunts, and accidents.

The most beautiful of things by far, in his house, are his paintings. They come alive in a riot of colour, the subtle wash of emotions, and the faint scratch of a pencil sketch. His attention to detail is breathtakingly wondrous, with every tile on every floor, the slat of every blind, the hair on every coat of fur coming alive in each painting. His favourite, says Jessica his wife of nearly 50 years, is the painting of a tiger his son's bedroom. Its eyes scream in a mixture of fear and anger, the roar almost heard through the dark cavity of its mouth, and its resilience reiterated in the fangs that pierce the background.

Ponnappa's light side steps into his w/c too, where he has neatly stuck colourful go-go flowers along the wall of the shower stall right onto the toilet seat! A neat photo album is made on their ironing board - pictures of their son, and daughter with her family pasted on the board that slides down when the time comes....

A little personal collection of lamps that can still be used line the stairway to the first floor, and cuckoo clocks find their niche on the walls. He brings out an old view finder, not the silly plastic ones we find today. Ponnappa's is made of wood and takes you back centuries. The 1800s and early 1900s jump back in 3D through the adjustable lens. The case for the view finder frames is another interesting addition. It resembles a couple of old leather bound books stuck together. Lain on its side, it reveals a collection of beautiful frames showing pictures of the old Western societies.

Ponnappa isn't the only one in his family who have a claim to fame. His daughter took part in the Femina Mrs India contest. And the bikes you see in the Bollywood movie Dhoom? Well, they belong to his son Zubin, and so do the stunts in the same movie....

The Neonate: For T.S. Saldanha (Feb 22, 2007)

2008-05-10T10:30:00.000-07:00

Weary

And jet-lagged.

Whacked,

Cleaned and tagged.

Subjugated

To kisses-

Sloppy tongues

Of Mr. and Mrs.

Pinched

Prodded and poked

Varieties

Of emotions evoked

Siblings

Curious and happy

Thinking, “Life’s crabby”.

Inside

Protected, possessed

Outside

Independent, distressed.

Vision-

‘Infected Mushroom’.

Blurred,

The shapes that loom.

Suddenly, a smell that hovers

Comforting, dispelling bother

Tuned to every need

The nametag spells 'MOTHER'

The Neonate Part II March 5, 2007

2008-05-10T10:23:00.000-07:00

Welcome, to the world

Of the living dead

To a world over-anxious,

Underpaid and over-fed.

To a life that’s worth living

Not even in a womb

Everyone, everywhere is

In a personalized cocoon.

A dreary, bleak

And selfish world

Say ‘hello’ to the Butcher,

Baker and Churl.

To the psychos and nymphos

To a race of greed

To the sadists and hunters

That wait to see you bleed

Until you turn back with a vengeance

Revenge all you want to get

When lying dead at your feet

You realize their mission is what you just met.

Curses and mires

The world up in flames

Scaled models and toys

To play their deadly games

All alone and confused

Through this world you must grope

Till for peace and tranquility

With Death you will elope.

The historical town of Srirangapatnam

2008-05-10T10:20:00.000-07:00

It was nearly 6 am as I struggled to pull on my socks, hop into my jeans and run for the bus. I half-walked, half-ran to the stop 600 meters away, and despite waking up ‘on time’, still had to sprint for the rickety bus.

The long weekend held nothing very interesting in store, and my bank account ensured that a vacation to Ooty was not on the cards. I’d heard from a couple of people that Srirangapatnam was an interesting place to visit, and history having been one of the more engrossing subjects in school just gave this weekend a ‘Srirangapatnam feel’.

Buses frequently ply from KempeGowda bus stand in the center of Bangalore city, and any one heading for Mysore will give you a chance to step off at Srirangapatnam. However, my insti being situated about 20 odd kilometers away from Bangalore made a multiple bus journey necessary. So to Bidadi it was, and then on to Srirangapatnam. Public transport in Bangalore is cheap, and so are the intercity buses.

The sign welcoming tourists to the town says ‘Welcome to the historical city of Srirangapatnam’. True to this, the town offers many sites with little stories of their own, and Tipu Sultan, one of India’s fiercest fighters, stands narrator of nearly every one of them. The entrance to the town has remained the same since Tipu ruled in the late 1700s. The cool stones that make up the massive fort entrance give you respite from the relentless April sun and not even half a minute’s walk will go by before you reach the first of the sign boards directing you to the many sites you must visit on your trip.

If your intention is to spend the day in Srirangaptnam and you are one of those either entirely broke or with a passion for walking in the heat, it is possible to visit almost all monuments on foot. They are all located within 2 kilometers of each other, but in all one might do a good 15 kilometers worth of walking around the historical city.

Let the guides not fool you, especially at the Jamma Masjid; they tell you things that are common to most masjids dating back several centuries. The masjid in Srirangapatnam was used by the ruler of the time (Tipu) who happened to be a rather devout man. It currently runs as a madrasa for young Muslim boys learning the Koran. There is a sundial on the first floor, the needle of which was apparently stolen by the British. The interesting thing about the masjid is that it has Hindu motifs on the top of the towers. A 150 odd steps lead to the top of the towers which are now closed due to the crumbling stairways. Pigeons nest in the holes along the towers, used by Tipu as his personal postal service.

The guide will point out the black hill across, the watch tower a furlong away, and the graves of Tipu’s guru and his family in the masjid courtyard, all of which you can do by yourself besides taking in the appetizing aroma of cooking mutton from the madrasa just below. As you exit, he might ask for a 30 rupee fee which is a gross over charge for the kind of information he spews. Whether you like it or not, you will be accosted by rickshawallas or tongawallas offering you a tour of the sites. If you aren’t keen on walking, take the tonga. They are a bit cheaper than rickshaws, eco-friendly, and can transport you back to the 18^th century if you only care to close your eyes to the traffic and conjure up the visions in your mind.

A collection of old pillars with engravings of Hindu deities will pass by just after the Watergate (nothing of course to do with President Nixon hundreds of years later). Apparently Tipu used it as a sort of passage in and out of the fort. The site where Tipu’s body was found after he so valiantly but vainly fought to keep the dirty British hands off his territory is marked by a simple white granite slab put up, surprisingly, by the British viceroy of the day.

The Sultan’s old palace is in ruins and it isn’t a disappointment to peep over the padlocked gates, as there is nothing much to see. Opposite, however, lies the Sri Ranganathaswamy temple which houses the largest reclining statue of Shiva in the country and possibly the world. You pay a measly 2 rupees for the man to watch your shoes as you go inside to see the priests pray, or receive Prasad, or give in offerings of your own. Outside, half a dozen old racehorses walk in circles with tourists on their backs screaming for a photograph. Refrain from buying anything apart from tender coconuts outside the temple. The curios are not worth it, and the biscuits are stale. Unless you fancy South Indian snacks that you could get a better deal for not more than a hundred yards away, you might decide against sitting and eating right there.

A little further down the street lies a dungeon Tipu used to imprison British prisoners of war. Twenty four Brits languished in the prison, tied to the walls with chains. They were to stand continuously for 23 hours of the day and allowed only an hour’s rest. Eleven perished and the rest set free after Tipu’s fall. Over the fencing of the prison flow the much disputed waters of the river Cauvery.

Tipu’s summer palace is worth a see with its hand painted walls from ceiling to floor depicting scenes of wars. Plaques, though sometimes confusing, explain each section of the wall paintings. Other sketches of people of the age, and various scenes are also on display along with a model of the city of Srirangapatnam. The lawns are wonderfully kept and you can afford to go to the loo without resisting the urge to puke on entry. Sugarcane juice is marvelously sweet and a good option after nearly drowning yourself in coconut water. Not far away is Tipu’s tomb where he was lain along with other members of his family.

The restaurants on the highway provide a better bet as far as non-vegetarian food goes, and the value for money is quite reasonable. If you are male (or if you are a woman who does not mind being stared at) and wish to cool off, hop into a rickshaw and head for the dam about 12 kms away. It’s a welcome relief to splash about in the cold water and let all the day’s heat seep away right there.

For a free day with a few pennies in your pocket and a bit of history eating your mind, Srirangapatnam is a cheap getaway from the nearby throb of Mysore or Bangalore. Although some of the monuments are not too well kept and there isn’t much to choose from by way of food, it sure is nice to take a trip to a small town steeped in history, walk around a bit and find it for yourself.

Disclaimer: Some tidbits of info may not be accurate. I blame it on short term memory.

Beat the system

2008-04-27T22:22:00.000-07:00

Time is stalling. Is it because I have to go home?

I look for things I cannot find. Friendship

I find things I do not want. Pseudos

I want things I cannot have. Love

I have things I do not need. Memories

I need things that cannot be. Simplicity

Life's like that. It makes things completely contradictory to what you want. Trying to beat the system and survive - that's what makes it worth living.

About a boy called Shane

2008-03-25T20:11:00.000-07:00

He was five, skin-and-bone, and perpetually blue from lack of oxygen. His lungs did not function well enough to pass on oxygen from the air to his blood, and consequently, his breathing was always heavy.

Shane was always excited about company. A curious little boy, he would begin his interactions shyly and cautiously. But as soon as he found his comfort space, he was a barrel of fun! Marbles caught his attention, so did cars and toy robots. Despite the need to be very careful at the swimming pool, he wanted to splash around and swim. It made me feel extremely guilty about being perfectly healthy and able to run, jump, swim, chase after, and be chased without falling suffocatingly short of breath. Even his excitement caused his breathing to turn into gasping.

Annette, his "big sister", loved him as much as he did her, and was she was very protective about him despite being only eight years old herself. They fought over toys like normal siblings did, but she generally gave in to love. He always turned to her for help, especially to climb onto the airbeds or the noodles in the swimming pool.

Aunty Merle and Uncle Cletus considered Shane a gift from God, and truly he was. He gave them all the joys a child could, and whether despite of or because of his medical condition, he was showered with all the love, care and affection a child could want. His infrequent outbursts came only because he wanted his favourite noodles right then(probably the only dish he preferred to eat!), or because his body just couldn't keep up with his wish to play.

Shane passed away due to complications late last year. When I look around me and observe fellow classmates, I realize how much we take life for granted. Illnesses erupt every three days, headaches and tummy aches become reasons to avoid work, and any reason is enough to use things belonging to someone else. There's no enthusiasm to do things yourself, curiosity to find out for yourself, challenge to overcome problems alone, and the willingness to enjoy little things.

I miss you Shane, and although you spent more time at home in Singapore than you did with us in Goa, you will always remain an inspiration - the reason that all the oxygen we breathe does not go to waste.

Fireflies Festival of Sacred Music 2008

2008-02-25T00:34:00.000-08:00

It truly was a night to remember. Friends, families and strangers gathered and vibed to one soulful beat - that of music.

The 4th annual Fireflies Festival of Sacred Music on February 23, at their inter-cultural center in Dinnepalya Village, Bangalore housed an approximately 1000 strong audience in an enraptured trance for the promised 12 hours, well worth the entrance fee. Despite stifling delays between acts, a dozen artistes led us through a cavorting blend of Indo-Western, Western and Indian folk, classical and fusion music.

Some bands may not be remembered; but most will stay on in memories for years to come. It began with the Nadaswaram performance – the world’s loudest non-brass acoustic instrument, a good start to the evening. Kaman Singh and group followed that up with an interesting repertoire of Portuguese and Brazilian music using the guitar, recorders, flute, and voice to transport the audience across continents. They played a fado, a French/Creole song and a couple of others to encapsulate the world under the banyan tree. What they lacked in technical virtuosity was well made up by their songs satirizing the World Trade Organisation and government policies. They were the only troupe to actively voice the theme of the evening – tribals and adivasis – through their lyrics. Kaman Singh had the whole audience in splits with adivasi-style language, both Hindi and English.
People of all age groups and backgrounds filtered in through the night, making themselves comfortable on the granite steps with mattresses, pillows, and bolsters. The piece of advice from the organizers “stay in your seats; you’ll regret it if you move” held throughout the event with the amphitheatre crowded to capacity and more, giving people just enough space to tap out the ragas and talas.

Although the Qawwali performance by Salim Bhai and Group was by far the most popular, the Veena recital by Sri R K Padmanabha and the Folk songs of Kabir from Malwa by Shabnam Virmani and Dipta Bhog were the soul-stirring performances of the night. Virmani provided a small background to each song and then blew the audience away with powerful vocals. She appeared to be enjoying herself more than anyone else and gladly threw in an encore much to everyone’s delight. R K Padmanabha’s solos were breathtaking. Moments when the veena’s bass rhythms were interspersed with Indian melodies sounded like a fusion between Western and Indian music, and the jugalbandi between the accompanying ghatam and mridangam had even Padmanabha tapping away. Salim Bhai held the crowd in a wild chorus of singing and dancing, screaming for more. An impromptu performance by a trio from the audience was thrown in while everyone else cheered them on.

Oikyotaan, the Baul (Bengali folk) musicians, celebrated the spiritual and proved to be a well-known and well-loved group. Voice control was amazing and although most couldn’t really understand (since it was in Bengali), the expressive singers made enjoying the performance so much easier. Representing Western classical and jazz was Glen Rogers with mesmerizing finger work on pieces like Traveller and self-composition Captain Caterpillar, and Karnatak Folk by the Puje Kunita group provided immense entertainment. The energy of the musicians suffused through the ambience and came to rest on all ensuring they enjoyed every bit of their performances.

Despite the food being over-priced and the coffee not worth its name, the delightful night passed with camaraderie between strangers established only through music. The performances stripped the word bare of the commercialization we know so well, leaving each one including chief guest Cyriac Joseph, Chief Justice of Karnataka, either reminiscing their childhood or wishing they’d found this sooner.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

There's this ashram 9 kms from where we live called Fireflies Inter-cultural Centre and on Feb 23-24, they hosted this Sacred Music Fest. It was a dawn to dusk event (6pm to 6am) and although I was the unfortunate victim of Subramaniam's review-writer choice, I wanted to go check it out. Smartly, I forgot my sweater, so I froze while enjoying myself. If it wasnt for several others who caught up with me there, I'd have become a permanent fixture under the huge banyan tree.

I made it there with 5 minutes to spare for the opening act. People came in with mattresses, pillows, the works, all set to spend the night there. I took a book (in case I was early and had nothing to do!!) and my box of crackers (in case I had nothing to eat!!). There were lots of young people, some middle aged, few old and a smattering of the quintessential 'phoren' blood hanging about smoking. Initially, I wasnt sure I would enjoy it. I'd simply heard there was a jazz act and wanted to check it out. But when I got loaded with the responsibility of writing a review, I had to spend that 250 bucks on the ticket. Only a couple of acts were devoid of the Indian element, and interestingly I enjoyed almost all of them.

There was a woman, Shabnam Virmani, singing folk songs to Kabir, a Rajasthani-Gujarati kind of music which was just awesome. I was dancing and swaying to a veena recital, qawwali songs, world music, indo-western fusion and a mix of classical and jazz. It was unbelievable. The ashram itself is a nice place, though they could do with alot more dustbins, at least at the time of the festival - by the end of it, there were plates, cups, bottles (of booze and other stuff), packets and what not strewn around the place. It is dotted with little cottages, its got a lake right next to it, and this small sit-out; very peaceful place, reminded me of home and Chandor!

The food wasnt worth it though and I realized why the regulars kept dipping into their bags for another packet of munchies. They were serving chicken and veg biryani with this minuscule dollop of raita, outrageously expensive brownies, and the worst coffee you have ever tasted in South India. Besides this, they had stalls selling overpriced (obviously!!) handicrafts, including some really pretty jewellery. I'd have bought some for mum and A Lee if it wasnt so far out of my budget.

I stayed awake through the entire event, and it wasnt because the music was loud. I enjoyed every minute of it, maybe with the exception of a few bands trying very hard to please both Indians with no knowledge of Indian or Western classical, and foreigners with no knowledge of Indian or Western classical, both classes of whom were absent! It was a treat to listen to M K Padmanabha, the veena player. If I'm not wrong, the veena is a different version of the sitar; its got more bass and is not as twangy. When you play the bass strings it sounds very close to a guitar, and has a really rich sound. I havent seen anyone play a veena before, but he sure played like a maestro!!

Frankly, I've been itching to go out and enjoy myself, and since pubs and clubs shut shop at 12, there's no way to get back home (they wouldnt let me sleep there either!!). Besides, you can enjoy a concert when you're alone; you dont really need to be with someone.

And so I did! Three cheers to Siddharth and company of Fireflies!!! You guys did a great job!

The Make-over!

2008-01-31T08:20:00.000-08:00

It all started with an "Are you free?"

I've never really dressed up....ever. My current make-up kit consists of a lip gloss and cream (which I use for my face as well!!). The lip gloss I reserve for the 'special occasions' - Christmas, Easter, maybe the odd date(when did THAT last happen?!?); cream for the days my skin starts to peel. My face has never warmed to lipstick (all those school concerts were disastrous) and I havent seen the logic in sticking some black stick up your eye for the 'desired effect'. It's the plain-Jane look that's been mine and people have come to accept that.

Except when they need to release a little creativity. Leah has a great choice in clothes, and when she dresses up, she turns heads. She didnt have much to do today, and wanted to experiment with my hair. Now, I've just cropped my hair pretty short, and its quite uncontrollable. I suffer from bad hair days 5 days out of 7, and I dont really care. Last sem, Sohini decided she wanted to cut my hair and I let her. This sem, Leah wanted to play around with it, so what the heck?!?

When she got started, her tools consisted of a brush, comb, hairdryer, and irons. I've never had my hair ironed and I trusted Leah when she said "its going to be ok". Jesus, its scary to have such a hot thing nearly pop the zits on your face every time it passes by. What if I ended up with singed hair? I'd have to shave my head and look like the sanyasi with the wierd dome. Thankfully, I didnt get the smell of burning hair, so I stopped cringing every time she touched it. She stopped and ran out of the room. Returned with a couple of boxes of gunk she called hair serum and wax. Whatever! It didnt feel all that bad.

When she was done, I had a look in the mirror. It was really neat! Clean, straight and very smart. Then she decided to get a little funky and blow dry my hair. That was exciting! You get the 'just-outta-bed' look which I looove. Unfortunately, in came Sohini with an "ohmigod!! That is so amazing!" After a while, she had to go on "Just do this. Scrunch up your hair. Mess it up. Do that....blah blah." So we did. Trust my verdict: it was amazing! Messy, screaming wild. I wish they did it for something, maybe a club.

And I thought they were done. But no! It couldnt stop there. Not when the guinea pig is tied down between two eager beavers with nothing to do and too much make up in their kits. So they took turns to grab their kits while the other held me down.

It started with this odd fat pencil like thing the colour of light mud. Leah put it in splotches on my face and then rubbed it down. If I thought that was it, boy was I in for a rude shock. A powder puff nearly suffocated me (surprisingly with nothing on it). Then came the eye thingy! Now, THAT was scary. How would you enjoy it if it feels like someone's trying to shove something in your eye? Not good, it does not feel good. Well, Sohini had something white, then something black. I began to think I'd end up with zebra eyes. Not being allowed to see what you look like while people have a go at your face is nerve-wreckingly scary.

Well, they also decided to add some stuff on my cheeks and chin and nose. Now I was so sure it'd be clown staring right back. Who but a jester wears horrid pink goo on their face?! And then they did it. They brought out the lip-stick! It was war. No one, no one gets to put that glop on my face. Never. I refused outright. Sohini said it was "only lip-gloss". Hell, it was lip-gloss! Lip-gloss isn't pink.......(is it?) They had their way in the end and I had to feel like I had plastic lips. Bleach!!

Finally, they said they were done. More like they gave up trying to do any more on such an impossible lab rat. But horror of horrors! Soho brought out her camera and started clicking pictures. "Do this", "stand here", "SMILE, for godsake!", "SHUT UP!! When she was finally done, I ate up the gloss and headed to the mess. I was famished. Trying to slip around corners, zip into the mess, serve and get out like a thief proved difficult. I was caught. But to my surprise, the response was unbelievably positive! They actually thought I looked human! I had to see this!

I sneaked a peek into the mirror. Where the hell was I? There was somebody else staring back, confused, shocked, and curious. Finally, that person smiled. Well, darn me after all! It was me. Dielle. Different....Nice. Actually good to look at. This wasn't bad. Not at all. And to think it all started with an "Are you free?"

Although I did wash off the goop on my face, I didn't wash my hair the next day!

Thank you Leah and Soho. You actually did a good job!! lol :)

Goa, mi casa, ti amor....

2008-01-10T07:47:00.000-08:00

The book was good, and the bus was late. The music was my favorite sing-along-in-the-bus-kind. But I could see that sheet of blue glinting in the heat of the day and I had to stop. I took a deep breath. Through the air-conditioner, the doors and windows shut tight, I smelt the warm salty breeze of a summer sea. "I'm going home" ran through my mind, over and over and over again.

It's quite irritating to be late when you're getting to a place you love, when you know what's in store for you and what you want to do. When the driver trundled along like he had all day, I wanted to get out of the darned bus and push! I willed the bus to go faster, overtake the bullock-cart and get on with it. When we passed the border into Goa, I smiled. The first thing I saw was a well-stocked bar!! That's the problem with tourists. They think the bar signifies being drunk all-day, and when they come to Goa, presume they shouldnt be able to walk straight until they leave. The 'taverne' is meant for your afternoon 'cop' and pre-dinner shot, not for guzzling anything that floats by in a glass!!

Finally, at Panjim bus stand, four hours later, I spotted my brother miles away. He stepped out of a red van with a white jersey saying 'v.Persie' and walked to the wrong bus. I knew then how much fun he's been having without me. He'd grown conspicuously wider and he grinned! Brothers do not generally do that when they have to play chauffeur. The ride back was amazing. I couldnt stop taking deep breaths of clean air and an even deeper breath when we passed the fish market.

The vacations seemed like the shortest one ever. I had so many things to do and people to meet. It felt like I was coming back after years and I was so excited to say, "Hey! This was what it used to be!" or "Wow! That's changed", even though the building just had a new coat of paint. My cousins were there to greet me at the door and scream "Hi! Dielle!! We got fed up waiting for you and had lunch already!!" I had to pretend that it was ok. How could they finish MY lunch? Fortunately, my mother remembered I was coming home and kept some fish, curry and rice for me. I walloped the lot.

Food was my main agenda during the hols. The 'sorpotel' with that hint of feni that goes so well with the 'sannas' with the hint of toddy, the yummy fried fish in 'reicado' masala, Goa rice and prawn curry.... I can still taste the 'ambot tik' dripping from the hot 'unde', the bombay ducks, and the prawns done every mouth-watering way possible. Jonathan graciously funded our trip to Pastry Cottage, that favorite place in the world where you must never go if you are even thinking of a diet. There's something I've noticed about all Goans. Even if they are away from home for a week, they'll come home and gorge on food like they've been starving all their lives. And I'd been away for six whole months!! Maybe now its easier to imagine the kind of work my oesophagus was going through.

And what is home without the beach? You twiddle your toes in the dry sand and let the wet sand get all over your feet before you strip down to your swimming costume and run down to the inviting sea, the sea that's cool to the skin and once you're in you never want to leave its warm caress. The sun falls on your face and you turn towards it, wallowing in its rays. Then you leave for a snack of yummy chutney and cheese and ham sandwiches, go down to the sand to play. There's a golden tan that you can get only if you enjoy all these things at the beach, not the kind that comes of lying in the heat all day getting parched and spotted, only to have your skin peel off two days later. It gets to be a rather reptilian feeling then. What's the difference then, between you and a croc? You sunbathe all day and when the hunger pangs call, waddle your way into the nearest restaurant and eat your fill until you waddle back to the beach and sunbathe until the sun goes down.

I was fortunate enough to get a chance to attend a wedding too, where you dance to all the 'mandos' and sing along when you know the words, you see people you know and when you're tipsy dance with those you dont know. It's family! Meeting up with friends makes for more great memories, when they look at you and say "Wow, someone's putting on weight!" while you try very hard to suck your tummy in!

Goa is a place you enjoy only when you know how. I wouldnt like to be a tourist there. It's so fake, and the clubs, night and flea markets, cheap drinks and hippie life-style are only a small part of it. You have to live Goa to feel the true 'sussegado' spirit. I had the best time I could hope for at Home. It's a pity I had to leave so soon.

'Dev borem korum' to Mum, Da, J, Nans, A Lee, U Hue, TnTnT, U Selwyn and family, Pete, James, Lori, Dharmesh, Neha, Kim, Keith, Jesh, Karl, Licio, and the rest of those who made my vacation something I still speak about and will till I'm home again! I love you guys....

Life in a sweater

2007-11-14T07:49:00.000-08:00

I wore the sweater on my journey to Bangalore. It felt nice to wear a sweatshirt. Warm and cosy. Back home, if you're seen wearing one, you've either got fever or you're raving mad.

I've never owned a sweater. Somehow, in Goa, it really isn't necessary. The weather is perfect at 3 in the morning, when you're insane enough to be out or you happen to be between 15 and 30 years old.

Pleasant weather accompanied me on the arduous journey to Kumbalgudu. Of course, I couldn't skip the fact that you have to feel extremely hot in that thing once the clock strikes the wrong side of 12. But I enjoyed the feeling of snuggling up inside the XL, finding my comfort spot in the bus and sleeping away the journey. Besides, when you're slim, it does look kinda cute to wear oversized clothes once in a way. Now that I've piled on the pounds, it makes one look depressingly larger than one actually is.

When you come from a place that does not warrant wearing anything more than shorts and a tee, it becomes sort of exciting to wear a sweater. It's like dressing up for an occasion. You wear that piece of clothing reserved for special occasions. Standing in front of the mirror, you check to see how the collar sits, or the way it falls just above your buns and fits just right over your wrists.

Also, timing is everything when it comes to wearing your sweater. If it's noon and you happen to be in one, you will risk looking like grandpa on his way to the bank. It must be a little chilly with a slight wind whipping around the ears, so you can hug yourself and fall asleep in class. However, if you happen to one of those haunting the streets at some unearthly hour, just your sweatshirt and you will find a certain idiot turned into a human icicle. Warm inner wear is safe. After all, you have to show off that sweater of yours. ;)

I have been living in the World of the Sweatshirt for 4 months now. Been there, done that in the sweatshirt I'm writing this in. One thing I've learnt is to carry more than one sweater when you move away from home to a place far away from the dry cleaners. You're so used to it that you don't realise that you begin to smell 'sweatshirty' even when you aren't wearing one (which is extremely rare). Even your bag emits the sweatshirt aroma: that mouldy-clothes smell mingling with a little bit of sweat, and the dirt and grime of 4 months of walking filthy streets and smokey by-lanes.

The black sweatshirt that I began my journey in has become my second (albeit pretty loose) skin. It has received, most lovingly, the peeling skin, the cookie crumbs, the omnipresent dandruff, and the occasional longing look of someone without one. It's a different question that the someone would prefer to freeze than wear a sweater that hasn't been washed for 16 weeks.

I'm going home....

2007-11-04T07:46:00.000-08:00

I'm actually starting to miss home now. All this while, I couldn't have cared. I was away for the first time in my life, but it was fine. I didn't really miss things the way others in the hostel did. I was happy and comfortable. Adjusting to hostel life was easier than I thought. True, noone can sub the guys back home, but this was going to be home for the next few months and I didn't fuss. It really is a nice place to live in.

Maybe the realization that I will be back home in only a month and a half has made me yearn for it all the more. The semester break had to coincide with the Christmas break, didn' t it?! And Christmas is the most enjoyable time in the year, not only because I am Christian, but also because I am Goan. It's one of those festivals everyone celebrates. It's the season everyone waits for-there's parties and dances and food. The weather is really pleasant and perfect for both midnight mass and picnics.

People are reminding each other to book tickets; most already have. I'm travelling by bus and since advance booking doesn't start until 15 days before departure, I'm probably the only one who hasn't got a ticket home. Seats get filled up faster than an alcoholic's glass. What if I don't manage to get a ticket home? What if I've to spend the most amazing time of the year in an empty hostel when everyone at home is celebrating the 'family' festival? I know I'm sounding paranoid, but I guess that's it. I do want to go home and I can't imagine ever spending Christmas alone.

You know, I think I should just shut up. I'm sure to get a ticket. After all, I've passed the buck on that one to my dad. He's going to make sure I get home-not for anything, but to have me enjoy myself. And they do miss me. Mum's already wondering how she's going to manage making Christmas sweets this time. Jonathan's busy with final year and I won't be home until the 21st. I'll miss making the sweets and mum yelling that we aren't allowed to taste them until after mass. I'll miss putting up the tree and painting the paper for the star. Jonathan's going to have to do the deco alone, and I won't be there to whine when we change the cushion covers or clean out the cobwebs. We aren't going to have our regular fights over who's done how much work and then sneak Christmas cookies, bolinhas, and marzipan together.

You know what? I'm going home for 15 days and I know I'm going to stuff all these things into those days. I know J and I will fight, I know I'll put up some deco, I know I'll make cookies and eat them as well, get yelled at and yell back, go for picnics and laze at home, party and exercise....Well then, 48 days and counting.

Idiot box

2007-10-26T02:06:00.000-07:00

I spent five minutes trying hard to tie my shoelaces into a bow. At 4 years, it should have been easy. After successfully bunching it up into a semblance of a knot, I skipped out to play.

It was an empty playground, my brother Jonathan and I being the only ones there. Looking back now, I remember, it was the time everyone’s favorite programs ran on TV. It was a ‘small wonder’ that we’d find playmates at 4:30 pm. Most children were staring goggle eyed at the idiot box while we fought to juggle roles for ‘It’.

As children, cable TV was the ‘cool tool’. If you didn’t watch Batman and Robin or know all the names from Scooby-Doo, you weren’t qualified to attend group meetings during recess. Instead of playing Catch-n-cook, the girls would team up and chat about My Little Pony and wish they were Penelope Pitstop, while the boys would try just as hard to perform that most torturous of WWF moves—the ‘sharpshooter’. Everyone in class was familiar with the program schedule of Cartoon Network, all 7 days of the week. It made me feel rather inadequate—something that’s remained with me all along. Teachers tried to make classes interesting by relating things we studied to things that came on the tube. For someone whose set was switched on only for the 5-minute news capsule every morning, I was rather stumped. It doesn’t help either when you’re best friend hosts a ‘Power Rangers’ birthday party and you have no idea who they are!

Contributing to ‘kiddie’ conversation was never that hard. What would children talk about, anyhow? No one found it interesting that I had learned how to spell my parents’ names correctly or knew my house number. Who cared about Goldilocks? Who wondered where the Seven Dwarves went after Snow White moved away?

I don’t know many children in my neighbourhood who pretended to go rafting on the mat in their living room. Fishing with grandpa was a three-person affair: Jonathan, grandpa and I. It didn’t matter to my friends that we’d caught the only catfish we ever did. So what? The Flintstones did it with some oversized turtle, and they lived in the Stone Age!

I wasn’t all that alienated from the set, though. We’d always watch a little bit at granddad’s. Although it was restricted to a maximum of half an hour at a stretch, it was enough to help me survive.

Bon voyage! C'est la vie!!

2007-10-16T06:32:00.000-07:00

I love hols. It makes you feel like you've been working so hard and you're getting this much needed break, even though all you've had since whenever has been an unnecessary break. And somehow, you like to plan your little vacation so it goes really well but you end up forgetting half the things you need (like your toothbrush) and taking things you would never need (an extra pair of shorts). But that's the fun. You learn to make do with what you have, including and especially your travelling companions!

Packing for days out is the worst headache. You think you're going to be all organised and lay out your clothes in neat little piles. At the end of day one of your break, it's all one messed up pile anyway. Even when you've kept your things in a zip lock bag labelled "Toiletries", you either leave out the new deo and put in the one that's over, or forget to take the bag altogether. Then you curse yourself, but happily skip to the nearest store, just for the pleasure of buying something from the kind old man you never knew. Or maybe just for the heck of spending the money you saved. After all, the circumstance demands it!

Vacations are the worst thing to happen to people trying to lose weight. Try as you might to compensate for the worst kind of gluttony you've indulged in the night before by taking a walk/run/swim, it has to be that you simply can't fit into your clothes anymore. Some say that's the only way of telling someone's actually enjoyed their holiday. I don't know. When you go someplace you've never seen, wouldn't you rather spend time, on your feet, being the true-blue tourist and check out the place, instead of sitting on that ballooning posterior and watching your day float by?

I've never vacationed in the mountains. It's become one of those 'to-do' things that I always say I'll do, but wonder if I'll ever have enough money for. Positively thinking, I should. But then again, that's not all on my 'to-do' list. There's Europe and the Safari, the Andamans/Lakshadweep, South East Asia and Japan, the Outback, hell the world! Maybe I should marry a millionaire and then vacation on the alimony. He wouldn't be able to stand me for very long anyway! There's another addition to my 'to-do' list!! You even have these absolutely ludicrous lists on hols. Now, what's the point in those? Do what you want. No point in being the bitchy boss you left behind.

I wonder what it'd be like to be on a permanent vacation. Come to think of it, it'll be pretty boring. There's nothing to vacation from. No stress to destress from, no post cards to your colleagues saying "Wish you were here" even when you don't, no summer romances, no tension to lay out on the hammock.....Actually, nothing worth taking a break from. You couldn't possibly have the satisfied sigh that can only be expressed when you're completely relaxed. But then again, who am I to talk?!? I ain't even a working stiff!

Still, I loved my summer hols in school. Even when we didn't go anywhere, we still went to the beach, swam in the cold water, played in the hot sun, caught the golden tan, and ate the best sea food ever. When you're stuck at home, go to the beach. Great company makes a fun vacation. Even if you haven't gone off to some exotic destination, you'll still enjoy yourself. I guess that's what vacations are for, anyway!

I'm waiting. Christmas is two months away. I've already started crossing off the days....

J....

2007-09-27T09:15:00.000-07:00

I havent seen him for ages although I've lived with him my entire life. I spent 20 years fighting and hating someone so much I just have to love him......

He's roaming the streets with a crew cut that would grow into to-die-for curls after 6 months. He'd like to be 6 feet and a few pounds heavier while I'm trying hard to lose the reason he calls me "fatty". Yet, I know he's teasing.

I've watched him grow and it's hard to say he's changed. It's also difficult to say he's remained the same. He's the same boy who can't stand his annoying li'l sis, but is the man who knows when its okay for her to wear that dress.

He likes women. Just like all other straight guys do. Yet, he hasn't been in a relationship longer than two months. He lives on practicality and that is something women don't seem to understand. "Commitment" does not exist for him. He has his reasons....Zaha Hadid is the woman in his life.

It follows then that he loves design. He loves cars. He loves to design cars. He's studying to be an architect. Suffocated by professors who think square when he sees round, who see Byzantine or Gothic when he sees post modern and deconstruction. Aesthetics does not follow rules. Feasibility does. The Palm Islands are intelligent design; the Acropolis, a masterpiece.

Now I know it's possible for a guy to wear colours other than white, black, dark blue, dark green and grey. His favorite colour is green. Different shades of green.....Red is good, so is orange. Yellow too. Pink....depends! He's the guy who decides whether something looks good on me or not. The guy who'll tell me that I need to dress up once in a way.....

I'm sure he wanted a brother. So he said when I asked him. I was about 15 then; he 16. He'd gotten a new set of friends, was partying every other week, "hanging out". I was sitting at home reading a book or out playing street badminton. Oh the shame, the embarrassment!!

Ask him now and he'll deny that he'd wished for a brother. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't. But I know he loves me all the same. For all the shit I do. All the shit I get him into. All the shit I get him out of. The shit we face together.....

It doesn't help one bit that I don't have him to talk to. Or that he writes four lines once a week in reply to the essays I write every day. He tells me he doesn't miss me, that I'm an idiot to forget my data cable at home, and that I need to get a life.That's why I miss him. Mum says that's why he misses me......He says he'll buy me my first car. I want a Lamborghini Gallardo!

He's the only person I'll believe. The only one I can tell has been lying and who can tell I've been lying. And he will never lie to me.

God was painting today....

2007-09-10T05:38:00.000-07:00

God was painting today.

He cried. At the inhumanity of humanity. His tears fell free, in a torrent of raindrops. The earth collected them in her lap. The butterflies and frogs came out to console Him. So, He took out His easel and His palette and began to paint.

I saw the white fluff first. It blossomed. An outpour of Love for His child. Soon, He threw light from behind and I saw the silver lining that lights up gloomy days. He wanted to tell me He loves me. Maybe that's why He used pink. It crept out from behind His cloud and then, to supplement the truth, He splashed a bit of the brightest blue I've ever seen.

Green came next. That bluey-green that only God can create. He took me home through the clouds; back to a time when I played on the beach, and mum showed me the colours of the setting sun. I turned to see a cottony cloud of ivory plastered in the sky. Grey at the bottom, white surf on top. Innocence.

Click, snap went the shutters. Catch it on camera. God was telling me the story of His love through the sky. How could I join them in this ridiculous circus? I wanted to fly to the Heavens, run away from reality, spend the rest of infinity in that psychedelic explosion of colour.

So, He stopped. The sky turned blue and white and grey. He brought me back to where I am. There's a time and place for everything. I watched as He teased me with the swimming clouds, still blushing pink from the touch of His brush. I was home for a while. I feel a little closer to Him now that He's shown me He's always around - in the trees, the birds, the insects, the animals, the clouds, the sky....

God was painting today. He was painting for me.

Hotel IIJNM....(Happy Birthday, Shilpa!!)

2007-09-04T21:35:00.000-07:00

On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair.
Warm smell of colitas rising up through the air.
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light.
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim
I had to stop for the night.

There she stood in the doorway, I heard the mission bell.
I was thinking to myself this could be Heaven or this could be Hell.
Then she lit up a candle, and she showed me the way.
There were voices down the corridor,
I thought I heard them say,

Welcome to the Hostel IIJNM
Such a lovely place (such a lovely place)
Many a room at the Hostel IIJNM
Any time of year (any time of year)
You can find us here.

Her mind is differently twisted, she got no Mercedes Benz.
She got just one pretty boy, who's her special friend.
How they dance in the courtyard, sweet Mallu sweat.
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.

So I call Mr. Noel. I said, "please bring me my wine."
He said, " We don't allow that spirit here since 1999."
But still those voices are calling from far away.
Wake you up in the middle of the night, just to hear us say.

Welcome to the Hostel IIJNM
Such a lovely place (such a lovely place)
Many a room at the Hostel IIJNM
Any time of year (any time of year)
You can find us here.

Stars on the ceiling. Large khodez, no ice.
And she said, "We are all just prisoners here,
Of Kanchan's devise."
And in Abraham's chambers, where they gathered for the feast.
Stab it with their steely knives,
But they just cant kill the beast.

Last thing I remember, I was running for the door.
Had to find the passage back to the place I was before.
"Relax," said the nightman, "We are programmed to receive.
You can check out any time you like.
But you can never leave."
____________________________________________________________________

Please note: It was both, Sohini and I who modified the lyrics 5 minutes before going to the mess and publicly embarrasing not just ourselves, but a very "messed-up" Shilpa as well.

Cheats!!

2007-08-30T09:40:00.000-07:00

I feel cheated. All the way to Kumbalgudu, lovely hostel, great people, edible mess food, interesting professors, and I feel cheated. Until two days ago, I thought I had magazine writing as my core course. This, according to me, meant I'd be learning to write articles and features for mags. Somehow, Kaur and co. have a different perspective on this one.

Initally, I had one core course and two electives. Suddenly, I've had to drop one of my electives because the credits would add up to more than what the non-mag/new media students would have. Now, with magazine as my core and International as my area of specialisation, I have just one elective in Health and Environment. Others have their core (newspaper/tv), plus area of specialisation, as well as two electives. What the hell does this mean? Logically, that I am now a newspaper student with magazine as my elective!!

All the way to Kumbalgudu, 2.5 lakhs in the IIJNM pocket, story ideas I do not get, cores that get changed into electives for 'credit management', and I feel cheated. Rightly so.

IIJNM impressions....

2007-08-27T09:48:00.000-07:00

Deadlines and dinners, catfights and group work, we get it all at IIJNM. Music is a way of life, as are 1s on news quizzes. No one escapes the nightly gossip on the terrace; neither can anyone get away with sleeping in class. But the usual notes get passed and the doodles get drawn.

We’ve been given a whiff of the cheese, however. And the faculty knows just how to draw on our whetted appetite. The cats are looking forward to chasing the mice for a whole year. Well then, let the games begin!!

Nostalgia

2007-08-12T23:52:00.000-07:00

You walk along. Melange of desert and lake....Your feet sink into the earth, yet come out clean....But thats the dry section....When you move further from desert and closer to lake, the earth begins to caress your feet. The damp lifts from earth to body and you can feel no more connected to your soul than then. Through the wind whistling by, you share your secrets with God, and smile as He laughs with you....You find yourself among the pebbles and the sea shells; each one different, unique, beautiful....

Somehow I find myself getting philosophical....It is me, or rather one of those parts of me - the one that shows itself only when I'm alone, at home. Its the part of me that only I can accept because it'll seem so stupid to everyone else....and I feel it here, the place I invite you to.

Among the trees, I see the unity of my people, the harmony thats gotten us through the years of colonization (of both Portuguese and politicians). They stand tall, together, in a haphazard orderliness....Everything on the beach exudes the word that describes a Goan: 'sussegado'. It means laid-back, relaxed....This word has unfortunately been corrupted to mean negative things like lazy and unconcerned, but it is not so....It means taking your afternoon siesta, after your family lunch of fresh fish,curry and rice; it means chatting with the neighbours and knowing them like your family; it means being in your shorts and tee all day long; it means, quite simply, being Goan....

2007-08-06T10:02:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, you dont have enough confidence in yourself. I suppose thats what it takes to succeed. If you believe, anything can happen....Err, maybe not. Something will happen, but whatever does, it'll be for the best.

I know I can do lots of things. But how well I can do them is what's bothering me. I can write, but can I write well enough to succeed in the course I've chosen? I can draw, but is it justified to sketch from a photograph? I can play guitar (can I really?!?), but classical is not enough. It is similar with so many other activities I do....Jack of all trades, master of none.

If I sit down and really think positive, I figure 'I can do something. I must be good at something. Its just that I haven't found that something yet.' And I suppose that will happen. But how long am I to wait for me to finish discovering myself? After 20 years, its still not clear in which direction I'm headed....I see all these wonderful people around me, each and everyone talented in their own right; good enough to make the grade in that area/those areas....No jacks here, all masters, or nearly there....

Maybe I just need to work up on what I have now, and what I can already do. Practice makes a man perfect, huh?!! (whats with me and idioms today?!) I believe I can do something, get somewhere. I may not be as good as every one else, but is that the point? My ideals are way up there, and the real me is way down below....But its just for the moment. Just for the moment.

friendship?

2007-08-04T22:33:00.000-07:00

Friendship day. What the hell does that mean? A day to remember your friends, send silly little cards saying 'Friends forever'....Buy flowers for the girls and bands for the boys, deck up and have lunch at some swanky resto....Then turn around and bitch about people. Its so hypocritical. I dont care about the whole Hallmarks charade. They need to make money. So, big deal. They do it on Mothers day, Fathers day, Valentines day, any day.....
Making a case for these 'days', we need to appreciate the people for whom that particular day is dedicated. But buying cards from stores with corny words and dishing them out to every piss fart whose name you know is not appreciation. It just goes to show how pseudo you are. Words must mean. Saying 'friends forever' and then 'what a bitch' is only proof of the kind of friendship you value.

Five Point Someone

2007-08-03T09:40:00.000-07:00

I've just finished reading Chetan Bhagat's "Five Point Someone". Every one I know told me the same thing - "Its an amazing book. Read it." I did read it. It was 'luvly'.(Haneef, in case you're reading!!)

The language wasn't something I expected. It was rather simple and brief. But then again, it was supposed to portray the thoughts of an ex-IITian, rife with "you know"s and "like"s and flowery language incomplete without asterisks. It surely isn't the kind of book I'd recommend to anyone trying to improve their vocabulary. I was looking for that and I didnt exactly find it, which is why I still write like a 5th grader.

The story....Well, there is no story. To give him credit, college/uni life is not a story. Its just a sequence of events (or in some cases, an uneventful sequence!) that describes how you spent some of the best (or in some cases, studious!) times of your life. Hari and co. did have a colourful college life and as with most books there are lessons to learn - stick by your friends, understand others, DO NOT steal the question paper....

It was a fun book to read. You pretty much identify with it. And for non-IITians, its a peek into IIT life - the not so hunky-dory part of it. The truth. The fact that world over, some professor or other decides you're not worth 2 pence and just for kicks gives you an 'F'; that no matter how good you were in school, you're just not good enough; that there's always someone better than you, there's always something you dont know; that friends can get you into shit just as soon as they can get you out of it.

Five Point Someone will never be my favourite book (although I havent read too many books!), but it is enjoyable.

2007-07-31T05:51:00.000-07:00

People cannot understand that our world is being screwed big time. It serious. Every one thinks it's somebody else who has to take the initiative and the whole saving-the-planet-from-extinction is "not our thing". Simple things like leaving a tap running. Why would you need to keep the water gushing from that spout when you're brushing your teeth or shaving? To prove "Hell yeah we're civilized. We got running water."? Turn the damned thing off.

And leaving the lights on in the room. Afraid of the dark, are you? It consumes energy, bird brain and that's something that is precious. Just like the gas in your stove or your car. Money dont make gas. It just buys it. The day that gas is over, are we going to start stacking piles of greens to fuel the fire? I've seen people leave their motors idling and go shopping! I've seen people take their vehicle to a store 500 meters from their home because "its embarrassing to be seen on foot". Its a bloody status symbol. I have gas, so I can afford to go about with my head as big as a balloon. Bust it bugger; we wont have gas soon. Walk. It wont hurt you. In fact it'll take away some of the blubber you've put on.

I need to write

2007-07-30T09:23:00.000-07:00

I can't write. I have writers block. But I have to write. Because journalists write and I'm learning to be one so I need to write too. So I'm writing.
Ok, this sucks. Lets try again. Goa seems to be a good topic since thats the only thing I know about. Actually, I don't know much about that either. I haven't really been out clubbing much so I know less about the night life than a nun. And when I got to IIJNM, every time I introduced myself, I'd say "Hey! I'm Dielle from Goa". Then there'd be the double takes. Obviously, I'm from GOA! The place to be. But then, there'd be a question mark replacing it - "What's your name again???" Whatever!

Shanti Bhavan

2007-07-27T09:38:00.000-07:00

Shanti Bhavan - place of peace....Peace of mind, body, and soul. At least for the children that live there, it is home - where the heart lies...Underpriviledged kids get all they need in terms of support, mainly emotional.

Well, it started out as a bumpy journey, rent with noise of so-called 'aspiring journalists' screaming themselves insane. The bus ploughed its way from jungle to civilisation to jungle....and people started to drop off, beginning with Nikhil - with his mouth open of course!! Sohini had to forget that one needs to pee before beginning a journey, so I pretty much spent the ride listening to the mantra "I need to piss. I need to piss."

After an age, we finally got to the other side of nowhere and queued to the loo...Its quite odd that mostly girls need to use the loo. The assembly was something to be remembered; very inspirational, and well done. The George Foundation really must be applauded for doing a great job with the kids there....Its obvious the children squeeze the juice out of every opportunity and facility. I suspect that is what provides the motivation to the Foundation itself. They spend a fortune on the project of educating these children. Apparently, they've asked big corporate houses for aid and have been sidelined on almost all accounts. This speaks volumes about the priorities of these corporates considering their role in the development of the country. I'm sure they can spare a small percentage of their profits....

The Foundation itself generates income from their banana and grape plantations around, but it still is a lot of money. According to the head there, they spend about 6-7 lakhs a month!!

Seriously speaking, walking down the lanes at Shanti Bhavan reminds me of Devaaya(the ayurvedic resort in Divar, Goa). It made me a teensy bit homesick, seeing the chickoo and coconut trees and relishing mango for dessert......

Today, at IIJNM...

2007-07-26T09:05:00.000-07:00

1st assignment at IIJNM today!! It had to be a long walk through the village....I love walking....In Goa, there's not much difference between the villages and the towns (at least the ones I've seen!!); similar facilities, stuff like that...I expected to find a big difference in the town and city life here and that's exactly what I found. But what I did not expect was to fall in love with the landscape - green fields full of vegetables and ragi and mulberry bushes, cattle grazing, little lambs protected by a fence, the village dogs trotting behind you....

We entered the first school we saw and were literally swamped by children. They sit on the floor and some have no shoes, but they all have something to say. English alphabets and the digestive system decorated the walls. Oh, and they love you all the more if you have a camera.

The roads were terrible though. My first trip down the road was when I came to IIJNM. I arrived by rickshaw and it felt like I was on a pogo stick! The darned vehicle had NO shocks. All the 'shocks' were taken by my spinal column....

Don't matter....I had a great walk today after a long time. It feels real good. Walking just takes your misery away. You check out the sights, hear the sounds, smells the aromas, jump out the way every time some idiot tries to run you over....Its great excercise!

News?wats that?

2007-07-25T10:06:00.000-07:00

Watching the news is such a drag....As a student of journalism, I'm expected to know every bit of news that goes over the waves.But me?No, I know 2 bits of news. And thats because someone else told me about it.

Learning a language

2007-07-25T08:30:00.000-07:00

French is such a beautiful language to learn. I love the way the 'r's are rolled and every sentence seems like it flies out of your mouth. I would love to be able to speak French fluently. This brings me to learning new languages. The method of teaching languages in India is so not professional.
Language is all about associating things directly with the words, first concrete then abstract. In school, we learned a new language through translation.eg. 'chaval' in Hindi means 'rice' in English. We are never shown grains of rice and taught that the word for what we see is 'chaval'. The best way to learn, according to me, is through picture-word association.By and by, vocabulary will increase, enough for us to learn the abstract and speak about just as a native would