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.

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 –

1. One or two large eggplants.
   
2. cumin
3. mustard
4. curry leaves
5. Ginger ( 2 cm cube )
6. 2 small flakes of garlic
7. green chilies ( 3 or 4 )
8. 1 tblsp of coconut milk
9. chilly powder according to taste
10. Coriander powder, if available.
11. 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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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 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?!

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!!

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!!