Life and the likes of it

Moving away......

2009-12-16T21:51:00.002+05:30

In search of the new 'I' and need of some fresh space, I have moved.....
Blogger is clogging my thoughts (or so i say!).. Hopefully the new arena will bear more blogs posts or should I say more word-presses (now that sounded like hissing! I can almost pass off for a parsel-tongue)...
See you all there -
Living life with red tinted glasses

A chill ran down my spine

2009-11-10T07:47:00.003+05:30

The expression was my favorite and used it generously during i-dig-nancydrew-days. I would render mystery stories (in the beginning, only to apply the phrase) that almost paralleled the famous five, but set in my grandpa’s house in the country-side, forbidden-attic, overgrown monsoon-fed yard, old vile servants and the like. Well! The stories never got published, owing to… mysterious circumstances; not really! I simply wanted to state it that way. However, the phrase had formed an impression, that in addition to using it twice in the same sentence; I was willing to make everything frightening to chill the feel!

So when watching snow-white scared the shit out of me and I wouldn’t even look into a room with mirrors, I had put the slogan to rest. I bet a Halloween remedy of house of horrors could have gone a long way, back then and I wouldn’t have ended up half as petrified of the dark as I am today!

Although, it never stopped me from (over)indulging in X-files, groupwatching-to-be-scared of movies like the exorcist, the ring, later making a mockery of ‘Saw’, Urban legend and many others in the same genre. The most popular character of Nagavalli in Manichitratazhu (The-original-legendary-mallu-movie-defaced-by-commercial-farce-remake-chandramukhi-in-tamil-and-bhoot bhuliya-in-hindi) had left an eerie stamp and if not for the panache of lal-ettan as Dr.Sunny... I might have never watched the movie a million times after, to end up intrigued by the MPD twist to most movies about the possessed. Another unforgettable classic centered on MPD is Sidney sheldon’s ‘tell me your dreams’.

Last Sunday evening, I spent movie hopping and tad bored at times with the runaway hit ‘Paranormal Activity’. With a husband who believes that my phobia to darkness can only be combated by leaving me lightless and screechy on my way to the bedroom up the stairs, I thought the therapy had left me stoic to the most terrifying movie of the year! But then however hard I tried, as the wood creaked in the bitter cold of fall, I awoke to ungodly hours rerunning the movie in my head.

**Spoiler alert**The only saving grace was the fact that the movie ended on an ambiguous note and I with all the research on MPD and psychokinesis, also drawing inputs from Sunny-chaayan’s explanations in the end of Manich. concluded that Katie was indeed not possessed, but an ironically comforting split personality. The wicked climax was almost heart-breaking and numbing. **End spoiler alert** But the very fact that the movie depicted normal people, leading a normal life, haunted by abnormal activities did leave that very chill, this time as a knot in the pit of the stomach. The simplicity of the movie, down to the webcam prints and fear factor without any of the creepy music, special effect jargon left a deep impact!

I tried to douse the movie with a hop to feel good Christmas Carol in 3D and two servings of unhealthy Chinese followed by icecream. So tonight, before I break into a sleepless reprieve, I am going to read a light book, play the fun times at LA universal studios, when Frankenstein and friends were nothing but humans scared of us and the risible comments we made watching Ring 2 and hopefully fall into that luscious sleep!

Culture Shook

2009-11-04T07:38:00.004+05:30

The edapally punyalan stands valiant at the busy cross roads of Eranakulam(Kochi). This spear bearing, white horse riding, serpent killing, St. George of St. George church at edapally had always been a mystery to me. This deity with the power to control and rid snakes is an easy favorite even among the hindus who fear the snake gods. My maternal family home was built around a dozen edifices of snake gods and hence the allegiance to punyalan had stuck since a long time. Our trips to Kochi till date are always accompanied by a hand folded quick bow and swift donations to this white knight.

As a child, I was perplexed at the tam-bram association to a church and the politics of the faith confounded me to no end. When cousins chose partners outside the familial realm of caste, religion, ethos and what not, they were met with cold response from the elderly. The faith I had awed now seemed hypocritical. The willingness to rebel anything and everything had only become stronger and sadly the purpose was lost somewhere!

The families haven’t stayed far behind. The confluence of ethos, language, religions, casteism, is the norm; the fence is breaking away. Acceptance is now widespread and even in vogue. As we celebrate the unions, sport a thaali with influences from the families of boy and girl; organize weddings with various ceremonies making them double the fun, has the din shut us to what holds next? Has the clamor and victory of love left us in the end nonchalant? Did we revolt to find common ground and lose ourselves mid-way?

So when I posed the question to a friend, she was quick to conclude – “Our unborn children are Indians. They won’t be tied down to caste, religion, language and all the unnecessary barricades”
I wasn’t convinced – “So, it means they will know no language well enough, they will hardly understand any traditions, they will have no real direction to choose their god, they will never care enough for all the work we did to sever the very barriers.. Are we making a better world or breaking it?”
“All of that and much more. …”
“like?”
“We might as well brace ourselves to accept homosexuality isn’t uncommon” she quipped, tongue in cheek of course!

So when I grew up watching amma wake up early to paint the kolam, slurp many a serving of coconut oil laden avial, guffawed in the theatres watching Malayalam movies, mastered a language that can be spoken only if you are born into it; I had taken pride in all of it and let it all be part of me even without my knowledge, even with all the rebellion that had sprung. So am I wrong in expecting my unborn child to experience it the way I did?

It makes me wonder what our parents had in mind for us and how we turned out? Will we manage to introduce the best of cultures into our upbringing as parents? Will we be forceful, unmindful or renowned in our approach? So, if I were to save something what would it be – my religion, my tradition, my language, my food habits? If I make the choice, how do I make the save? and if I make the save, would it be at the cost of losing the choices of my other half?

The irony of the situation may cease in a long time. Hypocrisy fought with new hypocrisies… Blended fusions and potpourris created and meshed. Love triumphing above all else and leaving behind a trail of foot prints washed away in the sea of reform!

Long long weekends

2009-09-09T06:35:00.008+05:30

One might agree that Fall is the best season in the north-east and I have often mentioned that. Though it isn’t yet time for the colors to splash in tandem, the chilliness has been more than punctual this year and a few leaves are already turning yellow. The temperatures have started dropping and hanging in the comfort zone of a light jacket, making one wonder if the summer ended before it began.

In our quest to enjoy the remnants of summer, this long weekend, we spent lulling time with friends doing this and that. Met an old friend; though she had only twenty two hours to spare, we had managed to squeeze in lots of catching up, warming up to the fact that lot has changed since 2001, customary Boston-sight-seeing and a hearty lunch. It could easily be another ten years before I see her again, I am sure.

The remaining days were laid back (though the weather couldn’t have been more delectable), sometimes its long hours of sleep, elaborate brunches, lazy movies and naps on the patio that work better than a plan. However, yesterday we a group of six, headed to Salisbury beach, half expecting to be frozen to death. And like a wonderful surprise, we were met with sunny skies, cool happy waters and lots of fun.

Since we weren’t armed with towels and such, owing to our pessimism of the weather, for a dip in the beach, we had settled to playing Frisbee, amateurish kite flying, gobbling dark chocolate all under the golden sun and brown sands. We followed this by a sumptuous lunch at the Salisbury Pizza – if you are travelling anywhere there, may I say they have awesome food and lots of choices for vegetarians too!

Early evening, stuffed till our stomachs could burst, we headed to Newburyport. We quickly embarked on our new adventure of sea-kayaking. Though not technically in the sea, we were kayaking in the river delta that had rough waters. The experience was a lot different from the lake kayaking we had done many times before; this one was harder and all the more fun! We paddled three miles, until the muscles ached and stomachs rumbled again!

Tiredly refreshed, we went on to explore the Newburyport square in the wee hours of the evening. The canopy of pretty shops, rustic red brick buildings and the bustle of people was more than welcoming to rejuvenate. We feasted yet again at a sweet little Italian bakery, on yummy gelatins, jujups, cookies and more.

Against the setting sun and crimson skies, we headed back on our one hour drive, reminding myself that it is these little moments of nothingness that make a bigger something to look back to!

The moonlight witness

2009-08-05T20:19:00.008+05:30

We rarely see the moon in this part of the world. Either it is grim skies of winter or the rains in summer and spring. But some nights like tonight – once in a Full moon – it is moon-beam splattering its way through my window, distracting the sleepers' eye and before it fades away into grayness of the fall season, I wish to capture it in my memory and blog.

Let me rewind a fourteen years; I am witnessed by the moon picnicking with two equally sanguine childhood friends, in the labyrinth of our terrace. We believe to have attained childlike nirvana, being famous five! We are gobbling down éclairs and cream biscuits, imagining it to be aunt fanny’s cooking.

Fast forward a few years, train travelling from a school excursion - vizag to hyd; moonlight streaming through the dirty grills of the Second class Indian train. Dumb teenagers we are; mesmerized and blinded by bollywood, banter hours on about how romantic the whole scene is! Only thing missing for the tittering girls is a music number and the urgency of a crush.

Further a few more years, a friend and I steal the breeze by besi beach at 9 pm, a contentious hour, not even 50 ps in our midst to buy the raw mango snack, warming to a never ending talk, smiling and preserving an honest friendship moment - the moon cheering us against the splashing sea!

And then a three years ago, laughing on the moon washed steps of the Copley church against a bustling Boston city; I harbor a moment to the treasure knowing little that he is the one I am to marry.

Now lying awake; watching the moon shine through my window, stealing my sleep in all its brilliance, I am but contented... For she gave me a lot to b(dr)eam about!

“How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank.
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.”

- William Shakespeare

Hot meals and spicy treats

2009-05-02T02:38:00.008+05:30

Warning: Even if the title sounds like Padma Lakshmi’s next hip cooking-model book, this post isn’t anything like that!

When I was twelve, my mother was in her cook-with-a-difference phase or so it seemed. I believe it was fueled by the presence of a constantly hungry child and the influence of hyderabadi openness to garner every cuisine and culture as its own. For I am sure, if it hadn’t been for appa’s transfer and my board exams the fervor would have lasted longer than it did.

Back then when new recipes were being doled out by Khana Khazana over lull afternoon channels and internet was the priciest luxury, amma had settled to improvise the kitchen culture by watching the dishes come to life on television. After a particular disaster of navaratan kurma, she realized that watching wouldn’t do and a diary had to be maintained for recording the procedures. Many a times the diary would go missing when a chubby Sanjeev kapoor would be listing the ingredients; and so the recipes would find their way on last pages of phone books, newspapers and scraps of paper. Evidently, half way through a recipe, sprinkled on yesterday’s newspaper and an old bill, one of the bits would be lost, leaving the recipe to be at the chef’s mercy and the glutton’s fate.

Now don’t get me wrong here. My mother is a great cook, I have mentioned that before and many friends reading this blog would vouch for that. However before hyderabad, she never had a chance to come off the coconut shell of home-(mallu)-land cooking. Her enthusiasm caught on and appa and I were quick to suggest menus that ranged from ice-creams to home-made wine and trust me they were all made, made to perfection (the wine in fact took three cartons of grapes and six patient months). The summer vacation that year, you can almost imagine how the house was, but a conception of the cake house in Hansel and Gretel tale, if not literally.

Old binders of aging black and coffee-colored papers of recipes collections were dusted; new recipe books by Mallika Badrinath and Meenakshiammal adorned the kitchen shelf; a vegetable garden was erected tall and prolific that bore brinjals, corn, beans, tapioca, lemon and many others I don’t recall due to sheer nonchalance. The only thing that was bought in the house was milk and given the playground like size of the backyard, I am sure even the oldmcdonald's farm could have been feasible in the unreal world.

There was not one single instance that triggered the slow down, but a confluence of many- a nagging teenager, who had taken preference to sipping road-side pani puris, moody biscuit-mami (the baking guru of the colony, hence the name stuck) had decided to not share her recipes anymore, almost ten different gardeners calling quits in a year’s time, Sanjeev Kapoor traded for soaps… Whatever it was, she headed homeward again and took with her some of the raving success recipes that are prepared till date (macroni, kadi and 7 cup sweet are my top three favorites)

The only things that remain of that wonderful era are a few photographs of the garden, that thank god were remembered to be clicked, and all those cookery books inherited by me, parked in my kitchen shelf. So, today when I swelled to the tiny bottle green leaves burgeoned from the sown cilantro seeds, I was almost beginning to relive the era; only this time, frightening enough, it wasn’t amma I was watching tending to the plants and digging through cook-book-diaries!

Boston Beautiful

2009-04-26T06:34:00.004+05:30

Boston Beautiful

I have often mentioned the bean-town is many of my posts; for its unforgiving weather, lovely Charles stretch, lively streets and even starbucks round the corner. Now that I live a painful fifty miles away from this youthful city, it only makes me love it more every time I visit. She was my first big city in this country and hopefully she’d be the last!

When the weather is a soaring ninety, spring is in the air and the sun doesn’t stop to shine until 8 pm, you can’t help but take the effort to travel the distance, swear about parking space and crowded city traffic, pay an indecent amount of money in the name of event (red Sox game) parking, yet let go all of that in the vibrancy of the winding university streets, comely cafes, beautiful.. beautiful weather and a pang of jealousy for all those enjoying the labyrinth as city dwellers.

Today was one such rarity, when spring was as warm as summer. It almost seemed like the flowers had bloomed overnight, unwanted crab grass and other pretty weeds had sprung in our lawn looming for the soaking sun and the world was buzzing with joggers, kids and outdoor-habitants.

We had headed to the boat rentals along the Charles and begun our day with some scenic kayaking. Cool waters below and sun drenching and later we had been shockingly lucky to find street parking. Next stop was the Noodle street restaurant for lunch on Commanwealth ave. We walked the Boston university teeming street to hunger. It was our first at this place and I’d definitely recommend their vivid menu. Though the ambience was a tad disappointing, the kitchen had succeeded in satiating our stomachs. If asian food is on your cards, this is definitely a nice one to try.

One hour long lunch and after, it was time for reviving old times- dear old Charles! Sun, shade, sunscreens and green, we had settled near the splashing blue waters for a slow evening; watching the Cambridge skyline strewn against the unrelenting sun, trees in pink bloom and tinge of smoke from barbeques burning all around. Time had simply waddled along, as I read, warmed to the sun, played some Frisbee and lulled to the moment forgetting to let the mind think.

Sun burnt and lazed, we called it a day to gear up for the long drive back. And before I began to walk back, I had taken a slow moment to stand by the bridge and take in the arresting view and the life swarmed around this walking city, only to miss her even more than I ever had!

Books from all over

2009-04-15T19:23:00.024+05:30

Update: Moving my books' specific blogposts to Divya's reading room

Taken from Preethi's blog; since I have been raving about the new found well-knit public (free) library close to home, I thought i will join in too.(Secretly, I wanted an excuse to re-read 'God of small things' for the umpteenth time :) ) Also, keep this space alive.

So here goes my list for the Orbis Terrarum. Might change depending on the books' wait-time at the library.

1. Crow Lake - Mary lawson (Canada)
2. In Other Rooms Other Wonders - By Daniyal Mueenuddin (Pakistan)
3. Death of Vishnu - Manil Suri (India)
4. A disobedient girl by Ru Freeman (Sri Lanka)
5. My sister's keeper - Jodi picoult (USA)
6. Lolita - Valdimir Nabokov (Russia)
7. Suite Franchaise - Irene Nemirovsky (France)
8. Book thief - Markus Frank Zusak (Australia)
9. Peony in love - Lisa See (china)
10. The Septembers of Shiraz by Dalia sofer (Iran)
11. God of small things -Arundhati Roy (God's own country)

So what is your list?

Foodies

2009-03-18T07:58:00.005+05:30

There is nothing more exhilarating than devouring food as a group; ordering so much as to lose track of who ate what and blink incessantly at the stout bill (with gratuity included like a clench in the stomach) only to realize that the idli Manchurian had escaped your side of the table completely! The past few weekends I had restaurant-hopped only to reiterate the slothful cycle of drink coffee- eat-discuss how to while away time until next meal-argue over choice of restaurants-eat again-play poker with snacks on the side-sleep-getup-drink coffee-decide which restaurant to go to today… (You get the point!)

May be I am exaggerating a little. No, I am not exaggerating enough! We played poker, watched crap like ‘watchmen’, smashed people as we played wii only (it seemed) to fill in the hiatus between meals that were delicious enough to dope you to ecstasy! May be not! But then, Indian food; I correct “good Indian food” is a rare commodity for a Bostonian and when one sets foot on Edison street of New Jersey, you cant help but eat all that food as much as possible, leave alone stop thinking/talking about it for sometime.

Amidst this little circle of life, that almost always revolves around the roti bit of RKM*, the Indian Diaspora in this country spends one-third of their time here – either trying hard to recreate the magic of food back home over long reliance bills and a million recipes online or reminiscing street foods, sharavan bhavans and sadhyai meals, like they were the only things that made them jingoistic about India.

Over my little less than four years here, I have come across many who have made it a point to be as minimally accommodative of the many choices one has for food here. And if I were to categorize the lot highlighting in Indian film industry style –“All characters are purely fictional. Any resemblance to someone living or dead is purely coincidental”, it would be thus –

NonChanceTakers: I’d rather not have the fries that share the oil with the lard. I’d rather stay hungry than dare look at a restaurant that isn’t deemed ‘pure veg’.
Scan the entire menu, scowl, scorn and say ‘Salad with no side’

SafePlayers: I don’t like to fuss, as long as the ‘m-word’ is not visible. They stick to the veggie options available and do not ponder more than what meets the eye. It is ok as long as the fish sauce is not chunks of fish in the pad thai.
Veggie burger please OR Vegetarian burrito bowl OR Greek wrap OR family style tofu

Non-vegetable eating Vegetarians: They could dispose of a pipping channa batura or dripping vadais until the last drop of oil, but if it were served on a bed of fresh lettuce could freak them out. Salad is a definite No-no and any vegetarian option that mentions fresh/grilled/lightly toasted vegetables is a put off.
Arree yaar, lets have Indian food ya… where the vegetable is mashed, oiled, deep fried and mutilated.

SpoilSports: The ones that get a kick out of freaking out the already difficult to acclimatize. Even the milk you get has beefy juices for fat; Tofu is processed lard ; Eeesh when they say fish sauce at a thai place, its actually oyster, squid and earth worm sauce!

TailorMakers: The ones that confuse the waiter to distraction
Thai chicken curry with no chicken
Fried rice with no chicken, no egg, no broccoli, no mushroom, no beans, no pea pods .. and .. ahh no tofu
Please use a new pair of gloves before making my veggie sub. I am allergic to meat enough to vomit all over this place..ehh

StrictTailorMakers: The ones that perplex the waiter to annoyance
Does this have meat? It says vegetarian. But it definitely doesnt have meat right? Are the vegetables actually meat cut like veggies? Sure no, No meat right? Will it taste like meat?

SemiVeg: They believe that a little indulgence on the other side is of no harm.
I am chicketarian when I go to KFC!, Otherwise I am a pure veg. I am not fussy, no..
I taste the gravy.. But I wont eat the meat you see..

DayKeepers: The ones that throw a surprise then and there.
Can I have the chilly shrimp customized to be veggie? ‘why?? Whats wrong? Health ok?’ ‘Saturday machi..Following no meat day dude!’

StrictlyNonveg: The ones that could frown at an all veggie menu and can eat anywhere else, as long as the dish has enough meat to regurgitate. For them the allegiance to the meat eating nation is secretly higher than the one called home.

All said and done, I am glad for having licked-sucked-belched over a many course meal at Bombay Talk from all the plates passed around and contentedly remembered gangotri days of college life and pandered to the shenanigans of a food-centric nation.

*RKM - Roti, Kapda aur Makan

A date with childhood

2009-02-17T02:56:00.009+05:30

I fondly remember a time when I would visit the Napier museum park in the heart of Trivandrum; a dome like edifice housed speakers which played chemeen almost incessantly. But I was too young to mind or enjoy it and I would gather a few more my age and make the dome our playground and the slides, see-saws and swings our abode. I would play until I bruised my elbows and knees red or until dusk gave way to dark.

Last Saturday, we had driven to Connecticut only to revisit life of twenty years ago. Tired of eating to distraction and switching channels that played mushy romance movies (it was contentious V day after all), we had decided to take a stroll in the park nearby. The golden winter sun and green air were all that we sought and it had ended up being much more.

What awaited us were swings and play sets that included battle grounds, climbers, slides and ladders; and to top it, they were all unoccupied. It was with enough reluctance that I with S and S occupied the rubber seats of the swings, which had to be squeezed into owing to our bigger bottoms than that of a five year old. Though the initial squeaking of the chains made us wonder if we could be playmates again, we had finally picked up pace and soared higher and higher in enough merry against the cold air.

The guys were quick to mock our childish happiness, only to find the climbers and tubes all the more fun. Gymnastics were tried on the horizontal bars, ropes and ladders climbed in clumsy steps and firefighter poles glided down with adventure like hold. We almost believed that all was done, when N attempted a crawl in the yellow tube only to find himself too stuck to pull out. If it were a cartoon, I am sure he would have wriggled out like a jelly, but in all due regard he finally made it through with peals of laughter all around.

If that wasn’t sufficient, the sliding monkey bar was the toughest of them all. Sz was a champ at it and managed to make the other two six feet-ers cringe for having jested him as small built. While he would make the Tarzan passes with ease, Sd had to be pushed and N simply remained hanging and refusing to let go however hard he tried to move. In all good humor, we had taken over a kids’ world even before we knew it and like all playtimes this one too wound up against a setting sun with relentless laughter and fun.

For we hadn’t had enough I believe, since that explains our excitement at the restaurant table later that evening to find crayons and play booklets left by the previous occupants. Our dinner was marked by drawing classes remembered over napkins brought to life with hills, sunrise, birds, trees, mangoes and houses. With a couple of ‘bad draw-er’ jokes and hot fudge and ice cream, our V day had come to a contented end.

Of all the things that I so dearly miss in this world, I am glad that childhood is unlike them all; for I can never be too old to relive it.

Rattling adventure

2009-01-27T01:06:00.004+05:30

Rattling adventure

When you start hearing noises more than the creaking of wood and more like someone actually walking your floors at night, you are either living in a haunted house or there are uninvited nocturnal rodents plundering your dear house and heavenly kitchen. In our case it was the latter and it was not until last Thursday that I had started to notice what a messy guest I had inadvertently housed.

For the drawers that kept warm clean towels were now smeared with yellow pulses and defecation that if not realized looked more like burnt cumin seeds. I could almost puke at the thought that I had infact thrown a couple by the splash of the hand thinking it was my tempering rendered to chutneys and curd rice that had found a way to splutter haywire. If that was not enough, the vessel scrub was shredded to bits and plastic boxes gnawed to contention.

But then the little rascal was nowhere in sight every time, I’d get into the shelves. It wasn’t until Saturday morning that I had seen a flash of tiny pink tail and gray fur scuttling to darker corners in my yellow pulses shelf. And I had not given a moment for the numbing shock to sink and shrieked the hell out of morbid fear and equally advent indignation. My hygiene obsession had indeed taken to unwanted hospitality and I was truly hurt.

For someone who had guffawed over a daily dose of Tom and Jerry and had watched a valiant appa enter battle grounds with a broom and a screaming amma jumping on the stool, this wasn’t new but it definitely wasn’t fun! Talking of which, Tom is truly the depiction of a foolhardy human disposition to handling the house guest. N and I had fared no better and even Homer Simpson would have considered farcical what we attempted next.

A fortune cookie was promptly placed in the top drawer now devoid of the soiled towels. We waited until the prattle of hungry eating be heard. N assumed a tin and knife, whereas I held the broom like pointing it in attack from a creature bigger than me and waited in ambush almost six feet away from the circle of attack. No sooner had the drawer been pulled to reveal a feasting Stuart, N had attempted trapping it in the tin; I had screamed again sending the tin, the knife and a pair of beady black eyes on gray fur flying down to the floor and the spectacle ended with Stuart heading under the dishwasher and N fuming at his machismo under attack by a screaming wife.

If only we hadn’t enacted Tom and Jerry, the bothersome resident would have stuck to the shelves and eventually trapped. Instead, we had now let him loose to roam the house and touch anything he pleased. Anyone involved in this game would agree that the most frustrating part is the ineptness of a human attack and the agility of a smaller being throwing challenges at you.

We decided to do what is normally done through patience and wit. (No knives, tins, ropes or such). We headed to buy traps and offer him a feast. Though he hadn’t budged on Saturday night, I had successfully bribed a warm brownie into trapping the gate-crasher last night. The four hours of scrubbing shelves and disinfecting them was no easy task. And not forgetting to mention the packets of expensive pulses and load of plastic boxes trashed for fear of poisoning. For I had always sympathized with Jerry all this while, I sure got to know who the true villain is. It definitely isn’t Tom!

Musically yours ARR

2009-01-20T22:24:00.006+05:30

Its a long one, I must warn!

It was love at first beat on a sultry afternoon in Trivandrum. I was ten and training for a cultural fest appa's office organized for the employees' families annually. We were a group of unruly kids, with two left feet, shaking our booties to 'chikubuku rail eh'; we were literally marring any attempts the racy number and a sexier Gautami had stirred in the youth that summer. For us it meant aping prabhu deva, yelling the lyrics as we disco-ed and understanding a phenomenon that would grow faster than we did – A R Rahman.

Roja was my first tamil movie in a theatre and it was not until years later that I realized the essence of the movie and its lovely direction. To me, it was my first audio cassette and the treasure of songs it contained. I clearly remember getting Goosebumps listening to 'tamizha tamizha' and the kindle of patriotism that the music created back then. I had clearly turned a fan and Rahman was too good to be true.

The elderly were quick to counter the Rahman fever shunning him as another passing cloud of different music genre. Every time, I'd hear someone say that, my heart would sink and I would secretly wish Rahman would never falter; he would never let us down. And I had been right. The little shelf beside my study table grew consistently with cassettes rendered by the maestro, songs I would listen to until I'd know every word by heart and every tune like a rhyme. This had included some coldly received and quick to vanish albums like super police, one 2 ka four, Udaya and Gangmaster; I was unmoved. His music was one that grew on you.

But, then he would always come back and sweep you off yet again; He would render heart wrenching, foot tapping and mind blowing music; Indra, Bombay,Duet, Rangeela, Kadal Desam, Kadhalan, Indian, padayappa, Jeans, Sapney.. It was the era he had been unstoppable. It was the time when teasers on TV literally were teasers and I would have to wait until the cassette became available at the then huge store 'sangeet sagar' in the center of a busy secundarabad. I would impatiently wait for appa to return from work with the new cassette and finish up my exams, so that I could play the songs on my little sony player in the labyrinth of my room. It was a time of bliss and an extended love affair with the music and the maker of it.

By the time, I had submitted myself to wonders like alaipayuthe, Lagaan, Boys,yuva, taal.. he had continued to amaze. But I had grown over childish love. I was judgmental. I would pick tunes that sounded like old numbers. I had found other quarters to share the warmth. A shelf that only held Rahman's collections now harbored others. There were many making music in his adopted style and may be even catching up. Yet Rahman sold; but now he sold as the brand ambassador, of (a)typical styles, consistent deliverance and artful recycling; Baba, Boys, New, kisna, Meenaksi, Enakku 20 Unakku 18, Varalaru, kadal virus.

He did win me over many times; But now I would be hooked to certain songs in the album; I had lost patience to let the whole thing grow on me phase. Our relationship was stale now. I knew how much to love and how much to let go. I was almost beginning to accept that he was as human as us all. He had made some noise with Rang De basanti, ATM, shivaji. It was now all about, listening to most of the album and letting go of not even worth ‘grow-able’ on you ones like the ‘uru koodai sunlight’ or some of the extra saccharine ones of Jodha Akbar.

Amidst this sea of transformation, I had never given up. Not once. I would always ensure, I do a run of the songs and a second time and then pick the best. I’d say its Rahman after all. When Slumdog millionare had come by, I loved it. I knew Rahman has done better, but this was totally worth the recognition he got now; for all these years of hard work And when the golden globes were bestowed upon this modest shy person, I could not have been happier; for he deserved every bit of it.

But last week, a vintage Rahman was back; the one who had swooned Roja and Bombay into us. He had struck a heavy chord with Delhi6. Every song a true love, emanating innovation and variety, I sure turned into the ten year old again. I felt he had his heart and mind at the same place when he made this music. My cousin remarked that the album was her suprabatam these days. It only made me smile to wonder how much ARR had turned into a household name and we didn’t even realize it.

I cannot say Rahman is timeless or applaud him as the Mozart. For, I am just the addict, who has been picking up pieces of the aftershocks he leaves behind.

Sleepless

2009-01-17T01:12:00.003+05:30

Its a little more than one am on an icy Friday morning. I am wide awake engulfed with thoughts, memories and what not? I sit here listening to the house cringe to the bitterly cold outside; the windows ablaze with icy moisture and I warming to the luxury of night socks and down comforter.

The scene outside is nothing but a canopy of trees sans leaves, abandoned and wiled to battle the weather for a better spring in the waiting. The envelope of snow and its carpeted whiteness makes the night seem a shade brighter. The moon is nowhere in sight; just a grim sky etched with clouds and a few houses as shadows at a distance.

It’s a silent night nevertheless. All I hear are the occasional creaking of wood and the snort -like snores of N beside me. It reminds me that the houses in this part of the world are as living as the people in them; where the wood breathes, survives, wears and dies.

Such nights have been rare. I have always been the peaceful sleeper, the morning person; and if not sleeping, I’d be busy busting my ass to clear an exam or panicking for an assignment submission. Or if it were the 13th of December a five years ago, I’d be finishing up my phone calls with the world far and near, from every friend of the past fifteen years, many of who wouldn't recall a friend called DD now; And then I’d sleep tight with a smile of contentment. Or as the unripe teenager, I’d be giggling into my pillow with my best friend beside me; Or on even rarer nights finishing up the last dance to leave the party.

But it is not one of those nights. Its a night I have been sitting up to type; for stopping the thoughts that are racing past; of mundane memories of an era bygone; of bus numbers, previous home addresses, school buildings and names of roads walked or ridden; as if I was so grotesquely bored that I had been rewinding life in its bare details.

It is a night when I have no silent tear to shed; no secret crush to swell my heart to wake; no deadline looming; and no phone calls to wait for! And yet I lie awake to the perfect ruin of a winter sky, a tinge of purple in the air and the distant rumble of a heater; all in the wee hours of a sleepless Friday morning.

2009-01-15T08:31:00.004+05:30

Sporadic Writers Block and slow down of thoughts.. May be I am growing old.. Sigh!

When colors fall

2008-10-08T03:28:00.013+05:30

Life in New England is a mirage of seasons. This time around it is fall at its peak. Many a leaves have turned a brightly yellow and others a fiery red. My route to work through the US-3 is a splash of yellow, red, orange and green, distracting the drivers’ eye. The colors bring a whiff of chilliness with them that sets in – as the early morning frost on the car, over the warmth of a hoodie on my skin, in the errant afternoon breeze, on a sunny day brazen with dropped temperature.

The weekend past, we drove northwards to White Mountains that are supposedly painted the best during this time of the year. It was a mission to hike in the comforting cold air and gather as many wallpaper pictures as could be. We began our trail at the polar caves . The polar being a misnomer, this place houses a gamut of rock formations, daring one to walk, crawl and adventure through the enclosed passages. Some of the narrowest of paths were aptly named as ‘fat man’s misery’ or ‘lemon squeeze’. With a few bumps from low rocks and out of breath walking steeply curbs, we had spent a good part of the morning hours enjoying the caves encompassed in a fall colored forest.

The next stop was the flume gorge , hosting a 2 mile trail through a ravine as the name suggests. This natural chasm is traversed through the gravel path and wooden bridges lining the long stretch of gurgling waters. Not only is the path steeply with many ups and downs, it also glimpses over the surrounding hills laden with canopies of beautiful red, yellow,orange and crimson. It was indeed a difficult hike, owing to our grumbling stomachs midday. But the picturestique falls and naturally dyed ambience were a treat to remember.

An imperative refueling over Chinese food and later, we had less than two hours before sunset to make it to our next destination. The loon mountains otherwise a popular ski spot during winters, offers skyrides to get that much sought after aerial view of the mountain ranges. As the ten minute ride climbed atop, we were on the last leg of photo taking, leaning towards saturation. In the wee hours of dusk, the cold was prickly and the elevation only made it worse. Doused with over zealous spirit from the rest of the day and dew settling in, we had called it a day to retire.

As I drove back, against the setting sunlight and wonderful chill, I was glad for catching a peek of fall at its best and not making it a reminder of harsh winter days to come, but of foliage unmatched!

Should it hurt to be beautiful?

2008-09-30T03:00:00.012+05:30

Should it hurt to be beautiful?

Last week, I had chanced upon a used book store, running a 90% off sale. In all my excitement, I had walked away with a big bundle for a steal. It can’t get better than to have a shelf lined with books, you are yet to read or re-read for the love of it. It felt great to own the books, I so remember having enjoyed through the borrowed old latte-colored pages of Arcade, Eloor and Senthil libraries. As I digress to what this post is meant to be; I am reading snow flower and the secret fan a novel entailing Chinese women. Half way through -- the vivid descriptions of foot binding left a deep and painful impact on me.

I, like most women, love shoes. But, much unexpectedly, I don’t fancy high heels though I do not have a height to boast of. Hence my closet is full of flat shoes; flip flops, sporty and slip on. For one, I am clumsy with anything that requires lily steps and two; I am not tolerant to the discomfort the pointy sought after ones come with. Nevertheless, I do have a wedge-heel tucked deep in the shoebox stack for a rainy day! I can’t but mention Carrie from SATC and her passion for shoes, which is shared by almost every woman in today’s world; willingness to let the heels hurt to distraction, the distraction being an obsession for sexy high heeled, overpriced lovelies.

In this regard I dare to be countered – Aren’t the pencil heels doing tardily what foot binding did irrationally? Aren’t we continuing to succumb to what the society prescribes as beautiful, though we have come a long way to stand up for what we believe? It opens up a whole new arena; of things that one does or has been doing to be beautiful, to be marriageable, to be hooked, to be famous and to be more feminine than feminine can be!

The acts of neck extending rings and painful piercing among tribal women in various parts of the world are well known. Of one such, I had witnessed were the deep holed elongated earlobes of older women in Kerala, so much so that the heavy blob of dangling gold could easily cut the soft flesh and many a times it does. If bronze-neck-stretching-rings and rib-breaking-hour-glas-shape-rendering corsets are looked upon as a thing of the past; fairness creams, silicon implants, gamut of make up options, plastic surgery and liposuction are the modern woman’s answers for perfection. And they hold evidence of the fact that beauty always comes with a price; the price of losing oneself in it.

I must confess I have not fared too well either. I endured ear-hole-widening a few months back to be able to wear jewelry for my wedding and continue to undergo a monthly routine to momentary spasms of waxing and threading; my threshold of pain ends there. One might say I am mixing grooming with inexplicable extremities. But then, the scale of pain and scope of sprucing up have been murky and almost undefined.

For, if -- Beauty lies within and Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder; so long as the beholder is blinded with the emphasis this world offers to pulchritude, the within bit is evidently lost in our quest for beauty.

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Found this news item. Latest Head shrinking fashion device

Moments by the Sea

2008-06-10T08:16:00.004+05:30

Moments by the Sea

It is change of seasons in Boston; all that rain and spring giving way to a green summer. The soaring temperatures, warnings of a heat wave and tropical country like humidity have been a welcome respite and a reminder of the Indian summer that I so miss! And like all Bostonians, we had decided to not let such good weather go past us and have plans to gather enough sunshine to last the winter!

The weekend past we had made a trip to the Ogunquit beach in Maine. Even with the warm sands and crispy winds, the waters were still icy cold and the waves splashed in foamy contentment. The coastal lagoon of Perkins cove was an ever scenic walk with the ocean crashing against the rocks.

I had in childlike spirit, trekked the subtly steep mossy rocks leading to the deep splattering sea. The rock divide, caused waters to gush through them creating a rivulet of waves and gurgling noises. In the silence of the noisy waves, the tinge of a saline humid fog and the sea salt in every breath, we had parked ourselves on the rocks to capture the view that lay ahead of us. And I believe I could arrest that picture perfect sunny misty sea, as beautiful as it was, only because we had forgotten to carry the camera and if anything could hold that moment it was just the memory.

Beaches have always been an unwavering infatuation and considering that one can’t travel to the sea here like I would all year round to Besi beach in Chennai, beaches to me, have become that sought after feel of freedom. There is always an inexplicable romance about watching the unending horizons and feeling the brackish whiff the breeze brings to your face. And having grown up waddling in the shankumukam beach of Trivandrum, I would still associate the beach with a west coast Arabian Sea and the crimson sunset;

My best moments with appa, preserved in remembrance, were begging to stay for the last dab from another wave, until the orange sun had hidden itself and painted the sky pink; I would then return, holding the conical paper pack of sand-fried peanuts, sticky salty legs and sand grabbing to them, much to the annoyance of amma’s sense of hygiene.

But then, as I watched the dusk set in on the Ogunquit beach, a grayish blue sky with streaks of red here and there, the east coast had failed to recreate the magic of a sunset, of that scintillating red fire like waters and burning skies. Yet, to me, the sea is that pinnacle of free will; of leaving your ties behind on the land, of knowing that there is life beyond the little space you have created for yourself in the world, of letting go your inhibitions and running free.

Ah! The beautiful sea!

Toothy Issues

2008-05-01T00:06:00.009+05:30

Toothy Issues

One of the most formidable visits one makes in a lifetime is to the dentist. I, for one, have been unblessed with crooked tooth and everything therein since the age of six. The complications mounted as I grew and varied from under-gums canines, bold incisors, and bugs-bunny-gappy smile. And for all that thrice a day brushing and stringent denial of chocolates, ironically, I had the worst set of teeth in the family!

I, like most children, was aware of the existence of milk colored projections in my mouth, when they shook, fell and went under my pillow for the tooth fairy wish. I was perfectly happy feeling the empty pockets with my tongue, until tiny obstructions burgeoned in them. But no sooner had I turned a viable, conspicuous age of twelve, my parents had decided that my asymmetrical white eruptions needed fixing and a pricey one at that.

The first daunting experiment was to stick permanent little hooks on each of my upper teeth. The hooks posed sufficient barriers to clog food particles, which over time gathered squishy yellow things. I looked no less than a smiley punk with piercing. The hooks were soon to be wound and tightened with a coil and together they were to pull my jaw in to get rid of the diastema.
But, a zillion things happened; appa was transferred, the dentist left the country for a year, my board exam year commenced… the hooks were left unattached and the one year mission was procrastinated by two.

By the time I had turned fifteen and completed my twelve years of schooling, attention was back to hooking, coiling and screwing. The episode lasted a few months and the braces were comprehensively adorned. I, for all the noise or the lack of it, had gotten used to the steel erections in my mouth; whether they enhanced my newly found grooming tendencies as a teenager or delivered the orthodontic skills depicted in ‘before’ and ‘after’ grossly close-ups of eee-ing teeth, one couldnt really tell.

The construction was finally taken off and my mouth relieved of the four year old metallic impingement. With a couple of teeth less and the rest supposedly spruced to near-perfection, I had forgotten the ‘before’ picture of my teeth; but the ‘after’ definitely didn’t look like the picture perfect smile of Maduri Dixit on the dentist’s cluttered notice board.

Ten years and after, contracting jaws and teeth together and later, my wisdom tooth had decided to spring. My mouth had forgotten to make room for the unwarranted guests and they had rooted themselves under the gums almost cracking the corners of my mouth in rebellion. Local anesthesia, grinding, drilling, squeezing, laughing gas masks and a bloody battle fought, my corners have been hollowed in the last couple of months.

In anti-climax of my toothy adventures, I am told from the x-ray that a tiny piece of the injection needle is tucked somewhere safe [as a result of operator error], between gum, bone and tissue while extracting my obdurate wisdoms. I, for all the swellings, milkshakes, pain killers, and a few hundreds in dollars hope the next visit would be my last for the next fifty years!

A Good Hair Day

2008-03-05T00:42:00.005+05:30

A Good Hair Day

The sultry dark hair saloon at the corner of east fort, Trivandrum, resonated of a stubborn fan and rhythmic clanks of deftly moving scissors. I, the four year old was seated on the high rotating chair facing the cloudy mirrors. In all curiosity, I peered through my oversized blue plastic robe to catch a glimpse of appa’s reflection. No sooner had the barber chettan delivered a shave for the portly uncle; he had exchanged a few words with appa. He had assumed the scissors and comb, one in each hand and given me his toothy smile through the mirror. In all my hesitation of the surroundings I had reciprocated with incessant wailing. Half and hour and later, I had left the dingy room, smiling through tears, one five star bar heavier and all my black locks intact.

And with that appa’s new venture began, to civilize my hair to the child-like length. He had begun his experiments with the fringe like cut, wherein an umbrella like ringlet hung on the forehead. Like any amateurish effort, my hair got shorter by an inch for each mistake he rendered. Yet, appa had amassed the skill to perfection with years and saved me from the daunting saloon visits, for the better half of my childhood.

Owing to my inhabited tom-boy cuts, I had let the coiffure slip through teenage until I was seventeen. Over the schooling years, my boy-cut had succumbed to many a jibe like “feather-plucked-hen” or “chicken top”. And when I entered the portals of Engineering, I had had my first hair cut in a “salon”, letting my hair stylist retire, marking my age of growing up!

Some wise soul once stated that a good hair style gives you confidence. I am not sure if I concur that, but I am definitely a fad of the new look at the end of a hair cut. And if it is an ad hoc one, the feeling only gets better.

Last Saturday, I had with girl friends, treaded the Boston University streets, fighting the cold lethargy. Ann and I were meeting after ten years and surprisingly for her my hair looked much different from the tom-boy school days. But like stupid school girls, we had jumped to an impromptu whim to get a hair cut each at the Supercuts across the street. Though the rotating chair, plastic robes, huge mirrors felt the same, the ambience was marked by chatter of girls eyeing their hair through their mirror images.

A razor cut, trim, layering and later, we had exited feeling fresh and great. For our feeling and change of look was our own, since N and Size could hardly notice an iota of difference even after giving them a tour of the hairdo from each angle. That night as the girls’ day out was forgotten in yummy desserts, I was left to wonder about women and grooming; and how with a few swirls and curls, we turn prosaic moments to special ones.

Culinary, cuisines and me

2008-02-28T09:01:00.007+05:30

Cooking had never been by forte, until the past few years. My only record of having ventured the kitchen was during my engineering days, at 2 am, when in the last minute preps for the semester exam, I would render a quick cheese sandwich (recipe courtesy Preethi). But for all those adventurous cook outs at divku’s and home alone parties, I was a mere connoisseur of food cooked around me!

Ousting this reflection of mine, I have indeed taken to cooking in the past two years of my life here; partially due to the lack of amma’s presence and partially due to my genuine likeness to eat sumptuously. It had begun with many unwarranted experiments during graduate years and accommodated to more intricate dishes as work life set in. And like an answer to the old me, last weekend I had, with N, prepared a challenging menu for eleven odd friends who had dined with us; I believe the food wasn’t half as bad.

With the proclivity to cook, comes a tendency to venture into many boundaries. And living in a city like Boston with variegated cuisines, there are many choices to make. On one such mission, we had dined at the Addis Red sea restaurant in south Boston on Sunday. The little diner in the basement on Tremont Street, speaks of the Ethiopian culture even in the cane made dining tables called moseb. We were in for a surprise, as our seats were nothing more than the uncomfortable ‘moda’ backless chairs centered on the circle topped ‘moseb’.

When our curiously named meals arrived, we were served a large plate to be shared among the four of us. Four ‘injera’s, the Ethiopian bread made of barley and wheat, which looked and felt like the ‘aapam’ from kerala, lined the plate, with the curries ordered dropped at its core. Unlike a western dinner, the food is a compulsory eat-with-hand, owing to the dosa like injera, which is too soft for a knife or fork. Yet, in all its novelty and traditional setup, the curry had not appealed to our well spruced spice loving Indian tongue. To me the food seemed healthy and bland, with a twist of creativity, adding up to a fat check. And if you are looking for an unconditional change of ambience and taste, this is definitely a place to try.

For the less ambitious, is another of my favorite restaurants ‘Helmand’ in Cambridge. And as the name suggests, it’s an afghan cuisine, with a friendlier menu. The very familiar spicy rice and jeera rice are intriguingly named pallow and challow. For the meat lovers, the place holds a wide range of ‘murgh’ and ‘ghosh’ dishes. But barring it all is the desserts of kheer, custards and icecream with a dash of awareness and attractive names. Nevertheless to say, we often haunt the place for birthday parties and order every dessert on the menu.

And as for the twist in taste to hold the Asian touch, is the ‘Brown Sugar’, a sundry street diner on Jersey Street near Fenway. Being a lover of egg and accustomed to a coconut flavor, the Thai omelet is definitely my favorite. But my luncheons there are never complete without the melting hot and cold fried icecream.

If I were to recommend a local gastronomy, it would be the veggie burgers and flat bread pizzas at Uno Chicago grill. The rustic American set up of the 70s and 80s combined with the sides of French fries and coleslaw, I have dined here one too many. But for that burning tongue feel, the jalapeños coasted food with the Mexican flavor, “on the border”’s ‘chimichanga is a must try!

It takes a food buff to make a good cook they say. I am not sure if that really holds, but I have definitely speculated and played with ingredients ever since I have learnt to understand their flavors. On one such undertaking, I ended up with an eggplant curry and recipe goes thus –

Ingredients –

One or two large eggplants.
cumin
mustard
curry leaves
Ginger ( 2 cm cube )
2 small flakes of garlic
green chilies ( 3 or 4 )
1 tblsp of coconut milk
chilly powder according to taste
Coriander powder, if available.
Onion ( 2 )

Preheat the oven for 350 or more and bake the egg plants for half n hour, continuously pricking them with a knife.
Make a fresh coarse paste of ginger garlic and chilies.
Cut the onions long and fry them in olive oil, with popped cumin, mustard and curry leaves, until golden brown. Plop in the ginger garlic mix until the raw smell gives way to a smooth flavor.
Add chilly powder and fry until the dry pungency is lost.
To this brown mixture on fire, drop the coconut milk and let it simmer at a low flame, so that the unrefined coconut tang nullifies.
In the meanwhile, scoop the well baked egg plant, leaving the darkened violet skin. Cut it into smaller pieces if necessary.
To the well cooked, aroma emanating semi solid paste, add the eggplant pieces.
Now sprinkle coriander powder and salt as the eggplant cooks and blends with the gravy.
Let cook for 15 minutes. Serve hot with garnished coriander leaves. Very good for chapathis.

To each reading this, you are welcome to share your novel recipe. Till then happy cooking and happy eating!

Knots tied

2008-02-22T02:03:00.008+05:30

Knots tied

Whenever I think of a wedding and the little big intricacies that make it happen, I am reminded of the story “The missing mail” from Malgudi days. The story encompasses the pleasure and pain of bringing the observance together, surviving joy, hard work and crisis. And not so long ago, it was my turn to be in this rigmarole of a marriage, much unlike the era that Narayanan was describing and much like the beguiling ambience he had portrayed.

N and I come from backgrounds that are thankfully one-third alike; ‘thankfully’ since it makes the ritual a lot less complicated. But sometimes it is the other two-thirds bit that can make your wedding a little special and strenuous at the same time. May be that explains how we had squeezed time for me to adorn a madisar but carry a ceremony, as per N’s family tradition, that sans fire.

It had begun on a Saturday with a subtle pooja to the elephant god before dawn. As I prayed and chanted, it was appa’s sleepless night, playing host to the myriad of guests and finding them the respectable hotel accommodation all night long, which gnawed me. And somehow I had not understood until then that there is no such thing as a well planned wedding and if it were without consternations, it wouldn’t be a wedding at all.

The day had broken and spent with the many friends and cousins, welcoming and talking, all blending into that gregarious atmosphere, which was to linger for the next two days. The fulsome feasts had begun and the pedestals were laid for believing that something bigger was in the making. Before I knew, it was time for engagement ceremony in the evening and I was ushered to the bridal room for that first perfect look.

Our engagement was completed by the maternal mamas, who had thoroughly enjoyed the turban tying, garland exchanging and some pot belly hitting hugs that ensued. And with every little function, somehow the families, who had begun the journey with the two-thirds uncommon, were closing in on them. As for N and me, the blinding video lights and the gamut of pictures with constantly plastered smiles were only a warning of what we might be facing hence.

The wedding Sunday was deemed immensely auspicious and it seemed to me the entire town of Madurai was geared to wed. I was circumscribed to a saree only dress code from dawn to dusk, not that I minded, for that bridal touch. As my disoriented step cut hair was deftly braided into a knee touching length, I had mastered the skill to hold a heavy extension to my head. By the time I was worn the muhoortha pattu and jewelry I had spent hours and days designing and selecting, I was running a high temperature and the heavy drumming and gaggle of well wishers outside didn’t help my nervousness.

As I entered the decked pedestal, assuming an unbending namaskaram, the wafting redolence of my huge rose garlands, the olfactory of agarbathi, sandalwood and ornate jasmines gripped me. I was carefully whispered to walk like a bride and I had smiled inertly to my incorrigible clumsiness even in this heavy attire. If not for appa’s reassuring smile and N’s uneasy grin, I am sure I would have effectuated a ‘runaway bride’ scene. But I, in all my panicked calm, espoused the seat next to the pattu veshti festooned groom without further ado.

The ceremony was my first, of course for partaking, but attending as well. As a few words were being spoken by elders, I was but scanning the packed hall, for smiling at familiar faces much unlike a shy bride. Thanks to my humongous garlands and complementing hairdo, I couldn’t turn my neck to peek a word with N or appa. Soon, the gattimelam was sounded and I watched our fathers exchange garlands, followed by our mothers. And with that we had transcended into an ironic arranged marriage mode.

As if rising from my reprieve, we rose to a ritual, I never knew existed in Hindu marriages. With my hand in his, we repeated prose in wholesome Tamil, of words that sounded beautiful, but meaning unknown. Yet, we had in all proclivities agreed to marry the other through that lexis with a thousand odd people watching us.

The next few moments were lifetimes apart and if I were to recall, the only thing that stopped me from sobbing was N’s characteristic “it’s ok” nod, holding the wieldy chain of gold in his hands. No sooner had he given the nod; in the deafening noise and showers of well wishes, the taali had entwined my already crammed neck. And thus in the blink of the eye, we had accomplished the most defining moment of the entire wedding and managed to keep my eye liner intact!

With all anxiety weaned off, little did I know that, the groom and bride were to take a joy ride on the legendary kudirai vandi of Madurai? And to have a cousin hold an umbrella over you, as the horse made its way on the sunbathed streets, was indeed an unusual treat. What followed were a zillion wishes, a million photographs and the aftermath of many a magical moments. And somehow, everything post the crux is never as stirring, but the rituals never cease to end.

For many, it seemed like the new chapter to our lives had begun that day; but for me, it was one of the rarest days of my life when my whole family was together after many many years. Periappa, periamma, mama, mami, athai, athan, cousins and everyone bubbling away and am I glad that they could make it to this little town which they have never visited before.

That wedding night, as I prepared to leave my family to enter a new home, I had done something, I would have found cheesy as a third person. Having spent two days lolling with my entire family, all I wanted to do was stay back. And like a little child, draining my heavy makeup of the evening, I had cried my gut out hugging and refusing to let go of appa and in the bargain making everyone around me teary-eyed.

As I drove away, I was glad for I was married; not because I love N any better now, but for the blissful once in a lifetime episode, which had taught me the love for family again. For – if marriage is sheer optimism; it doesn’t get better than being given away into one.

ScrabBlues

2007-11-28T22:44:00.001+05:30

ScrabBlues

My life for the past few weeks was a restless wait from one weekend to next; hoping to get some sought after sunshine and enjoy the gelid weather through warm layers of sweaters, walking down the crowded streets with aromatic hot coffee. Ousting the prophecies of global warming and the like, this time around, the characteristic New England winter is here to stay in all its passion and variegation.

It has always amazed me, how nature controls ones life style in this part of the globe; how one acclimatizes to avoid excessive slumber, regulate the diet cycle, keep up gym resolutions, indulge oneself to avoid the pangs of depression the gloomy season can leave on you. It was on one such mission that poker had become customary on cold weekends last winter. This year with the core circle of poker friends strewn around the country, how the winter would unwind is a question mark.

As much as I love the chill and the intermittent snow it brings, finding the lack of daylight at 3 pm can be most difficult part of adapting. To top it is the perfect slowdown of life’s pace that, even the fifty minute drive to the remote theatre playing Om Shanti Om can be accounted as fruitful activity on a winter weekend.

It brings to my mind the science text book of third std., when I had memorized on a sultry warm November of Trivandrum, what people do in winter – wear warm clothes, drink hot soups, sit around a fire after early sunset and play indoor games. As if going by the book, we have been cashing on new adult games of taboo, scrabble and clue for that imperative wintry caffeine fix.

After the reviving of scrabble many years hence, I have also managed to remain hooked to its better alternative; scrabulous on facebook. Here the urge to cheat on cooked up words is carefully denied. And somehow learning a new word seems exciting again and even better when you are winning the game against your worst opponent when you were eight. Though a passing winter amusement, I am sure group games are in, for a while to come.

It is wonderful and intimidating all at the same time, how life is once again coming back in a circle; when games made friends at eight, you move on to teens shunning snakes and ladders as child’s play and as the mellowed tweens (as Div coined it) set in, games keep the friend circle chirpier than three hours of gossip over coffee or a sneaked out night at the club.

Such is the unfinished game of scrabble, when the vowels are too many on your plate, the words are there but not lucrative, you pass the turn, you make the inconspicuous word “on”; but stay yare to find the next best meaning, look up a dictionary; and in the end move on. A move to kick back on the winter blues, a move to keep the group engaged, a move to the next little step of life… all in a cold laid back evening hour.

October Happenings

2007-10-23T03:39:00.001+05:30

October is a month of transition; preparatory of no season, pertaining to no weather, just hangs in there to let go off the monsoons or fall, giving way to winter. And it may be for giving the month a reason to exist, that it homes festivities that are celebrated around the globe. Back home, it is the fanfare of navratri/dusherra/durga pooja. As a child I would look forward to those delicious sundals, dress up for kolattam and admire the niceties of golu.

This year too I was part of the fête, but of a mixed nature. My Sunday had begun with some experiments at making the sweet kesari. It was followed by efforts to replicate the customs for appeasing the goddess of knowledge saraswati. Her blessings were perfunctorily obtained by engraving all the known alphabets on a plate of raw rice with my finger tip. Like a novice, I had even tried out the few new tamil letters that I have picked up.

Contrastingly, the day had unwound over a finger chips lunch and ended with a huge cotton candy. We had decided to indulge in the do of Halloween, the navaratri counterpart of the west. And unlike the festival back home, Halloween is all about eerie awakenings, costume parties and making everything scary a happy ending. To enjoy the celebrations at its best, we headed to the town of Salem, following our little rendezvous with vijayadasami.

Salem is known for its association with the sixteenth century witchcraft trials, where the magic of broom stick dames and haunted house sagas come alive. The five blocks in the center of the town, were buzzing like a fair and the sunny crisp weather made it all the more fun. Having behaved like characteristic tourists, clicking snaps and posing for many, we had interlarded to taking the tour of the many little attractions the town harbored.

It began with the dark dungeons of the ‘Frankenstein’s laboratory’, where the monsters in black robes keep popping their devil heads through the winding horror movie styled alley and I had screamed and screeched myself silly. The next sojourn was the museums which told the history of the town and the witchcrafts through wax models. We also got to experience the ‘casting of spells’ first hand through a witching hour gimmick, put up by the practicing witches of the town.

Apart from these ghostly partaking, what I loved the most was the cobble stoned streets, lined with vividly decorated shops. They housed many ‘charming’ ingredients, witch hoods, pebbles, perfumes of unknown flavors, dry flowers, moonlit wall hangings, carved mirrors, mmystery chocolates and everything of a magical world. For many a moment it was like reliving wizard of Oz or incepts from Hogwarts.

I picked up a few souvenirs and made up my mind to come dressed the next year to blend into this little world away from mundane life. Before we knew, it was dusk and time to leave. It was with contended hearts and a fun day to remember we headed to the muggle world.

Wedding Bells

2007-10-18T00:19:00.000+05:30

Wedding Bells

It was through dusty black and white photographs, that amma had introduced her best friends from college to me. She had quoted composed yet with a little tinge of sadness that, she had lost touch over time and she wondered where her friends were married to. And it was then, I had made up my mind to keep in touch with my pals no matter what and even made promises over the infamous ‘spit hand shake’ that I wouldn’t miss their wedding wherever I was.

And when life has it otherwise, it is always combined with inconvincible guilt and pacifying counter affirmations. What comes to my mind is the little sunlit room, accommodating three girls, with their heads bent over the unfathomable ‘probability and queuing theories’. P, M and I were making last minute attempts to clear a paper, which was already termed difficult to fail, considering that scores could fall below 0. We had made the experience less intimidating, by surmising half understood work, discussing gossip and munching finger chips.

We had come a long way since then, to four wonderful years of college life. P and M were always there to listen to me crib about everything under the sun, tolerate my endless blabbering, forgive me for everything silly, organize surprise birthday parties and laugh and share. We had molded good from bad days and made silent promises to not forget, yet forgo.

And here we are two years away from, enthu movie days, beach talks, yapping over phone, lunch hours, ispahani center sojourns, night outs, group studies, (un)surprised birthday parties; all left behind to embrace new boundaries and new lives, woven over best moments and feelings permanent.

And like an answer to all those unsurprised moments of birthday cakes, here we are, as a surprise to many including ourselves, all getting married within the next eight months. In a week’s time is M’s wedding and I am 26 hours away, unable to attend it. Yet, nothing can stop me from being excited and equally happy, for this girl who had stood by me at all times and loves me for me.

On my last visit to India, the three of us had made that small talk, over the easy rounds of food. And, I was subtly intrigued how I had transformed to being ‘DD’ for those few hours I was with them. It was old times, blended in everything new. It made me wonder when we would do this, many years from now; table talking, pulling legs, scape-goating and smiling.

And somehow just like that, it was lucid. The only factor other than ‘change’ which is constant in our lives is friendship; and when you have friends who can make that change, the friendship will always be a constant one.

Post Dedicated to my best friends – Preethi and Manju. Wishing Manju the best wedding ever.

A toast to great memories.

The family album

2007-10-09T03:21:00.000+05:30

The family album

God gave us relatives. Thank God! We can choose our friends

It is the most cynical quip to forget family feuds and the most unfortunate during good times. Life sees many a circumstance to take the wisecrack seriously and many a times its existence is forgotten in happy moments and age of innocence.

As I look back almost twenty years, I was the happy four year old who had enjoyed every norm of a joint family; traversed the temple next door with grandpa, watched thathi say her morning prayers, waited for summer vacations to be able to make that cousins union, looked forward to be cosseted by aunts and uncles when amma scolds me – had been everything in the relationships I no longer adhere to and may be don’t belong to.

I sometimes wonder what happens to us as we grow; grow to be independent, grow to be judgmental of our lives and others, grow up beyond ourselves to not understand the happiness when we were four. And slowly, the same aunt and uncle who had every authority to pamper you would no longer interfere in your life. The cousin, who had been your best playmate, is the one you rarely talk to, you would prefer the company of your friends any day. And before you knew, the family tree had grown, strewn over the world map, divergent in thoughts and quests to make a life; had drifted to create hiatuses irreparable.

I am often confronted with requests to make a phone call to that distant cousin living in the same city as me, or the same country, to say a mere unreasoned ‘hello’. My reason to flee these uncomfortable gestures is my sheer ineptness to pursue mundane conversations about nothing with someone, I don’t relate to. I can no longer be the optimistic four year old, who would always think that cousins made best playmates.

At moments like these I often wonder when it had all gone haywire. And would it ever be the four year old bliss again? As I turn pages of the family album, with photographs that preserved the memories, I so wished to understand now; when life was beyond selfishness, beyond “having a social life”, beyond making decisions, beyond being rebellious. And there it was the whole family picture, together a million (read as: twenty) years ago, a several cousins I have not seen in years and a numerous others I have not spoken for ages, not due to lack of time or resource, but intention.

We had all in circumstance and pace of life, forgotten what it had been like to be fed by patti, to have slept in the lined up bedspreads, climbed the guava trees and fought for the most red fruit, swung the atukatil so hard like it was the end of life. We had in course of time, forgotten to share, to love, to care and live together.

They say “we are our relationships”; but then without these relationships, who are we?

It’s all about the city

2007-10-05T01:39:00.000+05:30

It’s all about the city

Last weekend I had been to NYC for the umpteenth time in two years. And like every trip, I am engulfed by the urge to move there and like every other time, I don’t let it get past my hometown-ish love for the bean town *. It is one of those most comprehensible feelings we share as an urbane human being, to never leave ones abode and the world around it.

The city that never sleeps has a passion for crowd, a swirl of glamour, a restaurant at every corner and a shelter for the many homeless. Amidst it outrageous resplendence and the tendency to never slow you down, can be the most chronic allure that any ardent new-Yorker can experience. And it is this tempo of life and the callousness that comes with it, which drives me away from living there.

I have, over the past many years, been a dweller of many cities and fallen in love with a handful. And yet like a hurt teenager, I have moved on to make the next city of appa’s transfer my new love. Amidst these transitions of six schools in thirteen years, I couldn’t, but wonder what makes a city more affable than the other?

On one hand are cities like Hyderabad, which in its distinct tastes of culture, harmlessly harassed ‘hindi’, ever crowded Charminar markets and a spicy unconventional cuisine; easily turned into my first love. However, seven years away, I am bound to be lost in the zillion changes a fast growing city like her is metamorphosing into.

On an uncanny contrast is the unfathomable stagnation of cities like Trivandrum, which still lives in the eighties. On my last visit to TVM, a month ago, I felt an ineffable guilt combined with joy to be in my home town and to see her senile and pastoral like I had always known her. Even the pace of life and the modes of them have remained untouched to distraction. And in her retiring age she will always remain beautiful to me.

And there are cities like ‘singara chennai’, so apt to be disliked, but can win you over in no time; a city still cultural with every aspect of a sixteenth century tradition, lined by the splendid marina and unblessed with heat and untimely monsoons; making her an aged beauty of changing times and everything old.

A class apart is addictive cities like Bombay, which amidst the grime and clamor makes an impression so bold that it is unquestionable. And going by is the city’s womb to hold its variegated population, a pedestal slum, lifeline metros and BEST buses; all contrasting the commendable yet magical fairy tales of bollywood and charming capitol.

Be it my favorite *Boston, or the sultry Madras or the million other cities I have not lived to be fervent about, there is always a warmth in the city’s alienisms and sense of belonging to its novelty. For the city is always open and over the years, she nurtures and grows with you. And when its time to move, it’s like leaving an old companion for a new one, who had always been your best listener who was generous enough to let you take her for a walk or a ride when you please. For the city is always permanent, it is we her cohorts who change.

Heading Homeward

2007-08-06T23:25:00.000+05:30

Heading Homeward

In less than twenty days, I will be making my first trip home in two years. Amidst, the clamor of joy and bittersweet excitement, I can’t but wait to feel the anxiously relieved smiles on appa and amma, glad to be waiting for their prized possession to come home. I am yet again reminded of how life teaches you to realize its worth when you do not have it.

I had been spending the past few days typing mails to friends and making an active presence in the group mails; making an earnest effort to catch up. It felt a lot different from the dolorous letters, mussed with ‘miss you’ on every second line, that we used to share as sixteen year olds. Standing many years away from class-parties and doleful farewells, each living in a different corner, a different world, somehow common grounds is always met with old stories remembered and guffawed.

At such moments, I uncannily realize the ghosts hidden in each of us, which surface to bring a timely smile, a momentary goose bum, a gush of nostalgia and a fleeting lump for that tiny tear. Yet, it passes, just like a hazy cloud, leaving you high and dry to return back to life around you, until another time.

One of my first instances of yearning for home was amidst rigorous goolging to complete assignments. I chanced upon the India map, out of an irking pop-up; and somehow, I have never been able to repeat that instantaneous jerk of patriotism and inexplicable pining to head home, the picture brought to me. Given, another minute of that rush of adrenalin, I am sure, I would have taken the next flight to Madras.

I knew that the inkling never died, and resurfaced as the easy sobs upon watching the award winning ad on you-tube yesterday, recommended by hiten . And yet, away from the two seconds of thoughts to give my best to my home country, return to people who love me, here I am fulfilling my responsibilities for the company that keeps my experience and moolah intact.

How is it, I muse, that we live selfishly amidst apparitions, that stay on optimistically dormant to haunt us on where we come from, and where we wish to go back to? How is it that the urge to ‘give’ remains to shake the nonchalance we display at it? How is it that life is still led at normalcy, while the lack of its worth is felt as an ignorant shadow at every step?

I am not sure of these answers I seek or questions I ask? But, as I take a step back and reminiscence a fast-forwarded flashback on life, with incepts of joys, misgivings, love, skirmish and achievements, I am at a loss of words to describe the wonderment and childlike contentment I feel, knowing that I would be soon tasting amma’s avial and small talking with pals at gangotri over rounds of bhel puri.

At these times, I am glad life doesn’t give you a rewind switch; for the pleasure of reliving moments and yearning for them is a bliss better than the moment itself.

Holding back

2007-07-23T21:59:00.000+05:30

Holding back

There is nothing like an enrapturing book, on a warm Sunday night; the world is asleep and you are melted into an era so gruesome yet fearless, adhering to the lineage you come from or may be going into or never wanting to be in it. But, end of the beautifully narrated story in ‘The house of blue mangoes’ that preserved the wrath of caste-ism, I was but left with a lot of questions, for which I didn’t want to seek an answer.

I have never understood the fear, displeasure and nonchalant contempt associated with fellow beings. I have never tried to understand the decree which drives one to prejudice in the safe name of caste. I have further refused to realize the repercussions of breaking this very barricade that has been preserved so rigidly in our mindsets carrying it subconsciously and practicing them unknowingly in who we are and where we come from.

One of my first encounters at the factor of caste was at the temple of my family deity. Amidst the goddess’s clout and the Brahmin’s prowess to please her, the little sanctum was the prerogative of the Brahmins alone and the others had to be satisfied with watching the goddess at a safe distance on the outside. As a child, I never understood why we were given the special privilege to look at the Devi at such closeness, that you could almost feel the heat of the lamps dancing to the rhythm of the Brahmin’s enunciation of the potent slokams. He would amidst his rigmarole of ceremonies, keep a watchful eye to ensure no one from the unprivileged class made his way to the sanctum. However, over the years, I had decided not to question such faiths or practices owing to my sheer bafflement at the pace of life and ways of life that dwelled in regions like here.

As I grew out of the age of chaste, when one wishes to do everything that is a heady taboo, I had indulged myself in trying to taste the very disapproving in the Iyer family – non-veg. And because of one day of folly, amma to date takes my promises over phone that I have not touched chicken since and hence. Instances like these make me wonder if, faiths and practices were meant to make one live a life of blissful ignorance and convenience; even if they were not, I believe it has evolved to take that place.

I am not going to vehemently state the need to shun the beliefs one’s family or bearers have carried for a long time and banter the need to let go. I must confess, I am not a staunch subscriber to these thoughts either. How else can I explain my peculiar tastes to a Brahmin made vatha kozhambu and the need to hog curd rice with kadu maanga? How else do I owe my urge to seek education and independence above retiring to a child-bearer and safely said home-maker? How else may I cash on the secret feeling of relief to belong to an educated and respected class of Brahmin which abates the necessary rebel and feminist in me?

Life always seems to come to a full circle, or go in one. And when one is able to look beyond the bigger picture, living the life that elders disdain is a bitter-sweet one. My first headstrong encounter of skirmish was ‘meet-the-parents’. While the two of us involved cared less about our descent, bringing the parents together was a lot of hard work; honestly harder than the 12th std Board exams. And before we had come into terms with understanding the ramification of bringing cultures, practices and beliefs circumscribed in unyielding lines, life had turned upside down and inside out, until the only way to escape them was to let them be and us to be us.

It ruefully made me realize that even when one has grown above scorned values and misconstrued faiths, the urge to hold on remains deep down. It is something we are subconsciously told and brought up on. The tendency to wrath, speak aloud, eat meat, address elders, to dare, to survive, to learn; every little thing we are made up of, is influential and though most of us (including me) would conveniently never agree to coast these dispositions to the caste we come from, it will take a long time for these imbibed ingredients to erase from our sullied minds carefully honed for generations.

It makes me wonder when it will be that we humans would actually belong to the species we rightfully belong to. And in a million years we will. Life always comes a full circle.

West Coast Travelogue

2007-07-12T21:05:00.001+05:30

West Coast Travelogue

It is summer and no better time of the year is this fruitful for making those scale of sojourns to various spots in this country; some truly worth the hype and others a mere replica of places of fun. I, carrying the zeal to mark my foot-prints as far as I can, as long as I am here, took me to the five days of beguilement to lands six hours away from Boston.

Enthused amidst the sore feet, ill fitted seats of delta, we were welcomed by the captivating resplendence of Las Vegas. This city carved out of a measly desert truly seemed to hold the saying right – “Money is always there. It is the pockets that change.” The unrest due to the one hour wait for check-in baggage was soon melted away on the night-out visit to few of the many lavish Casinos that adorn Vegas.

Yet, as it is about the vagaries of even the most planned trips, the heat of this land, with temperatures hovering around forty degrees Celsius made me experience Chennai all over again in its wildest summers. Hitherto, the materialistic magic of Vegas lingered on and we marched our way to the fantasy land of casinos in the burning sun. The way the vision of romantic places around the world (Paris, Rome, NY, Venice and many more) were captured in the architectural themes of the Casinos in the Strip Street was indeed an gawking experience.

How can Vegas be complete without gambling? The safe-players like me stuck to slot machines only to lose the inconspicuous sum I threw into them. An exorbitant lunch buffets; rounds of black jack and poker for the strong hearted; exhaustive casino hopping; fun road shows and fountain dances and later we had called it a day to retire early.

The much anticipated and advertised Sky Walk on the Grand Canyon was the plan of day two. The mini-van seating eight gave way to a two hour road trip of many monkeyshines and relentless laughter owing to Ambi’s spontaneity and Mithra’s unremitting efforts to get better with each new kadi. However the kaccha roads or the lack of them, leading to the sky walk, made the last hour of the journey a dusty and bumpy ride.

The heat had no mercy and this time we bore the brunt of soaring forty eight to brave not just the anvil of the sun but the dizzy walk on glass top, built right above 4000 feet of Grand Canyon. It was indeed a different experience to feel the picturesque Canyon in its majestic height; but the half constructed area around the Sky Walk and path leading to it did cut a sorry figure. It simply boiled down to my belief of USA’s business strategy to turn every habitual location to a place that mints money. Nevertheless, barring the heat, Grand Canyon was truly one of the wonders.

Day 3 began on a different note with comfortable temperatures and one hour flight from the LV to Los Angeles. We headed early to the Universal studios and moved on from one show to next, one ride to the next, dilly dallying our way through the winding infinite file of tourists like us. With the amiable sunny weather, our day unwound over 4D theatre shows, drama, visit to the set of all those awed movies like Jurassic Park and some imperative pett pooja in a timely fashion. I had particularly loved the shows of Shrek and Water World and the exhilarating ride of Mummy. Nevertheless, stealing the show was the house of terrors when the horror heroes came to life and made chicken hearts like me yell away! Many standard pictures taking and later it was time to catch that pending beauty sleep.

Saturday was a relaxed one and considering the trip was almost over, the inertia to return hung in each of us. Apart from the much talked of star walk and clay imprints of hands and feet of stars like Brad Pit, Hollywood didn’t seem as magical as portrayed. Nonetheless, the promenade in Santa Monica with good restaurants and classy shops was a pleasant one. What followed was the ever awaited swim in the beach and the shenanigans that go with it as a bunch of pals.

Being a first time for all of us, we had decided to indulge in some Persian food combined with Belly Dancers for the dinner at the end of the jaunt. The treats were done, expenses split, fun had; the voyage had come to an end. It was with heavy hearts that we returned the next day, half minded to work.

I, owing to some bad service, had to take the longest flight back home, traversing almost 12 hours with wait times included. The junket had left an impression on each of us, something I had felt a long while ago during school excursions. As I jet lagged and cribbed being back, I truly felt rejuvenated after the sought after break and the wonderful company of friends.

5 facts about me.

2007-06-29T19:34:00.001+05:30

Tagged again by gayatri….

Here are the rules:
1. Players start with 5 random facts about themselves.
2. Those who are tagged should post these rules and their 5 random facts.
3. Players should tag 5 other people and notify them they have been tagged.

I can laze, sleep and watch meaningless television for the entire day and stay un-bathed until night. It’s my most sought for wont during summer holidays. Have not done that in ages though!

I love washing dishes. Yes, not when I have a time constraint or when I have a pending deadline; but when at leisure I love to get those greasy vessels all shining. Makes me happy watching them all bright.

I can study continuously for straight 20 hours without food, water, break or getting up from the chair. Done that; scored awesome in the exam as well!

I am a big fan of olives. And when served with apple martinis; I simply devour them. So I could be sipping a zillion martinis, just for the sake of the olives.

I am a very impatient reader. The best record has been reading the book ‘Rebecca’. I had found the first 3 chapters extremely slow and ended up starting the book all over again, almost 5 times and took a whole year to complete it! I simply loved the book!!

I tag –

Div, Mithra, Satish, AC, DMK

Weekend – Fully Loaded

2007-06-19T03:11:00.000+05:30

Warning: Spoilers Ahead

It was a weekend of sorts. A fruitless set of crashes and zilch bug fixes and later, I had called it a week at work. As it happens with “This hasn’t been my week” scenarios, I had decided to fall into the weekend, before forecasting the brunt on Monday. However, the sun-drenched weekend and the company of pals had abetted to fine tune my crushed temperament.

Having traveled a hundred miles and smothered myself with the seldom effective water-proof sunscreen, I was all set to endeavor the crazy rides at the six flags theme park on Saturday. Considering that I was the only dare devil in the group of five, the formidable mammoth-like roller coasters were conveniently ignored, and the day was spent in the gamut of water rides.

Many screeching tube falls and sliding plunges from the air boats and later we had indulged the churned stomachs to some exorbitantly priced mediocre pizza and fries. The zealousness continued with the cascades laden, swamping lazy river ride and hours of fun work outs at the slides and artificial wave pool. The washed-out day, in the literal and figurative sense, had ended with some Boston cream pie flavored ice cream.

We hardly had time to catch up on that beauty sleep, on Sunday morning; when we scurried to find that perfect seat for Rajni’s latest commercial extravagance – “Shivaji”.

Beyond my well adhered cloak of ‘non-Ranji’ frenzy and contestations of the flick being yet another atypical heroism, I had thoroughly enjoyed watching this movie of the much hyped charismatic man.

I couldn’t agree less that the story line was copiously predictable; but how the entire crew had pulled it off is something worth a watch. I am sure that this cannot be written away as another one man show, but a pepped picture with enough to laugh and be absorbed. One can’t miss out the consummate obscenely lavish settings, costumes and the faultless camera and graphics, which is indeed a new high for Kollywood.

Further the crux of the movie did not carry impractical villains born out of vulgar bashing while protecting lady love from unannounced and uncalled for eve teasers. It was a pleasure to watch Vivek hold enough volume of the screen with the domineering man and yet make an impression so bold with his wit and humor alike. The hilarity based on incepts from ‘Chandramukhi’ were a class apart.

It goes without saying that the glamour ingredient provided by Shriya was as flawless as expected and she blends into the ‘sati-savitri’ and ‘ultra-hep’ mode perfectly. Nevertheless, the array of get-ups and strenuous make-up delivered for Rajni were painfully yet wonderfully carried by him. And coming from the maestro himself, the music falls short of his older hits, but as it is about the AR Rahman effect, when the first time you hate the song; second you start to hum it; and by the time you are on the third it simply grows on you!

Apart from the negatives of incongruous spacing of numbers, repugnant commercialization in the first half, banal plot and an unsupportive spouse role of Shriya ; this movie carried everything a Rajni movie is expected to encompass, in terms of ‘style’, ‘humor’, ‘songs’, 'punch dialogs' and the easy heart-felt cheers in the theatre of “Talaivar talaivar taan da!”

End of the movie, I had not fallen prey to Rajni fanatics, but was awed for a moment or two about how the Indian cinema thrives on movies of every class, wit and range; and yet every pic is an entertainer of its own. In an uncanny way, I felt at home and memories of Satyam theatre swept past.

Later, I melted down the nostalgia with some delicious lunch buffet at ‘kabab factory’. The weekend had ended late and my beauty sleep is still pending before I make the tough week tick at work!

Boston – Sands of Time

2007-06-12T21:18:00.000+05:30

Boston – Sands of Time

Its summer-time; Boston is beguiling and beautiful as ever! It is a welcome respite from the light-thick-layers of warm clothes and the cottons and coolers are back. Though I love being in this “Bean Town” all year round, reticently I prefer the three summer months for reasons beyond the weather!

My exodus to this ‘walking city’ was a year ago, when my summer sojourn was made possible by the much unanticipated internship. Boston was my first big city and I had instantly fallen in love with the felicitous and serene pace of life, much unlike New York. Though my first month here had sans company, I had found a myriad of things to do and places to see and revived ‘me’ from ‘I’ walking the lively streets.

As the promenade was accompanied by a bunch of wonderful friends, Boston had smoothly transitioned to a second home. The jog by the scenic Charles, tranquil evenings by the reflecting pond, an office cube by the window on the majestic Prudential, lumbering tour of the museums, coffee shenanigans and poker, shopping for hours at Lechmere, dining at the gamut of restaurants, rocking the hard rock café were the little big raison d'être for making my rendezvous with Boston a very happy one.

This year, though living a few train stops away from the hub of the city, I have been making avail of the sunny weekends to horse around, owing to the never dying wont to stay out of house as much as possible! Last weekend we had lazed at the Carson beach and stayed in the sun enough to be tanned ten layers deep. What baffle me more is our voracious appetites to glutton French fries, muffins and onion rings at the beach; and later dine at P F Chan’s for that early supper.

As it is with all Asian restaurants we fare, the fortune cookies enclose those little notes of wit and morals. What ironically morales our dinner is reading out those notes to the table, footnoting it with “in the bed”. The ones from the last dinner simply marked the day –

Div: Every person is the architect of his or her own fortune …………….

N: An exciting opportunity lies ahead of you …………….

Size: Adventure can be real happiness ……………….

San: Two small jumps are sometimes better than a leap …………..

I guess nothing beats the facetious moments of sheer joy and mindless laughter and this was one of those.

Tryst with coffee

2007-06-04T21:44:00.000+05:30

Tryst with coffee

I don’t recall when the frothing cup of aromatic java had become an imperative part of customary mornings; but I do reminiscence the times as a child, when I would be refused the coffee stating it as a grown-up’s cup of tea! However, beyond disceptations of “coffee will turn u coffee-skinned”, I had turned myself into one among the gazillion lovers of the brown beverage and places that brew it.

My first encounter with coffee places was the rustic ‘Madras coffee house’ in Trivandrum. The much habitual pale steel dawara pedestal to the brimming tumbler of incense kapi was sipped amidst sultry ambiance and raucous ceiling fans above. As the commercial value of this vestigial drink gave way to Barista, Coffee day, Starbucks and a whole lot more I am unaware of, I too took to the much unanticipated coffee cupping of the sundry flavors that darn ‘hang-out’ with java.

Conversely, over the years, coffee places had woven pieces of a lifetime together, midst the warm cups. Going back to the appositely located coffee-day in Ispahani center at numgambakam, I am but traveling to rudimentary days of college life and how the mundane conversations over the obscenely priced cold coffee had shaped friendships that have come a long way. It makes me wonder why being the ever-broke student, sharing one cold coffee among a group of five and digging out crumpled notes and coins to share the brunt of the fat bills; had always made these little coffee-sojourns so very special.

Last evening I had spent a good hour, hiding from rains and sharing some laughter with friends at the regular Starbucks around the corner. It was not just the balmy ambience and the vagary of friend circle that made the experience different; I was ironically at a loss, though, each of us had grown beyond sharing one cup among us, to be able to afford a cup each. It made me realize that the only time one enjoys being bankrupt is the unmatched student life.

As I walked out, tarrying the smooth tang of cappuccino, letting the rainy weather take over the gripping nostalgia, I couldn’t but understand the uncanny relationship the brown beans and ever-lasting friendships shared; yet, in everyway my tryst with both of them is one of unparalleled joy.

A Niagara vacation

2007-05-29T23:59:00.000+05:30

A Niagara vacation

The long weekend had begun with some customary practices by the MA traffic police. Having succumbed to the exorbitant speeding ticket, on the eight hour drive to Niagara, we were forced to keep to the speed limits on the temptingly empty roads. Upon reaching Niagara, flocked by a gazillion tourist, we too bore the brunt of long lines for the various ‘attractions’ on this man-intruded fury of nature.

My last visit to this place was almost a year ago, when we had foolishly settled for the go-to bus guided tour, a cheaper alternative provided by the enterprising Chinese immigrants. Sadly all I remembered about that journey was the annoying two hour wait in the claustrophobic bus for micturition; while Niagara from the last weekend had other surprises in store.

A zillion non-resident aliens and immigrants from India were swarming Niagara and its ambience. I was subtly reminded of the Russel Peter’s show, where he cued quite comically that the earth will soon be taken over by the multiplying Indian and Chinese population. I was further victim to the foreign feeling of the very hypocritical desi mentality, to irk at a junta of our own, conveniently ignoring the fact that the feeling is mutual. The sari, salwar-kameez clad, every second face in the crowd and streets laden with pani puri stalls, tediously made me feel at home, a feeling I didn’t want to have!

However, the picturesque falls with its roaring green waters, made this tryst with nature very special, away from other hiccups. I had thoroughly enjoyed the cave of the winds an innovative tourism gimmick when one pays to get wet in the Niagara. Various other conventional sojourns followed along the trolley ride, circumscribed within two miles of the majestic cascades. And not to forget, the tiresome trip was intermittently treated to some cliché dhaaba food.

As we prepared to leave this land woven out from rocks, forests and nothingness, a few facts about why the falls stand where they are took me off-guard. Man had controlled the gripping land slides to prevent further erosion of these imposing falls. Though carefully preserved as myths and notes of history, it made me wonder how is it that we humans had evolved to control the whims of nature and when is it that we have to give it up?

Walk with me

2007-05-25T23:36:00.000+05:30

Walk with me

On the dusty lanes of life I treaded, I met a myriad of wayfarers like me. A few made the journey special; with a few I shared intermittent laughter, while a few parted ways like a murky nostalgia. Along the cross-roads came the harbinger, who I seldom realized was to consort my voyage henceforth.

An uncanny fear and annoying cold-feet and after, here we are on the next cross roads, dovetailing a lifetime ahead from a tacit car ride at sunrise, a slight tear on a petty argument, glib laughter at the steps of the church, a smile over a cup of coffee and a little bundle of colorful post-its doled out on silent mornings by the pillow.

Yet, as we prepare to sail ahead, I wonder why growing-into the imperfectly perfect relationship, is much easier than growing-up in one?

--To the soul who ambles with me, addressing me dotingly as ‘kutti’.

Drenched in New York

2007-05-21T07:52:00.000+05:30

A brief five hour demanding and gruelling car ride and later, I was in for a surprise amidst the incessant thunder storms ; Last friday was my graduation day scheduled and conducted in the sea wolves football ground, allowing our crisp blue graduation robes to be sufficiently soaked in the unremitting rains lashing the east coast. The red plastic make-shift rain coats, titled 'State University of New York at Stony Brook', were hardly a respite for the frostiness of the weather. It made me wonder if the eeire murky skies and the outdoor ceremony was the last straw to my meagre attachment to the institution.

However, as the unexpectedly gelid rainy day in spring unwound over the graduation spirit and friends and family made the day a special one, I was contended with the twenty second walk down the aisle accompanied by the silly enthusiasm to smile for the camera. It was a satisfied me, who drove away from the infamously memorable and bathed graduation, carrying in my heart the eulogy delivered at the observance " The students have braved the dark clouds to make the sun shine at the graduation !"

What followed over the weekend was the tuckered out sojourn of NY city and equally humdrum subway rides. Though boasting of being an eighteen month dweller in NY state, I had never done justice to the concrete wonders of the man-made world of NY City. Unable to wean away from the rains, an awashed expedition of the commiserate WTC site, rich wall street, thirty second ride up the elevators to the zenith of the Rock-a-feller center and the gawking walk along the respledent times square, made a safe harbour of the NY City trip.

Continuing the zealous journey, I had the chance to visit a wonder of the world, 'The statue of liberty' on Sunday. The cleared skies and warm weather availed my tourist spirit after two doused days. Having clicked a gambit of pictures and treated myself to some oily pipping hot onion rava dosa at 'Saravana' on 26th street, I burped placatedly on my way back from the captivatingly callous city to the one that makes me feel at home.

Bundle of joy

2007-05-15T01:47:00.000+05:30

Bundle of joy

A week ago I received the three covers, dandily packed and cellophane taped. They carried the redolence of amma's hands and the warmth of Chennai house. It contained the carefully chosen perky Patiala skirts, two jeans from the very own Lee shop at Pondy Bazaar and not to forget the sealed boxes of home made, ghee emanating sweets, rarified 'chakka varati' (jackfruit jam) and my favorite murrukkus from Krishna sweets at Adayar.

This was one among the many bundles I have received from home in the past two years. That moment of turning into a five year old holding those doled out packages is an inexplicable bliss of its own. It may be difficult to comprehend the feeling as one of nostalgia or maudlin or happiness; but all of it in one sheer moment. I gladly undid the parcel, gathering the niceties inside, realizing how unknowingly dormant that part of me was, which ached to be a daughter and pampered.

Being the much hyped "Only Child" of the family of three, I had my share of being coddled and protected; not just by parents but for being youngest in family circles as well. I still recall the night, when eight year old veena akka was scolded for venturing into my space of the bed, spread in the long hall of grandpa's adobe. I, the cocker-ed five years old, pretended to be asleep and willingly rolled over to her side sauntering all over her, giving her a hard time.

When I had weaned off being the wicked spoilt brat, I was still fussed around as a teenager and loved unremittingly. Somehow, I had till date remained the divu all my life. It made me wonder if I had grown up, without appa and amma by my side and if only I could be their bundle of joy forever. I uncannily remember the elaborate arguments, when amma refused to let me cycle to school alone at thirteen, unless accompanied by a friend who would have to come over to my gate n pick me up.

Though the wiles of her shielding nature were pertinent, it was only after living seven seas away did I know that my contestations of “When will you ever let me be independent?” were not easy for her to grant, since she possessed more gray hair to know that living life is not easy. Ironically, I was brought up to believe in myself and urged to attain independence; but not of the foolhardy nature I was asking for.

It brings to my mind the incident of an equally cosseted cousin, who had made the much unanticipated STD call from his hostel room complaining “Amma, there is no mug in the bathroom. What should I do?” And today standing thirty something he is turning a dad himself! These little episodes make me believe that even the most grown-up adult still lives in the womb, wanting to be the child. And contradicting, there is no such thing as a grown-up; you are always a child to somebody all your life.

I copiously grab the home-made ribbon pakodas, munching down the sweetness of amma’s love wrapped in them, smiling to be the daughter which is the priceless gift of all times!

Graduation musings

2007-05-07T20:25:00.000+05:30

May 18th 2007

Graduation musings

It was with great pride that appa had collected my Anna University issued degree certificate, conferring the completion of my Bachelors in Engineering. He had mailed me the scanned copy with utmost humility – “Passed in first class with distinction. I am proud of you.” Those words offered more despondence than delight when I read it. It was last year in May and I was giving my final exams in the second semester of the Masters program; an experience which had taught me how to live life.

I had no pompous ceremonies to mark the BE Degree, which we treat with much facetiousness in the Engineering colleges of Chennai. Engineering, for the most of us, was four years of relentless fun that sans orthodox nerdish attitudes. If at all one decides to quench the thirst for knowledge, it was on the nights before the semester exams, when the lights would burn incessantly to make the score to clear the paper.

The few rashly ambitious, like me, take higher studies to be the best bet to make up for that lost phase of erudition. Like the other counterparts who made it to this country with me, I too made the transition with innumerous blocks, amidst annihilating home-sickness. However, I had gone an extra step behind and made irreparable blunders; landing myself in a well so deep, that for over eight months, I felt I would never surface.

I look back at the shady winter of 2005, when for the first time in my life I had spent a new year’s eve, shut behind lonely doors in disturbing silence. I clearly recall the eerie feeling, which had driven me to attempts of inexplicable euthanasia owing to an emotionally challenged mind. It indeed scares me to realize that I was capable of the extreme ignominy and guilt bundled up to take my life away; but glad I came through it alive, literally and figuratively!

Standing a year away from those dark ages, the imprints of not making a course, so brutally preserved in transcripts, still makes my heart sink and rise at the same time. Sink, because with it, I carried the hopes of a life-time I was ushered upon, blended with the anti-climax to those dreams. Rise, because, even after being smothered with the deepest dirt, I had pulled myself on to break it and come through, to experience this little windowed cube, a challenging code to crack and a contented bank balance.

Behind the aura of amiable life I stand at right now, the forgotten fears still lurk. With the graduation day approaching in a week’s time, I am reluctant to take that step to walk down the aisle to professorate myself as a MS degree holder. It gets me thinking what achievement means to me in the light of not just myself but the world around me. Am I deep inside, still averse to feeling like an achiever to even my nearest ones?

I watched the elaborate observance at NEU last Saturday, when many friends of mine took that bold step and smiled with utmost joy through the graduation robes at their proud parents and pals. The ceremony moved me by all bounds, beyond the resplendence and camera smiles. It was not about the 4.0/4.0 GPA or the 100K job, but the sense of responsibility one has; to be encouraging to oneself about every little step towards a professed goal. It was this responsibility, I was declined to wear.

Yet, I muse to walk at my graduation, amidst the inconspicuous world, which has much more to worry about, than this girl who is humbly confused about her achievements. I go through that file of my academic (pun intended) aggregation, denoted by loose printed papers. I wonder if I was running away from being accredited for the details in the papers and not for what I am beyond them. But then, why am I running away, is something I am still trying to find.

First Time Tagged!

2007-05-03T00:19:00.000+05:30

Tagged!
1. Pick out a scar you have, and explain how you got it:
Right eyebrow. Bad hit on the door, while playing lock and key in school corridor during small interval, in 5th std.

2. What is on the walls in your room?
Post-it notes of ever pending errands.

3. What does your phone look like.
Motorola ROKR. White. Miss my huge Nokia first model Fone back home!

4. What music do you listen to?
Tamil, Malayalam, Hindi, English Soft rock, selected Telugu.

5. What is your current desktop picture?
Random, fishes in deep blue sea.

6. What do you want more than anything right now?
A long walk with appa on the terrace.

7. Do you believe in gay marriage?
I have nothing against it!

8. What time were you born?
6:00 AM

9. Are your parents still together?
Yep! Pretty much!

10. What are you listening to?
“Wake me up inside” – Evanescence

12. The last person to make you cry?
None.

13. What is your favourite perfume/cologne?
Escape by CK.

14. What kind of hair/eye colour do you like on the opposite sex?
Black/Black

15. Do you like pain killers? Hmm dig them when the head kills.

16. Are you too shy to ask someone out?
Nope!

17. Fave pizza topping?
Black Olives

18. If you could eat anything right now, what would itbe? Amma’s 7 cup sweet.

19. Who was the last person you made mad?
Someone very dear.

20. Is anyone in love with you? :)

Continuing -- I tag Mithra, size, div, Preethi, Hiten

The modest hypocrisy

2007-05-02T01:27:00.000+05:30

The modest hypocrisy

I half-distractedly turned the pages of the book I have been reading to sleep for the past one month. I lifted my eyes to see the little ganesha idol, amma had sent me, sitting corpulently on the window porch. Belonging to a class of non-religious, yet non-atheist genre, I simply adore the paunchy god, who seemed to smile at me at that moment. Beside him were the pile of ten rupee notes and one rupee coins, I had bribed him to initiate a gambit of selfish requirements a long while ago.

It reminded me of the reverend Ganesha in my drawing room back home, who I would pray and recite prayers to, only on the tonic exam mornings. The kabir das dohe comes to mind –“dukh mein sumiran, aur sukh mein kuch bhi nahin.” It left the inkling of a god-fearing mind and I soon plunged back into the book, shunning the semi-guilty feeling.

It made me wonder if a little hypocrisy is more imperative than acceptable in life. It may range from how far we express our innate religious instincts to habits we possess or clothes we wear or how far we hold our tongue.

One of my oldest experiences of setting double standards was facing orthodox relatives. At the age of ten, I would obediently listen to amma and aspire to know if pottu should be always worn in front of Uma periammai or I must unquestioningly fall at Murli mama’s feet. Having told how to behave, because of the gender I belong to, rather than for my whims as an individual, I didn’t possess the liberty to defy traditions or unexplainable practices like most of my counterparts of the opposite sex in the family could; including appa. He would never be asked why the ‘punol’ always slept on nails behind doors, but adorned his chest only when elders accompanied us to temple.

When the phase of helpless rebel had weaned off, I had mastered the art of harmless two-facedness. If a pretentious humbleness could mean peace later, it must very well be done. One such instance was the jubilant 25/25 in the unit test in mathematics stuck to the fridge, making a proud daughter to amma; little did I know that Ramu mama’s arrival was to burst my bubble “Girls are very bad in doing maths. How come you seem to have scored well?” No sooner had the uncalled for been uttered, amma pinched me to keep more words to myself. I had the plastered indignant smile accompanied with the words much unlike me –“Well the paper was very easy.” Looking back, picking a feud then, might have spelt ruin of family ties for years to come.

I am further confounded by the cloak of needed duplicity as to how far can one go with it? It is often that you are expected to wear this cloak not just with people who hardly matter outside closest family circle, but sometimes with family or to be family as well. A classic example would be that of “meet the parents” when every pretence carries with it the jeopardy of working against you in future. And ironically, necessary pretence is more than welcome to make that first impression.

Another instance of well delivered profess, is the constant anxiety to be a daughter/mother/wife every economically and emotionally independent woman in this world undergoes. The world around her refuses to comprehend her as a woman but as everything aforementioned. I am sure, I will not be believed if I were to state that she clandestinely feels like a woman above everything else, which she carefully envelops with what her nearest world expects of her. It only varies to what extent she can be unassuming to express it.

It bewilders me to put myself in a state to walk this line between ‘hypocrisy’ and ‘modest hypocrisy’. When does one turn into the other, takes a composed yet mature mindset to decipher. As, I still linger in the aura of life as ‘me’ ahead and not as being an expected ‘she’; I say the line is a cake walk. But when the mind is puzzled to transition from ‘me’ to ‘she’ I am but apprehensive of what waits ahead.

A letter for thought

2007-04-25T02:10:00.000+05:30

A letter for thought

It was one of those scorching, comatose afternoons in the little house in Hyderabad. I, as an eleven year old, anxiously awaited the portly post-man to deliver my letters, constantly eyeing the steel letter box. It was worth a wait and a feet-burning run down the stone pavement to grab the envelopes doled out by different hands and enclosed vividly in their own sweet way. There was one from Shari; the typical pink colors with drawings and stickers screaming “Miss you”. A tiny envelope from Anu, subtly yellow and mellowed “Missing you”, much like herself. A card from Karan, penned with his artistic writing and child-like words –“surprise inside. Open soon”. I hurried to unwrap the letters, smiling with unalleviated joy, to hear from my pals in a far away land (Trivandrum!!); waiting to give up my evening hours of play to write about my past week and reassure them that they would always be my bestest friends, signing off with “Reply soooooooooooooooooooooooon”s… Letters were my tickets to the fairy-land where I dwelled with pals; I had made for a life-time to come.

Looking back at the life that sans e-mails, sans messengers or orkut, sans mobile phones, sans every complex obscurity meant to ‘stay in touch’ and yet never to do so; I am amazed at the gratifying bliss, I shared, receiving a letter and putting all my love into its reply and living up to the promises made, signing autograph books with ‘Keep in touch’ or ‘roses are red and violets are blue, friends like u are very few’!

My tryst with letters had been persistent since the life in Patna, when I would be longingly given quarter sides of the blue inlands to stamp a few words to thatha (grandpa); write about a little poem I learnt or the new mathematics quiz score I secured as his proud grandchild or the latest Enid Blyton novel I enjoyed. Later this had turned into an enduring habit to write comprehensive letters to chums who I would dolorously leave behind, when I moved with appa’s transfers to a new school, a new city, a new circle of friends.

I still have the two brown boxes full of variegated letters, which have every emotion of a life bygone safely preserved in senile paper and soft ink. As I dig the countless envelopes, they travel from the postcard of my best friend’s five year old hand to the letter I received when I was eighteen. Emanating from them all, is the forgotten laughter and slight tears we shared as friends, as schoolmates, as luncheons-ers of others’ Tiffin boxes, as night-out group study partiers, as secret-keepers, as inseparable ‘Best Friends’ who pledged on the farewell day, only to realize in a few years that the very word ‘stay in touch’ had innumerous repercussions, one fails to anticipate.

I, at today, set alarms on the office outlook to remind me amidst work to call a friend on his birthday; make a mental note of all the phone calls I have to make on weekends, only to procrastinate the thought to the next weekend on the washed-out Sunday night; watch a friend come online, sweetly reminded by the yahoo messenger, only to prioritize a pending deadline and chat another time; midst hours of lolling on orkut pages, I decidedly leave a ‘Whats up?’ only to forget after a week that I did so when my friend responds; await a phone call on my birthday and expect to be scolded for being a lazy bum and never mail.

A wedding invitation, a solitary mail, a tri-monthly phone call, a yearly lunch, a new year wish has all that has become of a time when letters updated a weekly life. These rueful facets of life make me wonder if I have grown above everything in this world, may be even myself?!

Marriage – marriage what?

2007-04-19T03:07:00.000+05:30

Marriage – marriage what?

It was September 2001; a bemused I, sat on the debate bench of the sultry classroom, during the first English lesson. The professor had decided to engage the boisterous section-B of to be computer science engineers to some supposedly intriguing discussion on love versus arranged marriage. Shortly, the unruly apathy of the 17-year-olds was silenced to discomfiture by the unwarranted – “Marriage’s very purpose is legal propagation of species. Does it make a difference if it is love or arranged?”

No sooner had the half-feminist, half-callous and gravely-casual, words fallen off my mouth, even the inconspicuous self-proclaimed Romeo of the classroom, who considered commitment a sin, let out a sneer at this supposed piece of female gender mouthing atrocities about a sanctimonious epiphany. I let the moment pass and smiled inward at the ignominy the situation must have stirred in the minds of the forty odd teenagers staring at me with half-awe and half-scorn. When the professor gathered herself from the bewilderment, she closed the debate diplomatically – Marriage is a socially-approved sexual and emotional union of a man and woman expected to be permanent.

An amused bunch of pals had shunned my statement as anything more than an element of jeer over canteen coffee breaks for college years to come. However, looking back at the facetiousness with which I had handled the ‘M’ word back then, makes me wonder if the real meaning to marriage can ever be understood? Even if it can be understood, is there any such meaning to it? And even if a meaning can be coined, is it a ‘real’ one?

As the college days hopped away, running into phases when one hates men, I had even turned into the unwilling feminist, declaring marriage as “legal rape”. I too like every dumb teenager dreamed of the Casanova knight who would ride me on the handsome horse, conveniently contrasting the upheaval of feminism in me!

When life grew out of flippant college-life to seek sense and self-realizations in the harmless name of ‘higher-studies’; life taught me a lot of lessons beyond the academic blah. As I rejected my very own obdurate definition of marriage, I had never bothered to ponder over it either. Standing at the zenith of murky transitions within me, enjoying life in varied colors, marriage is still an unfamiliar territory; I am reluctant to embrace.

It leaves within me incomplete descriptions, a myriad of questions and self-certified clarity. Marriage can’t be defined, but experienced; Marriage is a lifetime of optimistic contradictions; Marriage is a sweet metamorphosis of independence; Marriage is synonym to adjustment; Marriage is a fifty year challenge to see simplicity in complex life.

As the philosophical I evolve to reality, I fall back sipping the coffee, complacent to the oblivion around me, smiling at the breathing space of life still left to explore the world, jump the mile and carefree freedom. I snap back – “Marriage… marriage what?”

Vishu-kani

2007-04-16T21:19:00.000+05:30

Vishu- kani

Yet another ‘vishu’ came and went by. This time I had spent it cooking a hearty meal to my capacity and dawdled with pals indoors, rapt in a movie, owing to thunder storms outside. It has been two years since I experienced ‘vishu-kani’ (the first sight on vishu day) and the lovely feast amma would dole out for the genial vishu lunch, on the banana leaf. Warm afternoons of festive filled ambience, family banquet and sumptuous burps intermitting the post-lunch laughter marked ‘vishu’ as the most sought for festival, next to ‘diwali’, in my life.

The eve of vishu was often spent shopping for the little big niceties that went into making the first sight on vishu day graciously positive and meant to make the year ahead a very lucky one. I would look forward to take the seat next to appa, watch him gracefully arrange the ‘urali’ with rice, the coconut filled with ‘parupu’, the cucumbers, melons and fruits, all reflecting on the mirror that was adorned with gold chains placed behind the delicacies decked out on the ‘tambalam’. The ‘kani-konna’ (the yellow flowers that bloomed to aptness, during the vishu season) added the final touch to the festooned ‘kani’, prepared carefully to be harbinger of joy for the year to come.

A contented sleep was soothingly interrupted by amma at the crack of dawn. She would walk me down, closing my eyes, saving them from seeing anything else before I set my eyes on the bedecked ‘vishu-kani’. Slowly, appa would dampen my eyes and gesture me to open them to the sight that even after twenty odd times of redundancy over the years, still swelled my heart with unremitting joy. I would ritually go over the details of the kani I had helped appa ornate last night. It always seemed different from the night before, as if blessed to completeness on a vishu’s first light. Smiling, I would make a stamp of the sight in the memory lane, adoring every intricacy.

As the vishu day unwinds and the cucumbers and melons of the vishu-kani make a delicious meal for the afternoon, followed by the showers of blessings accompanied with 'vishu-kaineetam'(money) from elders, a pleased I would sink with happiness on the perfect day. This year, living a life that sans the presence of appa and amma and the beautiful vishu-kani, I simply reminiscence the vishu days back home and recite a prayer to keep the family hail and healthy for ages to come!

It happens only in India

2007-04-14T00:28:00.000+05:30

It happens only in India

First it was the efforts from political bodies to impede sex-education in schools, singing the saga of “Against our culture”. Followed by; the country divided on the reservation system. Murthy pelted for the ‘Nation Anthem’ row. And; now the government wants a piece of the women civil servants menstrual cycle. Every issue did create a storm in the tea cup in its own engaging way. This is what I had to say about the latter to the BBC. However, I was a wee bit late and realized I had submitted it after the debate was closed!

Having read about the new appraisal forms, the Indian Government is requesting from the female civil servants, to reveal exhaustive details of her menstrual cycle, I second the words of Sharwari Gokhale, environment secretary in western Maharashtra state, in stating that I am grossly “gob smacked”!

It is often ironic to see the hypocritical lines between “personal” and “non-personal” drawn by the patriarchic society of India and hence the government too. This issue cannot be shunned away as just another feminism gimmick, but fends far into dealing with ones personal feelings as an individual and civilized citizen. Further it also questions the extent to which any employer can involve in employees’ lives and how BIG can big brother be?

It has been and is a common practice to undergo a gambit of medical tests before joining a company as an employee, in India as well as abroad. Believing oneself to be a healthy citizen with no adverse health dimensions that can prove detrimental to fellow employees, we undergo the rigorous tests quiet unquestioningly and ignore why is it that we are being evaluated beyond our abilities for an office cube in the multinational firm. One cannot forget the real-life based movie of ‘Philadelphia’ where ones life as an employee is ripped away because he is diseased with Aids. It cannot be far from realizing that such incidents go untold and unreported, which are pretty pertinent in today’s corporate scenario, where one hasn’t accepted diseases like Aids without looking at it as a stigma.

In such regard, a woman’s menstrual cycle is being treated by the health ministry as something beyond a natural phenomenon. It is as relevant in life like urinating or cleaning ones bowels. It is never that one is expected to elaborate details of this kind to any superior for any reason whatsoever. It leaves the arena open for further intrusions of adversely unacceptable nature. The appraisal does not clearly define the motivation behind recording vital information about one’s bodily behavior. If such imperative facets of ones life is not ones own, then we may be redefining the very meaning of ‘personal life’.

One does not arise to such situations as being of a particular gender. Therefore even this concern cannot be sidelined as a woman’s subject. It is no different from a situation if men were asked to enumerate on his testicles, for health ministry specified reasons. As lawful citizens and loyal employees one should not be humbled to live a transparent life, because the employer wants so. On such a note, I back the women civil servants in India in their quest for instilling privacy into employee life.

Jigsaw

2007-04-12T03:56:00.000+05:30

Jigsaw

As a school go-er at six, in the freezing Patna winter, looking atleast five times me in three layers of warm clothes laden over a Vicks smothered chest for that perfect warmth; I was a naïve child, who half-sheepishly yet happily traveled the scooter ride on a standing ticket between appa’s protective arms, looking like little red riding hood with the red scarf wrapping my head and ears from the cold-prone winds and the water bottle garlanding my neck.

Often the pictures of me taken back then, with the mushroom hair cut and innocent smiles make me wonder if living life as little ‘divu’ was the best part of the past twenty-something years. My thoughts coast at the play-room, the storage hub of our flat with three balconies (a Dr.Bhishnudev Prasad owned building on Patna Main road), where I had created an immure world of me and my modest dolls, who would come to life in the puerile dramas I enacted with my kitchen sets. I was a contented child much to my parents’ relief, who could dwell for hours playing mother, teacher, soldier to the torpid, docile playmates.

I had learnt to amuse myself and in the process shared the perfect affiliation with self. As years went by, my playmates were replaced with books, paintings and jigsaw puzzles. As more years went by, the relationship extended to friends, good friends and best friends. Life’s rapport with self had almost dwindled away as a teenager and by the time I was twenty, spending time on my own was next to impracticable.

I, at now, at twenty-something, often spend a good many hours, bundled in books, fending for errands, attempting to cook, traveling to shop, listening to tunes while I run the treadmill. It makes me question if the little ‘divu’ had survived and was that autonomous me governing life all over again? Suddenly living as the stereotype independent working woman seems like the strewn jigsaw puzzle pieces, which I am trying to fit together, trying them on to make that complete picture, little by little each day.

I recall the jigsaw puzzle of puppies I knew by heart and fixed it almost ten times in fifteen minutes. I smile at the sardonic reality, when puzzles that seemed an effortless child’s play at eight are blurred veracities at twenty-something, when the pieces that fit the perfect life are yet so hard to find and when you do find them they are harder to fit!

Amma’s bajjis

2007-04-05T23:10:00.001+05:30

Amma’s bajjis

It has been a week of incessant rains and intermittent wet flurries in Boston. The murky skies, punitive droplets and frosty winds give no indication of the spring that is supposed to have set in almost three weeks back. As I snuggle in a blanket watching the romantic showers trickle down the window, the whims of piping hot red molaga bajji dipped abundantly in coarse white chutney, complemented with sips of dicotion kappi in a tumbler, grip me. I fantasize the oil-laden golden bajjis and almost scent the mesmerizing aroma, so apt for the chilliness outside.

I suddenly shake back to life realizing that the wafting redolence is now replaced by the rustiness of a closed heated room. I dotingly remember amma, who would have, as if read my mind, walked in with a plate of bajjis and masala tea. I smile traveling back to evenings spent over warm tea (amma always preferred tea to coffee) on the huge dining table, cooling the tea back and forth from dawara to tumbler, table-talking about everything under the sun. It was those little moments of sheer nothingness and smiles, which brought me closer to her.

Amidst phases of elaborate arguments and instances of puerile laughter, amma and I had created a world of two of us for three years, in appa’s absence to Goa. She was my confidant, friend and fighter-cock sibling back then. As I look back at my engineering years; they wouldn’t be complete without this fifty something (still looks thirty eight), cherubically puny, enthusiastic, subtly pious, cleanliness freak, childish laughter filled and marvelous cook, my mother.

I grab the packets of chilly powder and besan, enclosed with love and emanating reassurance of amma’s touch to the perfect taste, enthused to try my first bajji. I imitate the unconscious observations I made watching amma cook, sitting on the kitchen platform munching down half cooked pieces of food, much to amma’s kind indignation. As I eye the amateur half brown bajjis floating in oil, I let out a little sigh and a sweet tear, missing amma and her golden bajjis.

From a movie buff

2007-04-02T07:15:00.000+05:30

From a movie buff

Last week when my friend kitty mentioned to me that he is off to watch ‘mozhi’ for the second time in theatre, it got me thinking as to when was it last that I felt this way about a tamil movie? I irksomely remembered the last flick I had watched of ‘pokri’ which I almost branded as tolerable before the item number with cheesy lyrics like “my name is apple” had made tolerable an understatement. For goodness sake, I was not in a theatre.

However, the movie of ‘mozhi’ from last night, I watched in a theatre in Belmont in Mass, the single show that was being played for the three hundred odd tamil movie ‘rasikars’ from Boston and around, had gone a long way to bring faith in good movies back to the tamil industry. The little theatre set-up had the feel of a theatre in India in the 80’s, with tattered seats (may be a mice or two running underneath), concrete floors, home-theatre type screen, intermissions and not to forget the howling and whistling I missed so much when the favorite stars came on screen. ‘Mozhi’ was a complete entertainer, with roles and story having ingenuous emanating from every scene and dialogue. I had laughed till my tummy ached for the spontaneity of prakash raj and prithvi (I recall the last time being for ‘raam ji rao speaking’ in Malayalam). The blend of subtle move from one scene to next, laughter, emotions, and soft numbers simply made this movie touch your heart and wear an engaging smile for the two and half hours!

Nevertheless, as I walked out of the theatre, mesmerized and satisfied, still hanging in aura of the feel-good factor the movie provided, I couldn’t help but analyze, why was it that tamil industry had such few actors who actually lived the role and brought such refinement to the movies with ease. My thoughts were driven to the much hyped and worshipped god Rajnikanth and his obscenely commercialized cinema lines. I am sure every rajni-fanatic is going to kick my ass if I said that he had turned the most beautiful movie of ‘manichitratazhu’ into a practical joke in ‘chandramukhi’ which was a run away hit not only in Tamil Nadu, but in Japan as well.

I must confess that living in a Chennai for four years and bragging of a friend circle of two hundred percent rajni fads didn’t turn me into one. I have for the love of the theatre spirit and finding out about the frenzy rajinisms enjoyed his high-spiritedness, on which tamil-nadu thrived. So much is his potential to live in the minds of these people, that his biggest flop ‘baba’ was watched by my pals atleast thrice, to be able to do justice to rajni ‘talaivar’! Satiric? As if breaking into my reminiscence, my friend exclaimed “ I can’t wait for Shivaji, rajni’s next movie!”

It easily got me into the argument with my friend on why the tamil industry lacked the charm and simplicity Malayalam industry did. I, owing to the passion for feel-good movies had quoted my favorite lal-etan (Mohanlal) and his myriad of roles and artful cinemas of Bharatan and Adoor gopalakrishnan. After ten minutes of exchange of view points, I was just left with some conclusions. The people in tamil nadu simply accepted their films, the way they are and worship them and follow them. How else can you explain the film stars turned politicians? And the public in kerala was demanding. They simply expect movies be made for their tastes.

I, in the sea in between both worlds, simply sank in my seat, complacent that I could understand and enjoy movies from both ends. I would love to shed a tear at lal-etan’s ‘Thanmatra’ and cheer and attempt to whistle at Rajani’s self-made tornado from a twist of the feet!!

Finding me

2007-03-29T20:28:00.000+05:30

May be its a lame effort to not wear my heart on my sleeve.

The knots bind her life,
Engulfing her caged ego,
The beauty of dreams shatters,
The urge to laugh desecrates,
She cries in the mesmerized solitude,
Lumbering the dark voids of her mind,
The ghosts of her past wriggle by,
Unfulfilled expectations haunt,
Unanswered questions sneer,
Words disappoint her tears,
Love culls her faith,
Unscathed is her forlorn heart,
Searching serenity in happiness bygone,
Such is the mystery of life, she breathes
Slowly the knots untie,
Painful truth spate her fantasy,
The woman rises, carnages the child in her,
Oh! She bleeds gathering pieces of her chimeras,
Surrounded with remorse,
Blinded with belief,
Alas! She surrenders letting the relentless, that is her life.

Cricket is our religion; Sachin is our God

2007-03-23T00:34:00.000+05:30

Cricket is our religion; Sachin is our God

Ever since the summer of 1996 , my addiction to cricket and the world cup has remained; a lot less fanatic, but subtlety consistent zeal still drives me to unconsciously mutter a prayer or two for the players out at the field who are trying to keep up the expectations of a billion fans like me and make this game of cricket an engaging sport.

It comes as no surprise to me that a new comic is being published n India, which features Sachin Tendulkar as a super-hero, only next to superman and the like. I often wonder for those few hours we watch them on the screens smashing balls, grabbing wickets, diving for catches how is it that they feel being demi-gods to the public? I am reminded of the dialogue from the movie spider-man “With great power comes great responsibility”. It suits the responsibility we usher upon those eleven players, to win a match, that has now become more detrimental than life itself!

This fact has only been furthered by the incidents of last week, when hell had broken loose after India was defeated by Bangladesh and the Pakis didn’t make it to the super-8. I had sat saddling with disappointment at the edge of the couch watching one wicket after another fall, mouthing many grumps. End of the day only two questions remained in my mind – 1. Which player’s house will be vandalized in India? 2. Which player will be vandalized in Pakistan?

Has the Gentleman's game gone out of hands, is a topic still in debate and will continue to be for decades to come. We often hear about the extremes of fad that drives fans to kill themselves after a defeat. Fans destroy homes of the cricketers. Fans burn effigies of their heroes. End of the immediate uproar and anxiety a defeat brings to the nation, rage dies out and the zealousness continues. Can anyone forget the unsettling era of Ganguly’s captaincy?? Amidst this clamor, the country and its media forgets those eleven players who are mere mortals like any of us with emotions and problems and not consistent machines that are being threatened and pushed to perform like gods.

It is often sad to see the extent to which a public reaction torments these players, which is evident from the recent developments of a series of resignations in the Pakistan team and board, not to forget Woolmer’s unfortunate demise. Nevertheless to say as an ardent fan of cricket itself, one will miss the Pakistan team with entertaining fast bowlers like shoiab and hitters like Afridi. May be I can never understand the extremist view of the cricketing world and the players who are the scapegoats of the unforgiving cricket-buffs.

At such moments I reluctantly recall G B Shaw for his definition of cricket as a fool’s game and soon decidedly ignore it when I look forward to the next match with absolute gung-ho. And this time it is the deciding match of tomorrow. Ho Hail The Indian Cricket Team!

God's (dis)own Country

2007-03-21T03:31:00.000+05:30

God’s (dis)own country??

It has been more than ten years since I stopped watching the news on Malayalam channels. Apart from the communist party’s hooliganism, never-ending strikes, a series of political leaders’ overviews and some unruliness of the unemployed male population the news had nothing worthwhile to tell you. I was tired of listening to my father rant watching the news “oh the state has gone to the dogs” and I stuck to asianet for the movies and songs which the conservative and decent part of the Kerala film industry still continues to produce!

I have spent a good many years of my life in Kerala and I am thankful my memories are of times spent as a child and everything innocent and happy. Other than these, I only feel remorseful contempt for ‘ende keralam’* which only seems to worsen by the day.

Whoever, still cares to call kerala “gods own country”, I wish to shake them up and let them know that the Gods decided to disown us a long-long time ago. It depresses me to see my land so blessed with rain, fertile harvests, rich culture and traditions; scenic beauty fails to make a mark in any way. If at all kerala is in the news it is for the 100% horny movies, high suicide rates, increasing rates of atrocities against women, child molestations, excessive poverty, thousands admitted for intoxication, leaders in liquor consumption, pathetically unemployed, towering labor costs.

I happened to read this article in ndtv today that talked about the 'Alcohol consumers "welfare" association' in kerala and how they are trying to get the government to sell liquor at subsidized rates. I must confess it scandalized me to say the least. When the nation was progressing to produce professionals, economy was soaring high elsewhere; men in kerala lie deliberately ignorant to the world to be satisfactorily inebriated.

There is a lot that goes untold and un-reported in the popularly read newspapers like ‘malayalam manorama’ and ‘mathrubhumi’ who claim that such news ‘cannot be mentioned in public’. It is a known fact to every kerelaite that a woman can’t walk the streets alone, leave alone going to movie theatres or travel alone. My hometown of Trivandrum is known for the job-less street mongers who can’t help but whistle a tune or two at every woman aging between five and fifty. I have avoided public transport because of the atrocities men aging from fifteen to eighty inflict on the female passengers. If this is not enough, this write-up of experiences of six women journalists describes the ‘way kerala treats women’. End of it I felt ashamed to be coming from such a cruel place which held no respect for the women folk.

I recall the incident; my aunt experienced walking down the busy street of MG road in Cochin. A teenager had the balls to blow kisses to her from the opposite end. Overcame with rage on this brat who had not even started to shave, she had crossed the road to slap the boy right across his face. It got me thinking if society in kerala had grown to accept imprudence of any kind?

It is high time kerala stopped hanging on the 1991 report of it being the highest literate state. If there is any land more illiterate on civilized rules of a land, it is kerala. What can you say about the state when people recall it for the porn stardom, voluptuousness and hypocritic sexism? I am sure I am not the only one who is pained watching my home-town wither away in the hands of indecent men who are turning the god’s land into a living hell!!

*My land kerala

An evening at the Charles

2007-03-19T20:16:00.000+05:30

An evening at the Charles

It was a perfectly facetious evening I spent yesterday with my friends over a cup of tea. As I cautiously dipped the parle-G in the piping hot tea, tacitly removed the biscuit before it softens enough to sink, and let it smoothly crumble in my mouth; I couldn’t help but smile at the feeling of neutrality and peace the cold evening, blue skies, the shimmering yellow sun through the window, the lazy couch, the munch-able potato chips and the company of friends provided!

As a torpid hour or two of levity passed, we decided to take a stroll to the scenic Charles River. Thanks to the birth of spring, the sun continued to shine late upto 7 pm, prolonging the evening with ease. The promenade extended over the street laden with shops and restaurants that told anecdotes of my stay in Boston in the summer of 2006. It brought a freezing smile on my face, owing to the biting wind that had engulfed the city after the latest snow storm. We trudged our way through the icy footpath, enjoying the chillness a pile of white snow emanates, which to my experience offers softness, much unlike a cruelly cutting breeze.

I had never experienced Charles and the pathway for joggers next to the river, this white and beautiful before! My memories race back ten months ago, when my attempts to jog were accompanied by the greenery and gambit of joggers flooding the tracks. The ducks that waded smoothly on the little streams of the river that I loved watching from the bridges connecting pathways were now missing due to the frozen waters. The yellow sun was now scintillating the semi-frozen river with an orange-ish tint that reflected to envelope the sky crapes lining the river bed with atmost elegance. I stepped on to the wooden dock, now smothered with snow, fondly remembering the summery warm weather when I spent many hours waddling my feet in the waters below, seated on the wooden dock. I breathed in the nothingness, the crystal clear purity of the waters below, the line of dazzling tall buildings erected on the other side, the crimson sky succumbing to the fierce sun and the soothing chillness … I wondered only if life was just as perfect as an evening like this one!!

Dress Code

2007-03-16T02:50:00.001+05:30

Dress Code

“A set of rules specifying exactitudes of etiquette on an Indian female student, such that the fellow male students are feeling satisfactorily unprovoked”.

This; is the very old unwritten rule of the education system in engineering colleges of Chennai. Colleges like Sa****ma have been pioneers in this regard who are even rumored to have spies watching their students to live upto these ‘standards’ even outside the college premises. I wonder if the education system needs to spend so much time over penalizing the girls, just because it doesn’t trust the men!?

I had read one of those articles a few months back, which make you feel so cheesy for having read it. This one talked about the need for lesser co-educational institutions in India reasons being – “pretty faces distract the youth, women are responsible for instilling men with dirty thoughts, it hampers the growth of young men who are the future generations”. Firstly the one who wrote this doesn’t seem to understand what education is. Secondly his lame reasons might be the outcome of his experiences as a student. Thirdly you can’t miss the tinge of uncalled for male chauvinism in between the lines.

End of the last paragraph I had this cartoon in mind with a girl strangling the guy with her ‘dupatta’, the intimidating picture the author gave about female students. At the same time the thought crossed my mind, if dupatta was all that was needed to cleanse the minds of Indian men, why wasn’t that happening?? I think of another cartoon with a girl wiping the dirt off the guy’s mind with her ‘dupatta’ and a heap of already used dupattas lying on the floor.

I still recall the day in my first year of college when the girls were asked to assemble in a separate classroom and lectured on how our outfits could “provoke” the guys in the class. What followed were the rules as stringent as length of the dupatta and the kurta which are “unprovoked-able”. It was ended with the threat of a hundred rupee fine if any girl was seen wearing jeans or violating the aforementioned rules. College life had seemed bleak and ugly all of a sudden. Was it all about saving your virginity from a bunch of incorrigible hooligans on campus??

Don’t get me wrong here. My idea is not to preach the necessity of giving women the right to wear anything they want in college. I understand and respect the needs of institutions to have dress codes. But enforcing standards to prevent certain men from howling, hooting or getting deviated or getting distracted doesn’t seem like the right thing to do. Those pervert minds cannot be changed with a circus tent like kurta and shawl like dupatta supposedly protecting your femininity!

It is every woman’s responsibility to not let her be a prey to the vulgarity of certain men; be it in the form of eve-teasing or actions of luring to be used. But it leaves me to wonder, if education can’t produce civilized citizens, then what can? I clearly remember the article in India today magazine, where the police commissioner of Delhi concluded that,” the average Indian male’s mentality has not grown with the rise of independence among women, which is the reason for the increased atrocities against women”. The statement was backed by a picture of two women wearing party clothes. It left me guessing the time it is going to take for the “average Indian male mentality” to outgrow the perverse shell and the time for women to put their safety ahead of glamorous independence. As long as this doesn’t reach a perfect balance, men will continue to target women and a thousand odd to-be-female-engineers in colleges of Chennai will continue to be punished for not following the un-provokable dress-code!!

Womanhood and the Like

2007-03-13T09:04:00.000+05:30

Womanhood and the Like

It was a sundry experience; I had, watching the movie 300 last Saturday. Raving about its picturesque entertainment apart, I believe the film makers had gone a long way to appease the female audience. Here was the role of the queen of Leonidas who was an unmatched sensuous, audacious, sharp and patronizing partner to the King. Having watched a myriad of off late Kollywood and Bollywood dramas, where so-called commercial cinema meant a zillion shots of a woman’s Torso, a Casanova hero and grotesque skin show in the cheesy name of “item-number”, 300 seemed to respect the very existence of a woman in every man’s life and in the man’s world.

When someone said – “Behind every successful man lies a woman”, I believe it meant way beyond the carnal pleasures she offered, and much into the assurance and solace she provided. I am reminded of the story of Sudha Murthy, wife of Narayan Murthy, who found a place in workshops of Telco and in the heart of JRD Tata for her daring gesture to take up a male-preferred job. Later she gave up her career for Infosys, her husband’s venture. Women like her have proved that womanhood is all about being daring, composed, wise and elegant.

I am no feminist; neither am I a believer that every man on this earth is a MCP. For the very same reason, I think that reserving 35% seats for women in Engineering colleges is no less a discrimination on the basis of sex. Incidentally on Women’s day last week, I caught myself arguing with a colleague on women managers. He seemed to believe that being powerful and stringent to get work done was completely unfeminine. I countered the statement, insisting on the pressures of being a woman in a male dominated environment and yet succeeding because of their level-headed temperament and not because they seek equality and neither because they were born as women. I exemplified it with Indira Gandhi and the remark on her as “the only man in the cabinet”. End of it I wondered if this debate would ever have a true winner.

I recall the little incident as a six year old, which left a mark on me till this day. It was the evening of Krishna jayanthi and the house was laden with the aroma of ‘palaharams’ of sweets and everything mouth-watering. But the ambrosia was taboo until the pooja. I had overheard my aunt remark that if children ask for the sweets before it was offered to the Gods it was acceptable to give them. Overcome with childish greed I had dared to ask for a bite to which my mother not only vehemently opposed but left a comment that it would have been agreeable if I were a boy child, but being a girl I was not to ask. I had turned a helpless rebel after that, not understanding why the boy cousins enjoyed certain luxuries in the family that we girls didn’t. I later consoled myself that what my mother meant was girls were milder in disposition than the boys.

Seventeen years and later, the very scenario seems poignantly satiric to me. I wonder if I am caught in a sea of transitions; A world of independent single mothers, hardworking super-moms who manage Multi Nationals, women who are expressive about their sexuality as much as about their wit, women underrepresented and wanting equality in the man’s world. I am not blatantly independent to walk the 'altar' alone. Neither am I a coy undercover, who can’t handle life the way it comes. It leaves me guessing as to when will us humans, live as humans and not as man or woman.

As I find a few answers and feel strangely discomfited doing so, I simply boil it down to I as an individual with identity, passions, dreams and destinations. I am happy to see this world as a woman and enjoy the phases of femininity without complexes of a weaker or stronger sex. I am contented to be able to run the mile, chase away shadows, follow my dreams and wear a happy smile. May be that’s the true meaning of feeling like a woman!

Bed-Time

2007-03-09T11:01:00.000+05:30

Bed-time

Its 11:30 on a cold Thursday night. I lay lazily wading through the pages of “Life of Pi”, the book I borrowed from Satish last evening. I dig the Haagen Dazs pineapple-coconut flavor, well aware of it nullifying my efforts to crunch in the mornings. Yet I gourmand the ice cream as I read on, pulling the blanket, cozily sinking into the couch, slowly tilting my head till its comfortable enough doze off. I slur over the voice inside my head coaxing me to “brush your teeth” before bed. I read on savoring and imagining the story through my remnants of Pondicherry. I faintly smile and go over the funny incident in my office cube, my thoughts candidly drifting away from the book. I am suddenly aware of my surroundings, the curry which needs to be in the fridge, the dry plates that have to be dropped into the sink, the very ambitious dosa dough that needs to be battered from wrong soaked proportions of my folly and ignorance – 1 cup rice and 3 cups of urud dal. I tell myself “tomorrow…. May be”. I slothfully crumble deeper into the couch and flip the pages, placing the light and empty ice cream cup on the table. I am no longer reading, but waddling over the lines, dissolving the milky tang tarrying my tongue, letting pangs of sleep crawl over me smoothly, steadily until it expedites as the declarative yawn. I cede to the angelic, leaden and natural hypnosis of slumber… until the next sunshine….

The Family Dinner

2007-03-06T01:42:00.000+05:30

The Family Dinner

Having brought up without siblings, in a nuclear family, I had grown to accept friends, family-friends and cousins as closest family. As a child I always looked forward to the three month beguiling yet burning summer for the company of cousins for the midnight capers, loads of ice creams, visits to the zoo, never ending picnics, thrilling rides in amusement parks and temple sojourns with grandpa. Later as we let life grow out of this phase of chaste, it was only at an obscure wedding or family-function that I spent quality time over a meal with cousins, uncles and aunts. Later even this dwindled down to once in a few years with family strewn all over the world map and camouflaged in the name of “Busy life”!

Amidst this transition, I have had moments of sheer bliss and loneliness, which has made me realize that home, is where you want it to be. It can be made at the very familiar coffee place you hang out with friends or the dinner table where you dine with parents. For me it is the few minutes I spend on phone yapping with appa everyday and the brief weekends of poker and dilly-dallying with pals. Yesterday was one such Sunday when I not only laughed mercilessly with my friends but found a family to share the joy.

We were visiting Vikram’s family in Mansfield last evening to congratulate his sister for her 15 day old baby. Having spent ample amount of time shopping for the little one's dresses and box of sweets for the older four year old shruti, I was but scared to hold the cherubic and delicate sleeping baby. I had reclined to playing Barbie and pacifying the four year old. As the evening unwound over the hot cup of tea and levity of old jokes lingered over the comfortable couch I recalled the very scene back home. As if breaking into my reminiscence, Vikram’s mother came by to ensure we don’t leave without a heavy dinner she had started to cook for the hungry grown ups!

Having tried my hand in playing dart, laughed incessantly over Vikram’s spontaneity and Vilas’s PJs, and cheered little shruti for her gymnastics skills I was all set to devour the amma-made food. Along came the many shenanigans over the dinner table in the four course meal which extended way over dinner time. It’s my experience of all times that the best conversation and laughter you share with family is post-dinner until the plate goes stubbornly dry. It ranges from healthy arguments to old stories re-told and guffawed over. I fondly remembered my mother’s cooking and her child-like loud chortle that I missed so much.

As it happens to all good times, when time flies by and you have not had enough, it is time to stop and get on with monotonic routine. As we drove away from that place last night, I felt I had left a part of me behind, one that had missed home, enjoyed family-dinners and got excited being with people I love. I gave in to the unparalleled love that came wrapped in the sugar coated 'gulabjmuns' of last night, before I let sleep take over my relaxed weekend.

On Superstitions

2007-03-04T12:15:00.000+05:30

On Superstitions

I had headed to the temple today evening with a few friends, only to find that it was closed due to lunar eclipse. We had washed away our disappointment in the Dosas we hogged at Dakshin, followed by watching the controversial yet bold ‘Nishabd’ of Big B. Meanwhile, I remembered the time I was confronted with a closed temple door; that time I was with family and I was made to believe that it was the most inauspicious thing to happen. The solution for which turned out to be the ever enervate wait until the doors opened in the evening after 5 hours!

This was not my first encounter of unexplainable and unquestionable faith within family that I found hard to digest and at many times I have vehemently opposed. It was taboo to touch even water during solar or lunar eclipse and predictably that’s when I would feel like guzzling anything I can lay my hands on. From Tuesday being ominous for hair-cutting; nails must not be cut after 6 pm; chuckling of lizards spelt bad luck , following 'rahukalam' for good times to begin work superstitions were a part and parcel of everyday life for my family! It reminds me of the Malayalam movie where in the actor dilip had lived the role of a family man who lets superstition take over his life, to the extent he jots the date of his death based on omens and signs only to find that he is hail and alive at the end of it.

I may sound like a hypocrite if I say that sometime in our lives we are all superstitious, which may not necessarily be religious. As a high-school student I used to ensure that I always write exams with this silver ink pen, which I termed “My lucky pen”. Later this had turned into a “lucky bag”. My best friend Divya used to have a “lucky frog”, well a stuffed doll really, called smoochy, which later turned out to be not so lucky. I also knew someone in college who would wear her earings inside out during exams. Even my dad had kept his twenty year old tattered wallet until it was detrimental to throw it.

Retaining possessions in the name of sentiments can term you as a sensitive person, but doing it to parlay ones confidence makes you unassuming. Above all letting external factors guide your life can even make u an incorrigible chicken-heart. Nevertheless to say, I don’t account anything “lucky” anymore and have somehow come to believe that ‘luck simply follows hard work’ and ‘each person is responsible to make his/her own luck’ … End of the day I am glad I am alive, contented, hail and healthy and at this moment awake to write this bantam blog…

18 till I die

2007-02-26T11:07:00.001+05:30

18 till I die

I spent the last evening watching a delightful show ‘Tarang’ put up by the Indian students of NEU. Amidst the gambol; the foot-stamping Punjabi-bollywood music; the argument over dinner with a friend about why the south Indians are always (un)der-represented at any “Indian get-together” in the USA; the conversation about college and school binge….. I re-called many a things which was sub-consciously buried deep down within me over the past two years…

As I watched the simulating dances, many a bright perky girls and boys entertaining the two hundred odd crowds, I was surprisingly feeling weird and restless. It took me many moments to sink in that for the very first time in my life at a party of performances and total vitality; I was a mere sitting-spectator and not the howling hooting cheering and dancing hooligan in the crowd. I tried to remember when the last time was, that I had some mindless fun and jumped to my favorite tunes in a company of friends.

It was the ever crowded raucous Rock-show at IIT-Saarang; The smooth yet loud show of KK; The vivacious merry-making at a birthday party; Dancing in gaps of the bus during school excursions; Making the human chain at the school fest of ‘Magnum opus’; The college day celebrations and after; And many more rollicks that made ‘student life’ a trip to harbor!!

I had a sudden rush of deja-vu and wished I could re-live times spent and moments bygone and join the yowling bunch. At the very same time, I felt drawn back. May be I was growing up too fast. I wanted to be 18 again. I fought the mixed emotions and concluded it was all part of moving on. It was part of evolving from an insouciant student to an independent responsible individual?. May be I have had my share of breezy unguarded lark. But certain facts were glaring right at me -- I had lost the appetite and gaiety to blend into 'any' crowd for a round of fun; I had forgotten to be the bubbly popular-self in a throng of classmates; I could no longer enjoy a party and not worry about waking up late the next day.

When was it that life had become a four-walled cube in a remote office; a countless dry dishes in the sink; post-it notes of pending errands; basket full of laundry and working-from-home weekends??

I didn’t have time to ponder over these thoughts as I had to hit the bed to be able to get to work early. I left the day to a fond smile and gave it up to the life at 18!

Are we ready for a round of poker??

2007-02-20T03:58:00.000+05:30

Are we ready for a round of poker??

My earliest experience with playing cards was that, they were taboo when grandparents were around in the house. Card games were meant for the un-couth and considered synonymous to gambling. However, over the years, cards had turned out to be the best form of recreation when cousins got together over a lazy afternoon after a heavy meal until the evening coffee and snacks. Games varied from rummy to ass to bluff and many a little monkeyshines that went along with it; but poker was an absolute NO-NO.

It was not until a few months back that I was introduced to the game of poker by my friends in Boston. We had watched the game being played with heavy stakes at the casino in Connecticut, which seemed like an engaging sport?! We of course didn’t have the money, valor or foolhardiness to try our hand then, but over one cold afternoon in the cozy room on the fifth floor of Huntington Avenue, we had indulged in playing the forbidden sport to capacity and frivolity! However the bids have never grown beyond the color chips that the poker pack accompanies. Ever since, no outing or coffee meet or movie meet or a just-for-the-sake meet has gone without a round of poker.

What is it that makes a game of poker, so special that even after 8 months of 10 people playing it at least twice a week doesn’t make it boring?? Is the infinite supply of coffee, chips, salsa that often accompany the fun?? Is it the indefinite possibilities of the game that no two plays are ever the same and for once permutation and combination actually makes sense?? Is it the colorful money and materialistic you that plays?? Is it the only sane thing a group can get involved to kill time??? Or is it the people who you play with and the shenanigans that make poker-time a memorable one???

I wonder why these questions ever pop up within me, when I do look forward to some good-humoured poker every weekend with my good friends and share many a joke over the hot cup of coffee; As I sit back and flip my two cards and glance at my depleting coin stack and yet proclaim to raise the bid, I stifle a smile to make the perfect ‘poker-face’ and sneak a peak into my friend’s cards – I realize that life wouldn’t be any good without a bunch of pals to horse around, make perfect sense of every non-sense, laugh at instances that don’t seem to make sense later, to share your child-likeness and tom-foolery and above all to make even an intriguing game like poker seem of no avail without the perfect friend-circle!! J

A child's diary

2007-02-19T23:01:00.000+05:30

A child’s diary

I was reading ‘swami and friends’, last week; the book has always been a subtle reminder of my amusing experiences as a child! But unlike and like swami, I spent the better half of my innocence in a small colony in trivandrum, with two dear friends – Nandu and Ninju.

We were inseparable playmates who fought, laughed, cried and shared every puerile emotion together. Life then was a happy-go-lucky routine... School, play, Padmanabha swami temple, homework, dinner and sleep!! Amidst the visits to the temple of the reclining god and instances of sheer laughter, the three of us had created a world where we spent the best days of our lives.

Our wantonness could make a ‘Divya and Friends’ for itself ; If I were to look back at time twenty one years ago it wouldn't be complete without the little-big things that made it happen --
The time we made a castle at the beach and cried when the sea washed it away; when we were 'the famous three' and dug the roots of a coconut tree, hoping to find treasure, which all started from an architect’s view of the house! ; the funniest fashion show we put up for the elders to watch, when the most novel dress was a skirt worn around the neck ; the times we got dressed for the evening 'kolatam' ( south indian dandia ) during navaratri ; the carnatic music lessons we took hoping to turn it into ‘kacheris’ someday ; the evening we painted the entire colony road with our ‘kolam’ practice ; the cultural fest we organized with three participants – Ninju, nandu and Divya ; the days we fought over stamps which would go into the obscure philatelist's bag; the “secret’s secret” group we formed to be clandestine of our supposed missions ; the evenings we indulged in lock and key and the times we fell and let those knees and elbows bleed ; the weekends we spent learning to cycle at ‘traffic park’ ; the crackers we burst during diwali ; the Christmas carols we made up ; the little stories we enacted in our immure play room ; the feast we made with our kitchen sets ; the times we would swing for hours on the ‘atukatil’ and never get tired of it ; the day we enjoyed ‘beauty and the beast’ in theatre for the children’s film festival ; the little picnics we had on the terrace ; the days we cried, laughed and chattered enthralled by the smallest of things that made us who we are…

Life was never better and a mesmerized childhood could never get better … Away from worries, away from sadness… pure fun and true happiness… As I look the picture of the three of us hugging each other on the swing, I can’t help but feel that the child in us still remains…..

The summer of 1996

2007-02-16T04:17:00.001+05:30

The summer of 1996

With the cricket pitch soaring high… I am reminded of the world cup of 1996, when India lost to Srilanka so miserably in the semi-finals at Calcutta. It was the year; I had started to understand cricket and actually blend into the cricket fever that India thrived on!

After the victory at the quarter-final match against Pakistan, the Indian cricket players were no less that demigods for me and my best friend Annie. By then we knew every cricket score and every cricketer’s score, who had taken the highest wickets, Number of 4’s and 6’s tendulakar had smashed and blah! (Quiet remarkable for two girls who didn’t know how cricket was played till then!) . We decided to put all this energy into use. Well! Playing the game was out of question and 12 year old girls had better things to do than burn their skin playing cricket with the boys!! We came up with this most time devouring project of making a cricket book, which kept us on our toes the whole of the summer of 1996.

It began with the piles of ‘sport star’ magazines we had collected over the cricket season and the gambit of cricket shots it contained. We had very religiously used a lab-notebook and stuck carefully picked pictures on the left hand side on the plain paper and written out details on the right hand side. Like we had a page with close up picture of tendulkar and the right hand side we had details like – no of runs, average and all possible nitty gritty details! I wonder what we wanted out of this supposed book of records, which we even bothered to update as months went by. The cricket book had become an obsession that I would want to have my eyes on it all the time. It was like we had fallen in love with the cricket book to distraction. As if this was not balmy enough, we also supplemented the cricket book with Sachin and kumble notebooks, with pictures of the two cricketing divas!? [If the NDTV existed then, they could have featured our efforts in the news titling it “‘Two 12 year girls turn berserk, innovative cricket fans’ ... After the break”

The cricket fervor caught on to us so much so that we retorted to a zillion superstitions and prayers to make India win. India’s loss depressed us immensely. I would also coax my mother to pray and read her prayer book while India was out at the field. We had even bought the music cassette sung by Sanjay Manjeraker which had favorite songs of all the Indian cricket palyers!! By the June of 1996, we had reached the peak of insanity and cricket(ers) was the world to us. It became an obscene reality that we heard, watched and talked cricket. It had turned from fad to patriotism to personal! It was time to stop…

I don’t recall what happened following that summer… except that we had school to go to ,we were turning teenagers and we had much more to look forward to in life and our cricket book and fanatic-sm was buried deep under the dusty book rack! … 11 years down the lane, the ‘making of our cricket book’ still brings a smile on my face and the remnants of my friendship with Annie.

Lost Identity

2007-02-14T04:20:00.000+05:30

Lost Identity

“ I speak tamil at home… it is actually ‘Talayalam’. But my native place is kerala!!” Does it quiet ring a bell??? Having told this over and over again and confused friends over this annoying identity… I belong to the supposed elite class of palakkad iyers. I have heard that my great-great-great-….. Grandpa lived in palakkad (town in Kerala). Technically I belong to Trivandrum, but that has never changed to ‘trivandrum iyer’… ‘Palakkad iyer’ remains! I speak a language that irks the tamilians and malayalees alike. It is a hybrid language not just mixing the words from the two languages, but combining them, making it look like ‘oh! We have the best of both sides!’ [the word ‘understand’ in malayalam is “manasulayo” and tamil is “purinjacha”.. I say “manasulacha”??] Surprisingly, I can handle Tamil, malaylam and talayalam with careful ease, which leaves me as a jack of all trades and master of none!

Anecdotes of mis-interpreted words, which have different repercussions when spoken in Tamil and Malayalam, have been the family’s source of jokes told at every family get-together. I must admit that many a times, even I have laughed over them n re-told them!
Jokes apart, I have always wondered where this misconstrued identity leaves the Palakkad iyres. Is it possible that the generations to come will transform into the original natives and forget talayalam all-together... OR will talayalam transcend into another language with its own identity? (Considering that there is no dearth of dialects or languages in India, as long as talayalam doesn’t call for another talyangana state, it should work fine!)

Firstly, I see very little of the language surviving in my family itself. My cousins in kerala speak more or Malayalam, ones in tamilnadu speak more of tamil and the ones abroad or in northern India scarcely understand either and may be speak ‘talayanglish’?! Secondly, hardly any of my cousins has married a palakkad iyer, or even an iyer to say the least! Thirdly, talayalam cannot be spoken or recognized anywhere other than family circles and not an easy language to pick up, unless you are born with it.

Amidst all this, what I do observe is the metamorphosis of the language over generations. Additions and deletions of words or changing words back to native languages; each generation has produced a new version. It reminds of the scene at the software industry where no version of the software is ever perfect and there is no such defined version that would outshine the rest. Are, we changing the face of talayalam into a sparsely debugging mode, not knowing what to debug? Is talayalam here to stay or is the original dialect being lost in the myriad of its versions?? I am just left with a bunch of unanswered questions and a sense of belonging to my dear old mother tongue that I call ‘talayalam’!

89/100 in Lesson of life

2007-02-13T04:09:00.000+05:30

89/100 in Lesson of life

How important is an 85% anyway?? I had this conflict ever since the day, I was six and my mother beat me hard for not having written answers to questions which could have made me a class first!

Class first...Hmm… does it sound familiar?? Brought up in typical south Indian Brahmin family, I was told that a career came before life. A 100% in mathematics was the biggest achievement and a stepping stone to all successes ahead… Life revolved around scoring marks that made you the top in class and among every cousin in the family, getting into IIT, fly to US for a Masters and becoming a software engineer like every “good” student did or should??!… Well… I sadly never achieved it all… I have never scored a 100% in board exams. Wasn’t the topper of my class... Didn’t make it through IIT… much to my mother’s disappointment … I was a much too a moderate student who ended up being a pseudo Software Engineer, that every city-born, Brahmin south Indian SHOULD! 23 years of birth n later I am a developer like a million others and became part of the Software genre of IT professionals, lost in the grains of sand that holds the US economy together and running after a Dollar dream!! Many a time I wonder is this really what I want and why?? And I am lost for an answer. Is it the way my family wants me to be? Is it the trend for every educated south Indian Brahmin family?? Or is it a simple “Be a roman in Rome” syndrome??

Yes, like everyone in the field, I am good at what I do… But the point is… Does this define life itself??

Is it ethical or even moral to tell a child that scoring more than everyone in class defines her? If she doesn’t come in the first 3 in class, her life is practically doomed?? How healthy is this competition?? Can this be defined as competition?? Is it right to force a child to tread a path she doesn’t want to?? Is it right to make a student feel that a failure can spell hell?? If she doesn’t do as well as half the world, does it mean she is a loser in life??

I spent the last 18 months of my life finding answers to these questions and ended up making my Masters experience a horribly good one… ‘Class first’ turned out to be a sardonic reality! Stuck in a classroom of my country men and women (a home away from home??) striving to be a part of the ‘software imports’, I felt immensely pressurized to perform better than ever. Little did I realize then -- that achievement among forty meant nothing when you are thrust against another forty million ; Confidence and time-management spelt success and not a 99/100 ; Working smart helped you get grades and not Working hard(er) ; Masters was all about following your heart and not proving to be better than the best!

My struggle to keep grades high through the ‘Be a roman’ ideals led to my first failure. Failing a course had been the ultimate suicidal experience of my life! I no longer feel embarrassed admitting it to myself or to the world through this blog. What followed in my life was determination and reasons to live, which has brought me where I am right now. I feel re-born, with the right ideals – struggle to follow your heart and dreams ; work to be able to smile and feel contended about yourself and your life ; Love what you do and do it only if you love it.

I look at the report card which reads – Mathematics – 89/100 ( “Can do better “ remark by my teacher ) and my heart no longer sinks with disappointment, but I feel proud that I was able to look at life beyond a piece of paper that said my mathematics score!!

Disclaimer: The author is not targeting south Indian Brahmin families, she belongs to one too!. Any resemblance is purely coincidental.