Witness to a cartoonscape....

Sacred Spaces...

2008-05-09T19:51:00.000-07:00

The minute between the thought, and the bitter-sweet utterance of something you never meant to say….
The moment the drumbeat in the heavens warns you of the first feel, of better than diamonds, on your nose…..
The instant the whisper of the wind warns you, of an intimacy that could make you blush….
The minute before your eyes squint at the light of day, when Phoebus caresses your face….
The second between your fleeting glance at the face you were searching for, and your hasty turning away….
The fleeting instant before you realize someone you need is just behind you….
The intervals of anticipation, of hope, of the knowledge of the divine…..
My sacred spaces.

The hours between searching for that insignificant something, yet so significant….
The space between the last word in a letter long ago, and it’s full stop....telling more in it’s resigned emptiness…
The days between seeing the extra grey in your father’s hair, and now, ticked of feverishly on that wall calendar….an act infinite in it’s repetition….
The years between the hurt and learning to let go, to love the self better….
The immeasurable gap between three ages torn apart by forces greater than their reckoning….yet never giving in….
The ages between the search for your big act in the circus, and the curtain call….
The instant you realize those blurred faces, begging for an encore, will never get one….
My sacred spaces.

The intervals always stay
Haunting you, hurting you, hunting you down……
For words hastily said or never said at all…
For baseless accusations….
For endless expectations…all of them disproved meticulously…
For those wild and reckless things you thought yourself capable of doing…
For those you did….and regretted…
My sacred spaces.

The intervals always stay
Laughing at yesterday’s biggest tragedy….
Forgetting last year’s devastating heartburn…pushing you to move on…
Clearing your head after an innocent indulgence…
Forgiving you for convictions that antagonize the world at large…
Smiling at a momentary spell of lunacy…
Loving you for being you….
Noticing, the small kindnesses you bestow on people, when no one else can see…
Convincing you to look to yourself for strength…almost forcing you to believe in yourself….
Holding you tight when you’re not ready and you want to run away…
My sacred spaces.

The Lucky Pen

2008-05-09T17:50:00.000-07:00

Dedicated to Sree Devi, who injected some excitement to my boring blogolife last week.:)

Today I found myself walking aimlessly about the stationery section at HEB, searching for that elusive article, the lucky pen.

The lucky pen, if not a self explanatory term, is that unusual piece of stationery, that besides endowing its owner with a legible hand writing, also manages to procure him/her an A grade in all the exams he/she writes using it. Not to forget blogs and novels, which become instant winners and best sellers.

Well, the lucky pen doesn't have any particularly unique characteristics. There is no way you can know of its remarkable properties till post-examination or post-blog, or rather, post-comments.

My earliest revelation of the existance of this unique article came after a 5th grade GK contest where I emerged a winner. It was a red Stic pen with a green cap and a Mickey mouse picture on it in black. It was an ink pen and leaked like crazy. My bony little fingers had perpetually deep, dark blue stains until I lost the pen in 11th grade. Even when my Dad used to comment at the dinner table that all the ink in my tummy would stain my innards blue, I just got even more defensive about the pen. What did he know about its magical properties? Huh!

I cannot explain adequately in words, the distress I felt when I finally lost it. I even suspected for a week that someone had stolen it to take away my luck. Highly unlikely, given that it had ceazed to write for intervals that exceeded singe digit number of minutes. And that too, only if you held it at a particular angle, which generally involved twisting your arm. Looking back, I feel my grandmother must have lovingly removed it, fearing for my sanity and the shape of my arms.

Soon after this episode my Dad gifted me a Parker ink pen which had these cool refills that you could just snap on. And besides, the refills were expensive. I mentally bestowed it the property of luck. Well, it did not have it. I royally messed up my 12th grade boards. Well not that bad, but not lucky pen worthy performance for sure.

When I first went to college, I decided that this time I could not afford to go wrong. Through extensive trial and error, I arrived at the conclusion that the blue jeans "HOKITA"(Made in China) pencil pouch that my mother gave me, the Parker pen and an Ajanta Scale were the crucial combination. Not to forget my grandmothers Pope John Paul II blessed rosary.

The rosary unfortunately did not last me till my VISA interview which must be the reason my name came stamped all wrong. I've been on the hunt since then.

Thankfully this sacred knowledge has been revealed to one more blessed soul. My room mate, Sree Devi. I am not alone in this holy quest.

And to all those out there, who think we are heretics, the truth shall be revealed to you one fine examination.

Medical College Blues

2008-05-09T17:26:00.000-07:00

This is an unedited version of a letter my sister sent me. (Unedited except for the identity of a crush and yes, why I want to blow BIT up). She wrote it for THiNK, hoping that I would convert it into some sort of story. I didn't have time. She was 8 months into her MBBS course. The letter follows:
Dearest Chechi,

I’m sorry I was so late sending this thingy. How are you? Do you still feel like blowing up the place? Sometimes life is boring, you just have to bear with it.You asked me to describe the first few months in medical college. You know I ‘m not much of a writer or an observer, still. When it comes to memories, dissection table would be the most distinct. After the first dissection, we felt so sick. We had lunch break right after dissection. Most of us used to miss lunch the first few days…coz after spending time with the cadaver it was impossible for us to swallow anything. (Note that we are not allowed to use hand gloves so that we got over the disgust and we also got the real feel.) Its funny, coz nowadays, it’s dissection that seems to stimulate my appetite. Weird how things just become a part of your life I remember how we used to wash our hands with Dettol and God knows what else before we used our hands for anything, now who’s got the time? It was weird standing in front of a naked body especially after studying for 10 years in a girls’ school. Thankfully we had two classes to get accustomed to the situation. I guess our Profs sensed our discomfort. Tsk! Tsk! A guy was the only person who fainted in our batch. That shows the power of today’s girls! (Chechi, just some of my own feminist crap). The first day we opened our dissection box, the scalpel, the blade with which we mercilessly tear open the bodies (it’s real sharp), fell on a girl’s foot. Soon we got accustomed to these minor mishaps; most organs were not a problem. But when we did external genital organ, I still remember the guys gasping when the penis was cut. When we took out the testis from the scrotum, I felt really disgusted. I never took the trouble to hold it and find the anatomical position…n guess what??? I got it for my internals. I was forced to hold it. I guess a Doctor just has to know something of EVERYTHING.Nothing however would rival the shock I got was when I realized that we had to get our own real bone set, not plaster of paris, but a real person’s bone, and everyone was telling me about how difficult it is to get it. Why all the stressing on a real bone set you may ask. Apparently, every individual’s bones are unique and there are certain contours and properties of real bones that synthetic substitutes can never perfectly reproduce. Back to my story, sometime later this real scary guy came up to me, he looked real creepy. He was trying to sell bones on campus and was milling with the outpatient crowd to avoid being noticed. He was ready to sell a bone set for 1000 Rs. You should have seen the bones! They were fresh! I mean they had a little bit of flesh on them. Damn scary, real bones, like they just popped out of this horror movie show or something. And I, carried away by that new feel of being independent, guess you lose your senses in the battle to prove yourself, bargained for 800. But my friends told me not to buy it coz it was fresh or something like that. So after all that mindless bargaining I told the guy I wasn’t going to buy it…and the guy started crying. His soulless, grey eyes were actually filled with tears. Guess everyone has feelings. Later, my friends told me he was a grave digger. I was petrified-the real world of medicine exposed in all its gory details. To save a life, we take another person’s dear ones remains…sad…and I bargain for it. I felt like crap. It suddenly forced itself on me, like an immense burden, how man has to go to the extremes, just to survive. He forgets everything. Even I forgot in the heat of being a good medical student. I sort of hated myself then. But now, I have become insensitive to such things. I carry the bones of some person in my bag whenever I go for osteo class, sleep off with them on my bed. Guess it’s a part of being a doctor.Recently we learnt about the skull. And I was listening in class as usual, answering anything I knew (which was not often), when sir brought a foetus skull. You should see it, it’s so small. The bones are not ossified. You could really see what a delicate thing it was. It was so sad, a mother’s hope, her greatest dream…still-born. And here it is - a specimen for us at the embryology lab. There are all kinds of specimens here, kept soaked in formalin, for us to study. They are all so cute, you couldn’t possibly believe anything was wrong with them, but yes they were still-born. A mother’s 9 month long wait and just one of the many specimens in every medical college. It’s pathetic really. To save lives, for medicine to go on, we have to become so ruthless, so insensitive. But without it, there would never be medicine coz you can never understand without seeing. It’s just not about mugging up. It’s another one of those paradoxes in life that you can’t explain.But it’s not that bad. We get to see every guy in our batch bare chest, not something you get in every college. I still remember how shocked we were when the tutors asked us if any of the guys were ready to strip up to the waist for us to study. I mean we were like: What was she up to? And the worst was when she asked each one of us to come up and feel for the apex beat. It was really weird. It was like they get a free massage in exchange for stripping. But now whatever, every other person is just a subject. Who cares! (Except for the fact that I screwed up my percussion during the exams) It’s fun in a way.And you won’t believe it, every week I prick my finger more than three times just to get the blood and test it. I hated the idea. Pricking my delicate fingers. Some of my friends haven’t been able to get over it yet. You see, we even shed our blood to get through these five years and become the so called doctors. And as if that wasn’t enough, we need another ten years to be able to practice. But the good part is- it’s fun all the way. Why? Coz we deal with people. Real people. And you just realize how unique each human being is. Not just character-wise but also anatomically - the arteries, the nerves, the veins, the organs, everything is so different. No two specimens are identical. And you have to be so careful. It’s amazing. You actually start thinking: Can Science explain everything? There is something supernatural about life that defies comprehension.Whenever we go to the college there is a shortcut through the leprosy center. Most of the residents have recovered fully and yet no one has come to reclaim them. As we go by, they just look at us, passing through the center to the college, waiting, to see if someone would come for them someday, someone they can call their own. I’m so lucky to have everyone. And sometimes I think I am real lucky to belong to this generation, a generation without prejudices like the one before. Then again, I think maybe I’m fooling myself, maybe we’re just a generation with a whole new set of prejudices.The psychiatry and alcohol rehab center is another place we have to cross always on our way to college. I remember when Sameetha was walking by one day, one of its inmates called out "Hello sister! On your way back, get me a pack of cigarettes." They used to call us by all kinds of names when we walked by, hoping we would respond. It was like try your luck. If you hit, you get a girl to look back at you (mostly in fear / anger / annoyance), otherwise you have nothing to lose. For us, it was our silent zone. We used to be so quiet while crossing these areas. Now they know us by name, and we are the least bothered, after all, we are all humans. In fact, Sameetha got her first and only proposal from one of the inmates. It’s sad how life can just slap you right across the face. Whenever we walk, we get flattering comments like- you look so pretty, and I love you and what not. It must be so difficult to be stuck behind those rails. Only they know what they are going through, and boy! How desperate they must be. It’s sad and, I must confess, funny at the same time.The best part of my first year would be, when I finished just one month of MBBS and I went home for vacations, our domestic help came up to me with her lab reports, asking for my opinion on the case. I just stared at it the X-ray and the blood tests results. And I am like, what in the world is going on?! It was still Greek and Latin to me. Then I go like what the doctor said was absolutely right. (Sophisticated nod plus grave raised eyebrow) AND she surprisingly agreed, when I didn’t even ask her what the doctor said.It’s so funny how people think that less than one year of MBBS is more than enough to make me a super specialist in every subject in the medical world, even better than the super specialist he/she is visiting, who has spent more than 20 yrs dedicated to the subject.My first few anatomy classes felt like entering foreign territory –phalanges, superolateral, nasion, cerebrohematoma, shentons line. I never used to follow a word. It took me 2 whole months just to get used to the lingo. These days, I see how the interns come in the morning after working the entire day, just to see that there is no food left. And I keep thinking, that’s me in five yrs. No food! I can’t even imagine the situation. Oh well! From here to there there’s still five years. On the whole I am so happy where I am. I love my college, my batch, my friends, everything! It’s a profession I am sure I will love. It’s tough, requires a lotta determination and focus but I think its fun at the same time. You feel you’re doing something useful, important, relevant. And I hope that this belief stays for the next five years.

Love

Nandhu

Feeling the Beat

2008-05-01T16:57:00.000-07:00

Exams seem to bring out the blogger in me. It seems the only means to dispel stress when my head is buzzing with an overdose of Quantum Mechanics.
Somehow, today I find myself trying to remember when exactly was the first time I heard music, in the conventional sense, of course. Sonia reminds me that waves, rain drops, the flapping of bird wings etc etc too can be called music. But the Zog is at present solely interested in the organized cacophony that we homo sapiens insist on labelling with that term.
The more I think of it, the more I am certain that my first musical experience was the song "Aayirum Kannumayi," sung to us by our mother as a single stop solution for everything starting from scratches, cuts, bruises, black eyes, ant bites, wasp bites, hard words, hard stares, hard whacks on our behinds. That was the one song she could sing without being off-key, even once. Besides, my Dad played it endlessly on our Fischer Price stereo.
I must admit, other than the above, my first auditory stimulations were restricted to exclusively the ONV Kurupu lyricized or the ABBA, Michael Jackson vocalized variety. Of course, there was the occasional "Daisyeeeeeee! Daisyeeee!" Since I couldn't understand any of the rest, I was very taken up by this song. To this day, daisies are my favourite flower. Later, I learnt from a string of conservative aunts, sisters and grannys that the song was in some ununderstandable way profane. Even later, I learnt it was not the song, but the film the song was an integral part of, that was the issue. Hmmm.
As I continued in this hopeless ingnorance, where even my dreams played out to the tune of "Dancing Queen","Dangerous" or "Arikil nee", my parents suddenly turned my world upside down, enrolling me at an American School. Here I was, two decades behind people my age. Disney music was the in thing, at the time. I found myself mouthing "When You wish upon a star", "Cruella D' Ville" and "Under the Sea" with a zillion other toddlers, one school spring concert after another, carefully making sure that not a sound escaped me. I didn't exactly have a melodious voice.
I was terribly relieved when the whole Britney Spears, Backstreet Boys phase happened. No more concerts. You just had to listen. This was about the time my father gave away our Fischer Price music box to a newly arrived cousin of his. I felt an unexplainable animosity towards the poor soul from the minute he handled that sacred instrument. However, audio tapes had gone out of fashion and my Dad, forever the electronics geek, believed it was high time we had a CD player. Our sleek, black Kenwood, four speaker entertainment centre was exciting. But that ended listening to music for my poor mother, who was intimidated by all the complicated (she said) gadgetry. My Dad hated the boy band, "Hit me Baby" variety of music and he stopped too. Thus was initiated the Asianet News and Asianet serials era of my parents lives.
I have a feeling though that the Tatu and Alanis Morisette CD covers made Daddy rethink his feelings for Boyzone.:)
I have no qualms in admitting that college was by far the best era of my musical journey. It was no longer boring to like retro music and let your hair down to the tune of the Beatles. Pink Floyd was synonymous to cool and ABBA and the Carpenters were free flowing, integral parts of the lingo. Once again, it was safe to be me.
Not for long. It seems the "me"ness in me also included a love for classical music. And classical music was a surefire means to get you trampled as social dirt. I listened to Tchaikovsky clandestinely when my room mate was away or when she was fast asleep. I re-edited my playlists when she was back. Phew!
It was almost like being in the closet. I wish I was like the dude in the "Clockwork Orange." He liked Beethoven and it actually made him cool. But me, no way! Maybe I had to wear the weird white outfit and mask too.
Right now, my playlist is a liberal mix of every genre known from here to Tahiti. I never discriminate. The ud is as beloved as the veena or the violin. The beat of the samba as appealing as the slow playing of the saxophone.
My memories of music seem to be associated more with my growth and mood swings than anything else. Whether it was lying on the hostel lawn, looking at the moon, drinking coffee and listening to Pink Floyd, air banding with a passion on "I want to hold your hand" or playing "I'm a bitch" and "Girls just wanna have fun" when I am up to some mischief or the other or feel very aware of my feminity.
Also it is strange how every person who comes or leaves my life has a song attached. Tanima-Cindy Lauper-"Girls just wanna have fun", Hathi-Pink Floyd-"Of your possible pasts", Jianni-Black eyed peas-"My humps", still remember the way she sang it on hostel night, Udita-Beatles-"I wanna hold your hand",my sister-Pearl Jam-"Ain't no mountain high", Ma-"Aayirum kannumayi", Daddy-Boney M-"Daddy Cool"(You should totally hear my Dad sing that song).....the list goes on. Funny thing is, in my dreams too, these songs are like theme songs, denoting their entrance and exit. Funny, the associations that our minds make.
And yes, I do admit, like Sonia says, that sometimes, the only music you feel like hearing is the waves when you hold a conch shell to your ear, Whooo!, the wind rustle through leaves, Whishoo!, rain beating against a tin roof, Tdindintin!, the crackling of a warm fire, Kcklkl!, or the chirping of birds, Chipchr!, when you actually manage to wake up in the morning.
Other music also counts. My favourite as I have mentioned before, is the sound of my dads key turning in the lock of our gate when he gets back from work, Kchick!, the sound of your mom taking a shower, all the time imagining how lovely she looks and smells when she steps out, RShhhhshr!, the sound of your sisters text book clamping shut after home work, Thdddt!, time to play, time to play!
So many sounds, all so divine, Pity that none of it, is solely mine!

OUR GUY

2008-04-27T23:35:00.000-07:00

It is difficult to be the only guy in a house full of women. Add to this inherent “maleness” an above average intelligence, and life can become almost intolerable.
This article is to commemorate my Father’s surviving in such a defunct household for nearly a quarter century.
Let me introduce you to the aforementioned women. My Mother-Saint in disguise, very spiritual, great cook, thriving socialite, hates to have anything to do with accounts. The Nandhu- Exemplary student, perpetually cheerful disposition, wildly fluctuating maturity levels. Me, the Zog- angry young woman, rebel without a cause, emotionally unstable, anti-social. The three of us together are a heady combination.
When we were really, really small, I guess my Dad thought child rearing was a piece of cake. A steady, long stare from him was good enough to keep us at our best behaviour for hours together. However, the moment we developed a mind of our own, or rather, a mindlessness of our own, life became hell for Papa.
It began late one September, when I developed the “Barbie doll” mania. It is a phase most girls go through. Suddenly, everything is pink, from their tiffin box to their shoes, and all over the place are pictures, accessories and plastic figurines of “Barbie.” This was not easy on my Dad’s pocket, or his health. The moment a doll or her accessory was denied me, right there, in the middle of the toy shop, I would pout, my face would swell and then, my tiny, frail form would vibrate with the most heart-rending sobs. My Dad just had to give in. In a matter of three years I accumulated every variety of “Barbie” on the market from here to Timbuktu.
My Dad watched fearfully should my sister develop a similar fever. This time it was worse. For the Nandhu had developed a fetish for electronic goods, not dolls. Every time we crossed a showroom, she would throw a tantrum. Fridges, vacuum cleaners, irons, TVs, VCRs, she wanted everything. My Dad would try reasoning with her that we already had these things. She would shake her head. NO, she wanted this one. Of course, she was forced to see reason with a pinch under her arm or a whack on her bottom. But I must say, we have accumulated a lot of weird appliances, thanks to her. Some of them would include a pocket vacuum cleaner, an on-the-go waffle maker and a jumbo size deep-fryer.
The Zog’s pre-adolescence was marked by a long series of slumber parties and an even longer series of sob sessions following them. Either it was “ABC said this...”or “XYZ said that...” However, not going and avoiding all the misery was never an option. Daddy would puzzle over it as his baby girl strutted off for the next party.
Off course, infinitely worse were the days when it was the Zog’s turn to “host” the party. Besides an endless stream of girls of all shapes and sizes pouring into the house, the mess they leave in their trail, and the trouble of keeping them fed (very difficult), there was the question of listening not just to your daughter crying but at least 10 others (some of them with complaints about your little angel.) Meanwhile your wife runs around the house trying to get the younger child to wear at least one article of clothing besides her Stars and Stripes plastic knickers. Daddy begins to grey.
Final year of prep school ushers in an era of relative peace except for the Nandhu’s occasionally taking the computer apart and being unable to reassemble it. It is, however, not long lived.
One fine day, the Zog comes running home from school screaming “Blood cancer! Blood cancer!” Daddy is worried and his brow, furrowed. What was the matter? Was she alright? Is she really ill? He watches nervously as the girl’s Mother escorts her to her room. He listens to the occasional noises that emanate from behind closed doors. Screams, wails, sobs, whines, silence. An hour later Ma tells him that the Zog is growing up. Thus begins an era of female code language. Growing up? Of course he knew she was growing up! Women!
The Mother proceeds to call her parents and sisters in India. Now the sun rises. Aaaah! The Zog is growing up. My Dad feels distinctly out of place. While my Mom is busy on the phone ruining my life, my Dad is given more to worry about- International phone bills. More grey hair.
Soon the Nandhu is all grown up too. My Dad feels even more excluded from the family circle. There are days when all three women are afflicted by mysterious stomach aches and are cranky all day long. When my Dad volunteers that these things happen, and that we must try to ignore them, three angry women glare at him. The intensity of their stares could roast him alive. He sheepishly withdraws inside his newspaper.
What my Father dislikes the most must still be grocery lists that run like, Bread…1 packet, apple…1 kg, Whisper….2 large cartons (with wings).
Somewhere in high school, most girls develop the “save the world” syndrome. Their male counterparts however, settle for something far more realistic like forming a world famous rock band or joining the Indian cricket team. This period is marked by a string of youth groups, political parties and ideologies, that poor Dad too is forced to adhere to. Initially the idea was to save the environment. Besides being bombarded day in and day out with policies to maintain ecological balance and reasons to boycott U.S. goods, Daddy was bullied into total vegetarianism and no-deodorant-use (They release harmful CFCs into the environment- Green house effect dummy!) for nearly six months.
The girls soon figure that saving the environment is futile if all humans did not get equal access to it. Thus followed a short communist phase. Thankfully, this had no practical implications. For the period of a year, it was fashionable to quote Karl Marx, have a crush on Che Guerra and claim that “The Motorcycle Diaries” is your favourite movie.
The relief was short lived however. The next phase was the worst by far-THE FEMINIST FANATIC Phase. For Daddy it must have been nauseating. For a period of four years he symbolized all that was evil and disgusting in the world, for no fault of his own. (He was, and still is, quite liberal considering his background.) Things did not look pretty. Papa’s grey hair was running into three digits. As a final feminist statement, the Zog decides to study in Ranchi, a place most people back home still considered to be a part of Bihar, and therefore unsafe for girls.
Three months later, as she trudged to E.D. class, neatly oiled twin plaits and mismatched salwar suit, she knew her statement was going to cost her. Meanwhile, back home, the Nandhu prepared for her 10th boards. Between the constant phone calls from Ranchi complaining about everything from the mess food to the Prof’s wardrobes (ISD phone bills! ISD phone bills!) and the Nandhu’s nervous attacks at home, the remainder of Daddy’s black hair turned grey. My Mother’s beating on her chest and praying did not help the situation.
Three years down the line, the frequency of phone calls from Ranchi did reduce. However, this is overly compensated by phone calls from Mangalore. The Nandhu had joined medical college. She calls every half minute to tell her beloved “Acha” things other girls would have figured eons ago.
“Dada, people drink in college!”
“Dada, my friends have boy friends and they are only 19.”
“Dada, people go clubbing in college. I am so scared! Why are people so bad?”
Dad’s going from grey to white. What next? Could things get any worse?
Well no prizes for guessing, it did. Oh no! The elders back home in Kerala want the Zog to get married. My Dad raises his eyes to heaven and asks, “Why me?”
Dad tries to broach the subject with the Zog. To his horror, the Zog has finally developed the faculty of logic. Dear God! What did B.I.T. do to her?! She could actually reason things out (to her own advantage of course). Nothing her Daddy says can convince her. In fact, she has different plans altogether.
“See Daddy! I will do my M.S., then my Ph.D. and in the meantime, I will free lance part time for the “TIMES” and “New Scientist”. When I have a tidy sum saved up I will invest in a studio cum library cum……..and then win the Nobel Prize when I am 25. Daddy, marriage is sure to interfere with all my plans.”
“Yes, yes. I understand,” he says wearily. In his mind, he thinks, “Do I? What on earth is she talking about? And yet a minute ago she tore my argument into shreds, so she must have some sense. Besides, she is my daughter. That is not the point, the point is…..”
Meanwhile my Mom sits at the hall table, her eyes fixed on Daddy, full to the brim with tears
“I hate doing accounts!”

Supercalafragelisticexpialidocious!

2008-04-10T01:07:00.000-07:00

So it happened like this!
She was eloping to Nairobi with her Alien boy friend from Sector X of galaxy Nova Beta and I just happened to meet her on the Calcutta Express.
Naaa! Not as dramatic as you would imagine.
Difficult to believe, but the following is the true story with all the murky details.

She was my geeky, Kajol look-alike, brackety-teeth, perverted-joke-master senior. I was the shy, introverted junior. ;)
Damn! This is beginning to sound like one of those love stories that I know I just don't want to finish reading. For the record, this is not a love story.
Yet anything I try, to explain the single most profound and at the same time perplexing?! moment of my adult life, looks cliche.
There she was in the midst of this chaotic whirl of sheets, books, files, paper, chords, more chords, was there more than one laptop? I am tempted to say laptops. The most insanely disorganized room I have ever seen. And on top of all this, and I swear, still very much in control, was this chubby figure in a grey t-shirt and navy blue shorts.
I was doing what a typical junior does:-bootlicking my recent United States-returned elder counterpart (by two days). I was going through the routine, vaguely intrigued, appalled, disgusted and at the very same time secretly admiring the fact, that after two months in the US of A, somehow the one thing she brought back with her was a very distinct memory of the cream cheese bagels and the brownies. After our session, I was terribly hungry, terribly fascinated and terribly waiting for another chance to bootlick.:)
Well it happened that my peculiar brand of bootlicking was a winner as far as this grey t-shirt wearing, on-top-of-total-chaos-perching senior was concerned.

I was soon to be become an integral part of the whirlwind that was Tanima Dubey's room.
The following months (years?) went by in a rush and the only mind numbing sensation that remains is that I want them back.

When I happened to feel low, a worn and battered copy of Linda Goodman was thrust into my hand, dog eared, highlighted, penciled and asterisked at the Aries section.

Do you guys know how fabulous we Arians are? You have no idea. We are by far the best sign in the Zodiac (no offense intended). All of us are so cool, so much fun to be with, I mean we're perfect!............

Yikes! Before all of you start throwing brickbats at me, I didn't mean any of that. Its just Linda Goodman makes us look so awesome. All you Arians out there, here's some sincere advice - beg, borrow, steal, tear the Aries section of Linda Goodman and keep it with you. It is a tue friend for life.

Besides the above infallable advice, Tanima introduced me to the mysterious rites of dietary hedonism. Her philosophy:The moment that you feel so completely full, you feel you can't breathe, at that point gulp another last spoonful of food. That extra serving indicates utter and complete satiation, the moment when you know you cannot possibly be more satisfied, your threshold- that euphoric point which is most appropriate for yet another act of hedonism- Unecessary rest. Snore!

The one thing about the female that baffles me to this day is the absolutely careless way in which she professes to love Govinda and Miles Davis at the same time? One of the most terrifying experiences I have had in hostel (I still have recurrent nightmares) was when two Banshee like apparitions with loose hair and crazy pajamas cornered me and performed each and every Govinda number ever released in what I think was chronological order. From "Aa aa ee oo oo ooo" to "Zshoom! Akhiyon se Gholin Mari!" there is no Govinda number I can honestly claim to never have heard before.

Sitting on the canteen mushroom, eating Pakodi and chai, cracking the craziest jokes, which were in retrospect not particularly funny, but we laughed anyway, and so heartily....like I have not laughed a long time since.

On our crazy, themed birthday parties, from "Amazonion tribes" and "Back to the nursery" to "Mochachocacaffeineshottaholic" and "Begging for Gifts", Tanima was our little vitamin pill, the Princess Xena, the one toddler who had too much chocolate cake and pepsi goes berserk, the caffeine in the coffee, the zing in the gifts that made them worth begging for, she was the unnacountable, mysterious X factor. The life of the party. The punch line of the joke. The unidentifiable twang in the Punch.

All the time I've known her, she always knew how to hold her head, no matter what on earth was happening around her. Solid as a rock. And yet so soft and vulnerable.

The female who can rewrite a six month project overnight if her hard disk crashed and yet get teary towards the end of "Pretty Woman."

The female who can go to her lab in her pajamas and yet loves to dress up in brocade saris and chunky ethnic jewellery, and to top it off, strut around the hostel corridoors in her favourite pied piper stilettos the day before the exam.

The female who can be demure, witty and sauve as the situation demands and yet crack the worst pjs possible when shes alone with her beloved hoggers.:)

We've been the best gal pals (cliche again) since that fateful day, and from crazy face packs to crazy crushes, we've been through it all together. Thats the thing isnt it? Being together. Two continents couldn't tear us apart. So then nothing really could.

There is the research, demanding bosses, the usual suspects-marriage,husbands,children-but somehow I know we will survive it all together, no matter how far apart we may be, physically.

She's there to watch out for me and I'm there for her, like those crazy sisterhood pacts during World War II. Prick your fingers and mix the blood and all that crap. We never needed any of those cocky rituals. We just were.

Both of us turn 23 this year. She called me up and remarked that she felt terribly old.

I feel that way too this year. As if a part of my life I once knew is morphing into a faint memory. When did I grow up?!Its like the in between part didn't happen. Im the giant bean stalk from Jack's magic beans.

I understand her feeling old.

The two of us are doing research. We don't party. We actually like to work as much as we can. (I can see a million index fingers pointing this way:NERD!) We like to knit and cook and keep things clean and see things are planned out in advance, way in advance. How much more boring can life get right?

But like Hathi once said, Tanima is that girl at the college alumni party, that everyone asks for- the hippy, whacky, amusing bundle of energy who always intrigued everyone back then, still fresh in their memory, morphed into the graceful 30 some-thing that every guy and girl in the party begs to be introduced to.

Aging gracefully is a gift.

And Tanima has it aplenty, what I like to refer to as her mojo.

Switching from the quintessential Kajol look-a-like "life of the party" lass to the "Sauve, sophisticated" Vicky beckham+5 pounds scientist took hardly a month. Mind over matter.

For thats what she is, a woman, phenomenally.

And so, here's to my most supercalafragelisticexpialidocious friend ever!

Hip hip Hurray!

Hip hip Hurray!

Hip hip Hurray!

Day 5....

2008-04-07T18:04:00.000-07:00

Sorry folks...

I didnt pay my interent bill and my connection got cut off for a day. (Blushing)

Well lets get on with it then.

1. Name the world's oldest novel and its author.

2. Name Norway's claim to fame in the world of International cuisine.

3. Name the only surviving sanskrit theatre tradition.

4. Name a popolar war dance, the national dance of the largest country in the Arabian peninsula, performed annually at the Jenadriyah festival.

5. Name the first African Nobel leaureate in Literature. Where is he from?

6. Name the most world reknowned school of Australian indigenous art. Their work is often referred to as dot painting.

7. Avocado based relish or dip of Aztec origin. Name it.

8. The undeciphered glyphs of a volcanic island may be one of four independant inventions of writing in human history. The island is also famous for its Moai.

9. The northern most year round communities on earth are housed in this region of Greenland. Name it.

10. Name the national dance of Venezuela.

Day 6.....

2008-04-05T20:54:00.000-07:00

1. Identify the music being played as a theme for Maleficient. Also name the composer.

2. This playful and very popular ad by Claire Danes and her Evening co-star features the voice of one of yesterday's nightingales. Name her. One of her other songs is the theme for a popular British sitcom based on relationships. Which song is it? Name the sitcom.

3. Please don't bother to watch the inane dialogue. I can't believe my darlings could mouth dialogues so dull. The whole point is the song. It is the signature song of one of Europe's most famous singers. Name her.

4. Ok Ok. Agreed I am a mallu, but Hindi mainstream just manages to engulf all the rest of the Indian film Industry. I thought they deserved a chance. Come on...Trust me its not a mall thing. I was planning to force feed you Tamil but the good stuff didnt have all these nice subtitles n stuff. Neways, back to the question. Who sang the song? What is peculiar to this singer? Besides, this movie is famous for the debut of two talented youngsters. Name them.

(Anyways it was a critically acclaimed Indian movie, so you guys cant use mall as an excuse. :P)

5. Identify the music used in the trailer and the artists.

6. This ones too damn easy. But still, just to prove I'm a generous soul. What song? What artist?

7. Name the performers. What is the one common thread between them?

8. Again a runaway prize. Just name the composer of this piece. In the movie, the tempo or nature of this music changes as things occur? Explain the relationship.

9. What is the stringed instrument the Sister Geisha is playing called?

10. Name the song and the band. The notes of this paricular song have been lifted off a very popular Nirvana number. Which one is it?

Day 7...

2008-04-04T23:22:00.000-07:00

Ok people

So here's what you have to do. The paintings are numbered 1,2...etc from the top of the post.

You just name 'em, tell me who the artist/creator was or in case of 2,3 and 4, the school of art or style of the work. And you're in.

Easy enough, I daresay?

And they're fantastic, are'nt they?

Ooh! I forgot. The 9th pic was a sort of very famous cryptic painting. So can't let you guys get away so quick. Spot 3 symbolic references in it and what they reference to and 5 bonus points, I swear!

So off you go....:)

Day 8

2008-04-03T18:53:00.001-07:00

I really wanted to experiment with the quiz format a bit, but really not getting anywhere. Maybe not having an exam to do tomorrow would allow the creativity Gods to descend on me. But as things go we'll have to go on with the present routine for at least two more days.

So I never told you where I wanted you to send your answers. As a comment to my blog is too public..... My! Are'nt we competitive today?:)

Send it in to zogdelabog@gmail.com.

Okay so all set?

Here we go

1. I have 37 gears of which 30 survive

Lone survivor of an ancient wreck

I have been named the first mechanical computer.

2. "Like the silicon chips of more recent years, the Feynman diagram was bringing computation to the masses."

This quote is a reference to the thinly veiled competition between to intellectual giants of our age. If I asked you who they were, I would be too kind. Instead I ask you what their disagreement was about.

3. The treatise that first established the difference between chemistry and alchemy is__________

4. "Wigner's friend" and "Quantum suicide" are variants of which popular thought experiment?

5."Conspicuous Consumption" and "Conspicuous leisure" were first introduced in this famous book. Name it. This book is also considered the first critique of _______

6. "In some sort of crude sense, which no vulgarity, no humor, no overstatement can quite extinguish, the physicists have known sin, and this is a knowledge which they cannot lose."

So any guesses as to whose speech this was a part of?

7. The above instrument (pictured) is based on what physical principle?

8. Given credit for a range of advances from MRIs and CT Scans to the Information revolution, he was also a two time swedish academy award winner. Who is he? And you're a ninny if you don't know the answer. :P

9. This scientist was home schooled, did not have the money to persue a doctorate and hence worked as a lab technician for many years, and ;) with his equally bralliant wife tried to understand the science behind seances (psychical phenomena). Name him.

10. Name the first economic treatise ever written. Also name the author.

Today's theme is again obvious. But I would suggest reworking after you do all the quizzes to get a better fit.

Day 9

2008-04-02T21:18:00.000-07:00

1. Firmitas, Utilitas, Venestas,

The maxim that led to inscribing our form in the fundamental geometric patterns of the cosmic order.

The first architect also lent his name to Selene's mole.

Who is he?

2. Identify the picture at above. What, when, where?

The place where this fountain is located is modelled on a popular motif. What is it?

3. The nest in which the owner is the elevated centre of his own universe is often referred to as

the ____________ style. Often described as a centralized block raised on an elevated podium, accessed by grand steps and flanked by lower service wings.

4. "But why this term "America" has become representative as the name of these United States at home and abroad is past recall. Samuel Butler fitted us with a good name. He called us Usonians, and our Nation of combined States, Usonia."

Ayn Rand

Japanes inspiration

Tie the three clues above together. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? ;)

5. Name the first buildings to be built intentionally inclined in the world?

6. Stairway to the heavens built by one rumoured to be the Joseph of the Old Testament.

What is it?

7. This one's for Dubey. The University of Glasgow has a house built based on a design by this

artist of the Vienna Secession. Who was he?

8. These royals were known for buiding unique dravidian temples designed on the rock cut architectural paradigm. They ruled from Manyakheta, Gulbharga Dt. Who were they and name their most enduring monument?

9. My home is where the kettle boils,

True test to an able swordsman

Sheild against a foe

Humble I lay myself to service, like many others before me.

Tiny paces, racing chidren, old woman and cane, dragging slowly, I've known them all.

Who am I?

10. The term used to describe a new concept of design popularized by one of America's most beloved "Uncles", is a portmanteau word that underlies the magic of the World's most popular dream factory. It recognizes the synthesis of multiple crafts and expertise that go into the making of a dream.

The theme on this one seems apparent. But I'm sneaky and I hate people running away with a quickie, so I would suggest looking deeper for a shakier theme which neverthless might help you tie all 10 quizzes together. :)

And the Countdown begins....

2008-04-01T20:56:00.000-07:00

Day 10....

Ten days to the most phenomenal, earth shattering event of 2008. Stay tuned....

Till then here's 10 trivia Qs to keep you occupied.....

1. "Playmate to a princess, yet a nobody,

My many dreams, the first of their kind to grace the Louvre,

Brought to celluloid life by the union of Japanese and American strokes

Forgotten today, in old archives, it seems, I am finally banished forever to Slumberland."

2. The author of one of the most original autobiographies of recent years, I am known for a signature self-portrait on the book jacket, the simple basic lines of my work, my focus on the trials and tribulations of a particular nation in increasing international focus due to its recent political moves, and the stunning reception to the film adaptation of my work earlier this year/late last year. My latest work is named after a popular womens' hobby. Who am I?

3. Focussing on the woes and further woes of an often ignored faction of society, this strip rose to fame in one of the most famous college campuses in the world. Named after a mark of distinction bestowed for deeds of valour :P, the work mainly focusses on stereotypes within its target audience. The creator has launched a lecture series recently which features in the strip. What is the series called?

4. This popular digest had its debut in blue, green and yellow, graphics, translated to more than 20 languages and was originally released as a fortnightly of 30 pages. It was conceived as a means to educate a subcontinent about its folklore as oral traditions were rapidly dying.

5. The motifs of his work showed an environmental sensitivity that often left you with an aching sense of loss and followed storlines unusual to his medium. The leads were often young adolescent girls and the the characters though inhabiting a fantasy world were realistic in terms of their moral ambiguity. Flight and extensive forays into vast expanses of animated landscapes are one of his signatures. Voted one of the most infleuntial Asians by the TIMES who is he?

6. The brainchild of the grandaddy of the comic book industry, this side kick of the masked crime fighter drew extensive criticism for promoting racial stereotypes. It could partly be blamed on his name. What was it?

7. The first movie of its kind to be nominated for best picture at the Academy Awards, it is also regarded as a strong metaphor for AIDS. Name this picture.

8. "Food, love, mom and work." These four groups feature prominently in the life of which popular comic strip character?

9. Beauty and the beast in reverse,
Life is like an onion,
Yiddish for fear,
?

10. Created by the pioneer of American adult animation, the technique has recently been used to enhance a number of independant films, one of which is based on George Santayana's maxims and the other based on a science fiction novel by Phillip. K. Dick. What is the technique called?

Ok! So far so good! The idea now is to tie all this together and come up with a theme that ties them together. The remaining 9 quizzes will follow a similiar pattern.
The ensemble answer may be worth your while.....I'm not saying anything. :)

Ruminations in a garbage can...

2008-03-23T16:18:00.000-07:00

Yup. There it is. It really bothers her. I must be one of at least 200 that came off her head today. I already know what shes thinking.
"Why me? I've been doing everything I was told to do.....
I eat meat, eggs and drink milk twice a day. That makes for most of the protein and calcium and all the other stuff, shine whatever.... It's not fair."
Then she stands in front of the mirror examining her face.
Your face?
Wake up woman! Why the hell are you examining your face. It's your hair thats pouring off your head. I could do with some attention here. Helloooo!
She's still thinking. I can see it, sitting here in her garbage can. Getting crowded in here actually. There are just too many of us. The people who stay with her have issues too. Is it the water? Hmmm.
"What the hell! I have Biotin every day. That supposed to fix this...." Her thinking again.
You are supposed to have it for a month at least if you want something to happen. Its not magic for Chrissakes!
Again the face. Concentrate! Concentrate! And what the hell are you doing concentrating on your hair the day before your Biochemistry exam?!
Anyway, since you think the hair issue is an issue right now, focus! From now on you will have carrots every day, continue with the vitamin pills and you will not stay up late reading wikipedia articles on the Tudors! Not beyond 2:00 am. That is unholy.
Nope! Not happening. Not paying attention. She's already started making faces in front of the mirror. Too late.
Why? Why was I on her head? She couldn't care less if I disappeared all together.
What on earth are you doing, you weirdo? Are you trying to crack the mirror? That expression could wake the dead. Why do you do it?
Now she's shaking her hair in front of her face and making the Cruella D'Ville expression.
Oh no! Its happening again.
"I have such nice thick hair. And its all black! And curls in the end. I love my hair."
Uggh! Vanity thy name is woman.
You won't have any of that thick, black curl on the end stuff if you go on at this rate. Listen to me!
Nope! Just not happening today! She's started washing her face.
Oh God! Your little sis just taught you how to wash your face last month. What you're doing is rubbing your face off. Stop stop! Before you scrub off all your features!
Oh! Nothing happened! Thank God! It was ugly, trust me!
If only I was on her sister's head! I would get an oil massage twice a week, conditioning mask on Saturdays, good food, soft caressing brush strokes....I would be long and strong and soft, at least 12 inches long. ...that is the life.
Hey! Stop that! That's a massacre! You ought to be hanged by you locks! How dare you uproot all my children like that! They're hardly a week old!
If you hate us all that much, why don't you just shave us off! We'd do much better off as a wig!
How can a woman brush her hair like that! You're supposed to be the gentler sex! Stop it! You're hands are like lawn mowers! You're just tearing me apart. Just look at the floor. My babies!
Oh! You're done. Phew!
Sweep! Sweep!
You're throwing us already! Thats right! Bury the evidence! So you don't have to deal with it any more! You just wait young woman. I'm on to you.
I'll come haunt you in your dreams. You'll see me, hundreds of me, squirming and wiggling on your bathroom floor, and you'll be all bald. Now you're thinking.
Noo!
What do you mean, it would be cool to be bald? What do you mean you'd look really wise and mature. Thats for guys. Women, its different! You're supposed to have long hair and colour it and perm it and iron it and twirl it in your fingers when you want to flirt. How did you turn out like this?
Noo! What do you mean, hair is made of keratin isn't that cool? This is not the time for biochemistry. You are made of organic compunds and 70% of water and you have all these crazy amino acids that do all your work for you. Thats not cool! Thats normal! So is everyone else. Focus! This is important. Wait! Wait! I'm not done talking to you yet young lady!
You're not dumping me in there yet....Hey! Hey!

Ee kabani pole njanum…(I too am like the Kabani)

2007-11-25T21:54:00.000-08:00

This is a long overdue tribute to the only elder sister I have known or will ever know. It is in first person narrative. I wanted to keep myself out of the narrative as far as was humanely possible. Chechi was one of the inexplicale highs of my life. Why it is that God chose to bless me so still remains beyond my grasp, but like summer rains and starry skies, I would rather be grateful than try to find a reason for such benevolence.
With all my love, for Nikhi chechi....

Ee kabani pole njanum…(I too am like the Kabani)

As long as I remember, my journey from childhood through girlhood, womanhood and now, what I hope is a long and fruitful motherhood was always like the flow of the Kabani, the flow of my thought always an exception to set norms and conventions. It was never done intentionally. Like the flow of the river, I believe it just happened. The other direction was mine, always. It seemed ironic, when in my 23rd spring, I was initiated into the activities of KABANI, an NGO dedicated to shatter every pre-existing notion of tourism and regular work ethics. For all I know the Kabani is an extension of my self.

My parents never practiced any conventional religion at our home. I was free from the fetters of religious belief and rituals at the very outset. Even today, as my friends call the name of the elephant God Ganapati as they enter an examination hall, I just remember the people I love or rather the love that I bear them. I do not deny the right of people to believe in God, rather having never had any systematic belief system to rely on, I had to develop my own and this is the system that convinces me most. The beauty of the here and now overwhelms me, without the need of a supreme being to create moments, solely mine.

I have always been interested in the creative arts. Dance was my principal interest but the amount of training and investment required scared the high-school Nikki. I regret it now and I realize more fully what it means when people say that when you look back at life what you regret most is the stuff you did not do, rather than what you did.

Later on I took up Drama and spent a considerable part of my youth traveling with a troupe of artistes. Besides the thrill of traveling across the state to perform, what I remember most of the experience would be the feeling of a duality of existence that permeated it. I was the youngest member of the group, the others being working men, mainly teachers, housewives and some others. Outside of the stage I was their baby, their child, pampered to the hilt, and then suddenly, on stage, I am a wife to one, nurse to the other, lover to a third. The change in perspective reveals parts of you, you never knew about, never knew even existed. And then, those rare moments, when you completely forget yourself and identify with the character, heady, euphoric, the realization of the truth of heaven on earth. I particularly remember “Karkidagam”, a play where I play two roles. Basically, the story revolves around the inmates of two adjacent cells in a mental asylum. The first is a woman who is forced to kill her husband after he repeatedly abuses her. The second is a young man who determines to kill his lover and then himself, as they are of two different castes and therefore, society does not allow them a future together. However, he survives the attempt. I appear as the woman, normally with a red hibiscus behind her ear, perpetually waiting for her deceased husband. And occasionally I appear as a hallucination that the young man has of his lost love. He keeps telling her that he loved her so and was looking forward to a life together; and she replies sobbing,” Then why my Darling did you kill me?” There was a point in the performance I forgot the reality of the play and I could have sworn that I was her. So deeply did I feel the sorrow of my death, my appearance in front of my lover as nothing more but a hallucination. Later in the play, we see the two inmates holding hands through the bars of the cell and smiling peacefully while across the bars, outside the cells, on the other side, we observe the tension between the warden of the institution and its chief Doctor building to a final climax. They quarrel vociferously and for a moment we feel that they are in the cells and the inmates outside. It questions in one stroke the definition of sanity, reality and the unity of the human soul. For me, it meant that the moment in the play when I identified with the boy’s lover, I was really her, at that moment she was more real than Nikhila Vijay. Later, when I came to BIT to do my M.Sc in Biomedical Instrumentation, in order to relive the experience of the play, while ragging my juniors, I forced one of them to re-enact the female inhabitant of the asylum, hibiscus flower et al. She did as I said but burst out crying later. I was hurt too. I felt terribly ashamed of myself. I who professed the power and strength of the individual and his freedom to act on his own convictions was trying to subjugate the ego of another. How could I! I felt I had betrayed myself. Later when all my batch mates had fallen asleep, I went to console her and she went on to become my favourite junior. This is the true spirit of great art. It never stops working magic in your life.

BIT was a phase of my life that forced me to leave most of my Art behind. However, this place gave me exposure to a world of people outside my little Kerala, two years of peace and tranquility in the virgin environment of the campus and an Elema (Aunty/Mausi) for my 2 year old. The only thing I hold against my Soni mol, would be her total anti-Kerala stand, while I was there. I believe that when you are outside a system you must not complain about or criticize it. Inside the system however, you may and must raise your voice, as that is the only way to affect a positive change. I understand you love your “Malluland”, as you call it, in this weird, cranky way of yours, but while you are at BIT, I was hoping you would express that love in more clearly decipherable terms.

Shortly after my sojourn at BIT, I moved in with my fiancé of nearly 4 years, Suman(Sumesh Mangalassery), in Bangalore. I was an intern at Wipro GE for six months. It was then that I realized that Biomedical Instrumentation had severely narrowed my scope. I wish to tell all of you youngsters out there to specialize in something only when you are totally sure of yourself, never as an escape from something else. Specialization increases your expertise in a particular field but it means narrowing down your overall scope. Normally (at least in the Indian system), there is no going back. I also realized that these high-end jobs at MNCs feed your ego unnecessarily, stripping you of your humility. You lead a dissipated life, spending in excess of your means; and when you are truly in crisis, your shabby, new-born superiority complex makes you too proud to ask for what you really need. Whatever our job or our pay, what we need to live never changes, what we love never changes, the only variable is the level of comfort, and there is such a thing as getting too comfortable.

When I look back on this phase, I feel more than ever blessed to be the daughter of my parents and Nikhimol of Suman. In Kerala, live-in relationships are generally looked down upon. Even now my eyes get moist remembering how my parents trusted me in spite of what everyone else thought. That is the thing about trust. It is one of the most solid investments you can make. Once invested, the other party can never break it. The trust becomes sacred, becomes binding.

Around this time, Suman left his job at Equations and started KABANI. The name was inspired by a river in Wyanad, our home-town. There are three rivers that run through the district. While two of the rivers flow in one direction, Kabani flows the other way. When he conceptualized it, Suman visualized a work-space where people could come and go according to their convenience, voluntarily or on a pay-for-hire basis, flexible working hours, flexible working styles. It was to be a tourism NGO which would allow native populations to benefit from the recent influx of tourists in Kerala.

When we started out, we really struggled. I remember how, when we used to walk through the streets of Bangalore, trying to arrange finances for KABANI, I would feel hungry around noon. I knew that Suman did not have more than 50 Rs. in his pocket, and then there was the question of getting back home. My Wipro stipend was consumed in normal household expenses. With those 50 Rs we faced the challenge of feeding ourselves in a city like Bangalore. We would choose the cheapest looking restaurant in the vicinity. Both of us would glance quickly at the menu card and fix our eyes on the only item that fitted our budget, curd rice at 20 Rs. I would remark, “A plate of curd rice would be nice. I love curd rice so.” He would reply, “Yes, curd rice is good for the stomach. Curd rice it is.” It went on for countless days, both of us craving to eat something else, both of our eyes wandering up and down the menu, I wishing desperately that at least today we may have a decent meal, him feeling both ashamed and helpless at his inability to provide it, both of us finally fixing on the same line, Curd rice………20 Rs. If I had complained once, he could not have gone through with his grand plan. It is surprising to think how little it takes for a dream to crash, crumble, fall…..wither away.
KABANI has come a long way since. Even yesterday when he called home from Germany, he asked me, “Do you remember our old curd rice?” I replied that I did and wished to know why he posed the question. It was a long time ago. He said that no matter how much we grow, it is good to remember where we came from.

Let me fill in the blanks between long ago and now. I got married to Suman two winters ago. We have a little girl, we call Aamy, who is now a year old.
When I look back, what really strikes me is that the instant Aamy was born, I and Suman had not turned into this pair of Johnsons baby parents. It was only later, that we started to appreciate the miracle that had been entrusted in our care. The first time she opened her eyes, when she started swimming around in her swaddling clothes, then crawling on all fours, wet kisses…..Her first word was not Ma but rather kaka, Malayalam for crow. For me it was not the word, it was that she said it. She makes me want to be better every day for her sake. So that she may see in me something worthy of emulation. Eons ago, so it seems, Nikhila Vijay gave up on dancing. She was intimidated, scared, worried, she gave up. In the present day, Aamy’s mother attends dancing classes at Tara Kalyan’s in Trivandrum, while Aamy watches and dances along as she sees fit. Aamy’s mother cannot afford to be intimidated, cannot afford to give up. As I do a bit of abhinaya, Amy looks at me and is amused. A spontaneous blessing rises in my mind, “May you flow forever like the Kabani.”

Yawn

2007-10-01T22:51:00.000-07:00

Creation yawned yesterday
And in it's open mouth
I saw
My memory.

Stretching to either side
Endlessly, end to end,
I saw
What was not mine
Bountifully bestowed,
Absentmindedly accepted,
Wiping crocodile tears
On monotonous Mondays,
Also not mine.

An excuse for everyday existence,
Never an elixir for extraordinary endeavor,
Sealed in pink photo albums and lucky charms
I caught a glimpse
Of my legacy, between parted lips,
Before a hasty hand
Clamped it shut,
In modesty.

Conversation Clips

2007-09-08T14:28:00.000-07:00

This is something I wrote a long time back. I don't know why but I feel like putting it up today

Walking Paradox
Location: G-86, H-9
Sudha Rajgadia, Final year, B.Pharm says:
Sometimes, without quite intending to do so, I imagine myself as a house with a million swarming inhabitants. It seems everything in the house is working perfectly well- the mothers know exactly when to cook and how to, and where the dirty laundry goes and when it would be a decent time to clean up. The children know when to feed and the Fathers, when to make a buzz for the office, when to grab a cappuccino, tall, latte, Grande. The bachelors play cards on Sundays, then wake up Monday morning to make themselves omelet, just so. Everything’s going great. Life goes on. Then one fine day, all the moms decide they’re tired of their chores and just laze about all day. The kids are wailing, the husbands are freaked and go play cards with the bachelor guys all day. The kids wail even worse. And the funny thing is the house is incapable of knowing all this. As in, as far as the internal workings of my body are concerned, I’m about as passive an observer as that house.
The human conscious is aware of itself, of the world, of language, of black holes, mesons, dinosaurs and cells. Yet, the workings of our own body as we live, and move on each day, are beyond the grasp of our conscious. To find out about your ailing heart, which is very much a part of you, you need a host of paramedics and specialists, to know for sure. To find the cure for an illness, we must know how it attacks our system, the pathways, the way various intricate mechanisms swing into place over the course of its advancement. Even if we ourselves are afflicted, we just don’t know, (as we know intuitively that we are sad or that the rose is red) that our various little antibodies and antigens are doing this right now and so and so is happening to them. We are incapable of this kind of awareness. Even if it is genetic, inherited over generations, we still don’t inherit along with the illness, an awareness that we may be afflicted. Maybe, all for the better, maybe not. We need two millennia worth of civilization, a century’s worth of research in the Biological Sciences….and more, to attain this tiny fragment of knowledge about our own genetic constitution. At times it feels like the self is playing a game with the conscious, all the while knowing that it has the upper hand. If we are a truly conscious being, I dare to ask, HOW is it that we have an absolute lack of awareness of the way we tick? If our conscious lacks this awareness, then, are we anything more than a bag of chemical reactions with fancy gadgets attached? Rephrasing, are we truly conscious as we believe ourselves to be? Or is it like everything else, Maya, a projection?

Friendly Feminist Fun
Location: Coffee Shop
Udita Sanga, Final year, Biotechnology
I really don’t like the way Ayn Rand develops her female characters. They are born pillars of strength, focused, determined and of the most profound principles. As the story develops they wither away submitting to the nearest male character, as in Dominique, or multiple male characters as in Dagny Taggart. Somehow the Randian ideal woman needs the support of a man or considers fulfillment in the light of submission of her will to that of the ideal man. When you think that Ayn Rand was a woman herself, this puzzles you all the more. The mind behind the Objectivist school, the founder of the ARI, an institution that has spread its influence throughout the world, found the need to submit her women creations to men. Which is quite frankly medieval. Even Margaret Mitchell could conceive an independent Scarlett who doesn’t need a Rhett Butler in the dusty red soils of Tara. Coming to think of it, the characters of Mammy and many other supporting female characters too, had spirit, to the end. Virginia Woolfe showed women in traditional roles, house-wives and seamstresses, who emerge triumphant as figures of steel and concrete, souls that provide refuge and courage for many male characters, ideal and not so ideal. Mrs. Dalloway, mid 20th century house-wife, best hostess in London, peels like an onion as the story develops, revealing layers, asserting herself, manipulating circumstances, never pretending to be intellectual and at the same time much more lucid and intense than the so-called “intellectuals” in the story. Bearing in mind the tradition of Jane Eyre and Scarlett, the woman in an Ayn Rand work is a mere shadow, a poor imitation of the ideal. When it boils down to the basics, where does Ayn Rand, foremost Objectivist thinker of the 20th century stand in relation to her own tribe?

How would you like to go to the moon?
Location- H-9 Lawn
Sonia Joseph, Final Year Biotechnology
There are times like this, midsummer, when the grass is wet with dew, yet not damp. The sky is almost black, yet not quite and the clouds have a silver underbelly. And then you lay yourself on the grass and look up. What strikes you first is the moon, and I hope, for your sake, that it’s a full moon.
This reminds me, whenever I see a full moon, I remember this Malayalam song that my dad used to sing. The lyrics were very beautiful. Something on the lines of “the full moon emerged from her bath, drying herself on a towel of fog” and then the guy goes on to say something about how all these women were there at this place, (some fair or something-ancient version of piya milan chowk)except his lover. And then he keeps waiting, and I guess she never turns up. No, the song was never dedicated to my Mother. My Dad is my Dad. Cruel little mind games are his thing.
Anyway getting back to the point, there are times when you just imagine you are going on a trip to the moon. Some people choose to go by car, sports, sedan, anything. These are normally the busy to get there people. Of course, there are ultimate no-dreamers, the “practical person”, who goes like “obviously space shuttle, people!” They deserve to be hanged. A friend of mine wanted to ride a Harley, the ultimate roadie experience, vrooming through inter-planetary space.
I, I thought of riding a cycle and still a moment later thought it would be nice to just walk. Maybe you could gather a handful of star dust, stop and watch a comet whizz by, where was the hurry?
There were three of us, lying on the grass, getting ready to go to the moon. We looked fairly comical, our legs in the air, one of us turning the steering, another revving the handle and a third swinging her arms and legs in exaggerated leisure. The moment defined for each of us at least a part of who we were. And I figured, hey whatever, I don’t want to miss a thing.

Our Tribute to the Auto Rikshaw Community...

2007-06-06T06:50:00.000-07:00

I have never seen such a corny one-liner in my life. The one liner in question is the title to this blog. This is one of the many ingenious ad strategies that Himesh Reshammiya's creative team (or was it Himesh Reshammiya himself?) came up with for the former's debut movie.

The tribute in question involves three auto wallahs crashing into and....obstructing three Australian (or being Himesh, maybe even American) police cars.

The real tribute lies in actually getting those autos to Australia (or the US) and getting the authorities there to allow the shooting of such a blatant affront to their law and order machinery.

All this aside, there are a million other things about the movie that can consume the whole of this blog entry and the next and the next.....

But my blog audience deserves better. Therefore, following is my tribute to the auto rikshaw community.

I have always held this partiality toward the auto rikshaw as my preferred mode of mobility. For one, it is open on both sides, allowing the free passage of air. Two, Indian traffice jams do not affect the mobility of this vehicle. Three, auto rikshaw drivers are great people to use as specimens in character sketch assignments. No two auto wallahs are alike. Of course you could counter with no two people are alike. But you just don't get introduced to random people from random places on a Sunday morning. Most of the time, you are with friends, family, blah. New people come in once in a blue moon.

The auto wallah community not only varies from state to state across India but even within little pocket roads of a single city, their dialects and mode of action vary. By mode of action, I refer to the varied ways in which they attract potential passengers.

During the four years of my bachelors in Ranchi, I have figured that the auto wallahs in Ranchi are the most harassed and unfortunate in their fraternity. They normally ferry twice, or even thrice the auto's capacity at sometimes less than half the standard fare. There are times when I think an auto fit to explode and yet......as if to defy every known law in the universe, a full grown Bihari man (and they are of decent built) can still fit in. If that was not enough, every girl above the age of 5 in the state can bargain. There are days when I have seen my friends bargaining for half an hour to save a rupee. Over the last two years, I have had the opportunity to see myself doing that. Its insane how that sort of petty victory can get to your head. But there it is, it can.

In contrast the auto wallahs in Kerala are a pampered lot. Not only are they entitled to the amount that blinks on the meter, but twice as much thanks to the very revolutionary concept of "return fare". They are entitled to this amount even at busy junctions where they are bound to get customers to pay for their way back. I say the concept is revolutionary in a purely communist sense. Besides, Malayalees need the auto more than any other people. The dingy roads, traffic jams and monsoons which flood the main roads give the autos a distinct advantage. The auto driver is something of a hero here. The auto driver in Kerala has the unique freedom of being very choosy about his customers. He can simply decide not to take you where you want to go. My mother and I, over the course of time, have figured out how to use metaphors and other creative phrase line-ups, that allow us to leave the name of the place we are going to out of an auto hiring conversation. Ingenuity runs in the family.

Now I chose to move on to the many auto drivers who have made or screwed my day. Buried somewhere in the deeper depths of my chidhood is the friendly neighbourhood auto karan who used to ferry a dozen or more of us to the local school and back. Besides having to deal with stuffing all of us into the vehichle and extricating us from it later, which involved making sure he didn't loose even one of us (we were the size of mosquitoes and a hundred times more pesky), he had to deal with screaming, wailing, unearthly nature calls, lost tiffin boxes and bags and not to forget the occasional child who felt the need to crawl all over him while he drove. In spite of all this he was ridiculously cheerful and kept singing this very corny malayalam movie song that goes something like "Tell me the vowels..aeiou.." I used to like that song at that point. In fact I knew my vowels better than the ABC because of it.

Another auto driver of repute was the guy who constantly felt the need to assault me with malayalam riddles. Taking into consideration the fact that I was a fraud mallu, (born and brought up outside God's own country), it was painful even trying to understand what he was saying. As for actually getting around to answering them, its anybody's guess.

Recently I met him at a vegetable stall. I turned away as a reflex. I guess thats how he recognized me. He actually started off right there in the middle of the vegetable stall, by the main road, near the Palarivattom Bus Stand. He was literally gloating at the fact that I, a full-fledged engineer, could not answer his questions. He even dared to ask me what they taught me at college. Since I wasn't particularly sure myself, I decided to pass.

There was of course the Ranchi auto wallah who kept insisting that all his female customers were like his sisters while giving us very un-brotherly looks through the rear view mirror.

I could never complete this blog without mentioning my mom's favourite auto driver. As a sort of preface, I must tell you that my mom has a hundred watt smile. This implies two things
A)That she looks lovely when she smiles
B)That she finds it necessary to flash all her pearly whites when she does so
Legend has it that this cute little man use to remark "the sun has risen", every time she passed the stand on the way to college. Since the finer nuances of this comment is only captured by the malayalam lexicon, I rest my case.

And my final salute goes to the Mangalorean auto wallah who drove us all over town on a rainy day, all the while knowing that the three women in the back seat had no clue where they wanted to go. Now thats what I call heroic. ;)

Now if this isn't a tribute, I really don't know what is.

Calcutta Chronicles

2007-05-22T09:51:00.000-07:00

When you are a student at BIT, at some point you are aware of the truth of the phrase “All roads lead to Calcutta.” Watch 300 as it should be watched- INOX, Calcutta. Eat decent food, street food or otherwise- Calcutta. Shop till you drop-Calcutta. Get away from this shit-Calcutta. Everyone at BIT knows how to get there, overnight Howra-Hatia. You reach Hatia around 7 in the morning. Best time to visit the place, October-February.

So it happened when all the shit in BIT got to us, the three of us set out one day for Cal. The three of us would mean- me, the Zog (a mutant of a most disturbing nature), Udita, partner in crime and Nibha, unsuspecting victim. The journey to Cal was fairly uneventful other than Nibha’s constant whining regarding the absence of a deck of cards. This is a condition that affects most of us when we know we can win at a game because the people around us don’t know the rules. That’s why I keep playing 20 questions with my sister. She never reads the newspaper, therefore, I always win. Sadistic but true. Since we were on the loser end this time, I and Udi promptly went to sleep.

When we got down at the station, after a quick visit to the S.T.D booth, where I spent a considerable amount of time scaring a toddler, we took our luggage and headed for the exit. Soon enough, we were barraged by a hoard of taxi drivers, enthusiastically quoting what I assume to be fares, in Bengali. Our blank stares however forced them to reconsider their quotations and promptly double them. This time in Hindi. Udita having been there before, ably steered us away towards the pre-paid taxi stand, where we promptly hired a taxi to Park Street. The taxis in Calcutta are yellow, like those in New York. I immediately developed this childish idea that their colour made them more authentic than other taxis. I am so racist! We went through the Howrah Bridge. It looked so lovely in the morning mist. The tiers were sparkling silver and gold against the fiery morning sun, an orange orb. I was finally in Calcutta, or if you prefer, Kolkata. From the station to anywhere in Cal, always take the pre-paid taxis, they have fixed rates. If you are new to the city, it helps not to be cheated. Within the city, the metro is the smartest and cheapest way to travel. The Calcutta metro is a place worth visiting for its own sake. Each station has a unique theme. The Rabindra Sadan terminal is definitely worth a dekho. It has Tagore’s poems copied meticulously on the walls, in his own handwriting, in English, Hindi and Bengali. The entrance to the terminal has his profile done in mosaic.

Once we were in Park Street, we went directly to our rooms at Camac Street (adjacent to it), freshened up and then jumped into a taxi to go straight to Gariahat. For the uninitiated, this is Calcutta’s flea market capital. It is basically this long road at the side of this over bridge near Hindustan Park. And yes, taxi drivers totally get you when you ask them to take you to Gariahat.
For female eyes only: [More than buying stuff from the place, most flea market aficionados derive their pleasure from haggling for prices. If that is the case, Gariahat is the place to be, providing you with hours of pure, unadulterated bargaining pleasure. Moving on to the stuff worth buying. There are a range of jute bags available here in really cute colours and designs. Check that the zippers and buttons are in working order before you buy though. Gariahat is an accessories heaven. Clay, lacquer, metal, stones, you name it, it’s there. Another souvenir worth taking back are the leather bags crafted at Shantiniketan, with attractive motifs like the smiling sun, dancing stick figures etc. You could get a standard hand-bag for a 100 bucks.]

We had lunch at Malgudi Junction, a unique South Indian restaurant at Park Street based on the theme of R.K. Narayan’s “Malgudi Days.” On the walls are sketches of Malgudi as seen in the books and the overall ambience is very laid back (rustic kinda) from the cute little South Indian cashier with his neatly oiled grey hair and black goggles to the steel cups and saucers in which they serve filter coffee. The Uttapams here are great and the dosas too feel authentic to my South Indian taste buds.

While I’m at it, the road-side stalls at Park Street are quite literally Street Foody Heaven. The must try items include the egg rolls (more than amazing), biryanis (the queue at the stall should give you a hint) and the momos with soup (steaming hot, unforgettable….cheap. ;)).

Next Stop: Science City. The place is an ideal place for kids to go picnic. The three of us still qualify as kids, therefore, we had a great time. I kept running through the optical maze, highly amused at bumping into myself so many times. That is, until I bumped into 50 images of the same married couple making out. Meanwhile, Udi and Nibha kept making gurgling noises at their inverted images. We fought with an Uncle and his son to get Nibha a chance to ride this weird cycle. The funda is to cycle real fast and see how far you can make this ball rise in a transparent glass column. Nibha made it go all the way up and we clapped. To annoy the little boy further, we started jumping all over this humungous piano that you can play with your legs that he too was playing. Satisfied that he would go home and cry later, we went to the butterfly house, pirouetted through the evolution park and just missed the time machine. Never eat at Science city. The food sucks and the prices make you bleed. Drink water if you must.

Swabhoomi. This is an ethnophile’s heaven. It is in salt lake, right beside FORUM. The place is basically an old palace converted into a semi-flea market. It also serves as a platform for upcoming artistes in Bengal to showcase their talents. Semi cause it is somehow a class apart. The shops are arranged at various levels around a central courtyard which also doubles as the food court. The food court is split into Paschim, Uttar…etc etc (translates to North, West…). The three of us literally went mad as we ran in circles trying the stuff out. Food from all over the country, wow whee! The other visitors were highly amused. Though I must remark, I liked the lime soda best.

Me and Udi being the aforementioned ethnophiles, we accumulated a lot of junk. Ethnic skirts (hand-painted), kurtis with really quirky motifs, jute sandals (pick any one, it’s a 100 bucks), paper mache artifacts, accessories, antique furniture, clay masks and sculptures, madhubhani paintings. You could get a pair of really cool tribal masks at 140, the same stuff you get at Archies for like 700 and stuff.

Around four, totally exhausted, we sat down to the worst cup of chai in our lives at Adda’s chai. However, for ambience and effects there is nothing like this place. The outlet is in the shape of a hut with a tiny veranda. Tea is served in clay utensils and the notices outside are printed on faded brown parcel paper. For the entertainment of their guests, they have arranged for a man on stilts to dress as a clown. We were highly amused to see him chase one of the female employees across the courtyard for a bill.

Around 6 in the evening, when we were about to leave, we were drawn by soft, melancholy strains of music, rising and then falling in a million cadences. As we moved toward the source, at first all we could see was a multi-coloured cap. Then we beheld a frail, bespectacled man, his hands dancing along the fine strings of an ektara. His visage was at times brooding, sometimes beaming with a joy, almost divine. We stood there as if in a trance. When the music stopped he acknowledged us by a slight nod. A passerby later told us that he was a famous Bengali music and documentary director; and that he comes and performs every evening at the stall. To this day, at times, the same songs play in our head. I have searched long and hard for them but it seems none of my Bengali friends have any records in their possession. However, on the plus side, it taught me to appreciate Bengali music. These people do seem to have a natural flair for the arts.

The next day, Udi and Nibha left for their TCS health check-up. While they attempted to drink a zillion gallons of water for the ultra-sound, I made a bee-line for College Street. A long, long street lined with second hand books. The mere pleasure of walking through the place can give you a high. The bargains are of course the icing on the cake. The complete works of Oscar Wilde, hard-bound, at 80 bucks, are you kidding me?! I could have kissed the shop-keeper.

Afternoon saw us gorging away at the park street way-side stalls. And before I forget, if you go to Cal and come back without having Mishti Dahi, you are not fit to be alive, my friend. The sweetened yoghurt is the perfect antidote to deliriously hot Cal afternoons.

Sometime in the evening we set off for Victoria Memorial. The place has been glorified enough by other travel writers and since I believe I cannot do it more justice, I will skip it. What I can do justice to however are the buggy rides at the gate of the memorial. These horse drawn carriages are your ticket to 19th century British India, my man! At 40 bucks a ride, the guy takes you on a round of the grounds in front of the memorial. More than the places, it is the experience of riding on the buggy that totally kills you. You feel like a Queen. The three of us spent a lot of time waving “majestically” at passers-by and on spotting cute guys, throwing them flying kisses.

After the ride, we walked from the Victoria Memorial to Birla Planetarium, trying every road-side stall, and discovering to our delight that all of them were great. The gol gappas, bhel puri, chai, everything. Meanwhile, whenever my hands were free, I kept taking pictures of the memorial. At one point, while I was taking a pic from across the street, Nibhs and Udi kept gesticulating madly. I didn’t pay much heed until this guy stepped out of the car I was standing in front of and started screaming at me. After some time, I had rearranged my senses enough to realize that he was making out with his girl friend in the car and that they thought I was taking their pic. Oooops! Well…….Run for your lives! (In retrospect, I do seem to have a knack for running into these things).

After the 6:30 show at the Birla Planetarium and a short visit to the St. Paul’s Cathedral, we went to Flurys. Flurys is a must visit. It has something distinctly British about its ambience and the tea and madeleines are just how they ought to be, served in porcelain or pewter tea pots, with milk at the side and sugar cubes. The madeleines crumble and yet are ever so slightly sticky, masticating pure heaven must feel like this. The lemon tarts too are exemplary. Soft jazz played in the background and as we looked out the glass façade, a million blinking lights in the Calcutta twilight smiled at us.

The journey back compensated in part for the boredom of the onward trip. Besides the train being half a day late and us meeting all sorts of weird people, it taught us something. Travelling with us was a group of college girls, accompanied by their teacher. After we left Howrah, eunuchs started pouring into the compartments. The so-called “men folk” started scurrying for the toilets while the three of us pretended to be asleep. The girls however were unperturbed by their presence. They cracked jokes with them, teased them, were teased in return, and even asked these so called “Hijdas” to bless them. Suddenly the environment in the compartment was much more pleasant, we felt less stuffy and much lighter inside.

The girls got down at Ranchi, but we remember them for their openness and their ability to embrace all of humanity. For if not to meet new people and see, smell, hear, taste and feel marvelous new things, if not to embrace all that the world has to offer, why travel?

Rohtak Reminiscences

2007-02-24T01:18:00.000-08:00

My first trip on the Rajdhani. Besides occasional disturbances from the Hathi’s side, the trip was more or less enjoyable. Most of the pleasure being derived from sending a hapless steward back and forth to fetch innumerable sachets of sugar and ketchup. On realizing that the two of us had no intention of shifting our arses, so to say, from the comfortably elevated position that even Hathi couldn’t drag us away from, the latter settled down to obediently rip DVDs, as we had commanded him, and to entertain a group of very inquisitive children. As we approached Delhi, the view from the window came to be increasingly dominated by sugarcane and mustard fields. Something my Malayali self found extremely novel. But then, everything about this trip was novel.
And then, Delhi Central. There is something about huge metropolitan Railway Stations. A river of humanity. So much noise. And yet, I don’t believe I am wrong when I say it is the most profound silence that civilization offers. Each man an island, a person is the most objective observer of life at this busy junction. I have read somewhere that the human eye is the most wondrous of all creations, a revolving door, where the creative spirit meets the created spirit. I would extend the comparison to all my senses. It allows the universal conscious to perceive the magnitude of its ingenuity. There is the guy in the dhoti spitting pan, the wailing babes, moms yelling, porters in red uniforms, hungry Hathi….Then there is this thing about Indian porters- they basically wait at the doors of the train, grab your luggage and refuse to return it until you agree to hire them. Really! I never cease to be amazed at the will of the living organism to survive.
The rest of Delhi Station is a blur. Perhaps due to the fact that I spent a lot of time trying to keep track of Hathi’s Samsonite bag through the large mist of humanity that kept swarming around him. He refuses to acknowledge that I am five feet tall and have naturally short legs. After making sure that he was suitably fed and settled in a quiet corner of the station where he could do no harm, we left for Rohtak.
Great Roads. The first thing that came to mind. Once you were on the outskirts of Delhi, making your way into Haryana, the roads were, as the locals put it, like "Makhan, malai", incredibly smooth and wide. Sugarcane, wheat, mustard, painted the landscape, dusty green, flaky brown and vibrant yellow. Quaint villages lined the roadside. An old man with a signature mustache, snow-white and curling upwards in majesty, blows into his hookah. The women, strong and ruddy, betray their ancestry. Tanima explains to me that the Haryanvis are descendents of the union of Pathans with the indigenous races. Their culture, physical appearance and dialect reflect this joint heritage. The women wore the dupattas of their salwar suits so intricately wrapped around their head and shoulders that only the slit of their eyes was visible. A purdah system, subtle, but effective nevertheless. And yet they were not averse to hard physical labour. There is even a joke round these parts that when they first decided to separate Haryana and Punjab, the policy makers declared that wherever the women started working in the fields, that would demarcate where Haryana begins, and as a natural consequence, where Punjab ends. Since most men here join the Army, it is up to the women to tend the fields and look after the family. I wonder whether this was the legendary land of the Amazons that the Greek poets refer to. I can literally see these women, clad in tiger skin, with eagles on their breastplate, screaming for war. But then my imagination runs away with me.
Another interesting feature I had the chance to note was that there were lots of temples dedicated to the Lord Hanuman in this state. He is apparently the patron God of warriors. The beautiful thing about our country is, the way people can worship freely, the form of God they identify with most. In fact, the majority religion in our country, Hinduism, is a kaleidoscopic celebration of secular thought in itself. Marwadis in my hostel set up little shrines for the Goddess Lakshmi, Bengalis erect intricate pandals to Durga Ma, artists sing praises to Saraswati, Tanima gave me a picture of Ganeshji to take with me when I gave my GRE and young women all over India keep a portrait of the young Lord Krishna eating curd. I believe this lies at the core of our tolerance of other peoples and cultures and our assimilation of them. And also at the core of a profound spirituality that permeates the fabric of our everyday existence. The Indian God is above all a personal God, never a compulsion, always a choice.
At Tanima’s place, her Father received us, a very jovial person, who has generously donated a healthy portion of good humour to his forever grinning offspring. I had finally established the source of Fatass’ funny bone. Lunch was brilliant. Tanima’s Mom had made Chola Bhatura, expressly at her request. Ever since, I have been quite incapable of eating the miserable substitute offered by the H-9 mess. Later on in the course of the day, the two younger siblings appeared, so to say. As we poured over BIT memorabilia and related the oft repeated tales and sagas to Pankhuri aka Gullu (Fatass’ Faery-like younger sister), Pranjal (the genius of a brother) plays incessantly with the baby doll we gifted Dubeyji on her birthday. Among other things, the doll could say "mama", "papa" and sing "tuki tuki tup tup." Pranjal couldn’t get enough of the singing and I guess Uncle had more than his share. He stares at Pranjal and tells him to stop playing. Why? Because if the battery is exhausted, we won’t get spares anywhere round here. Peals of laughter. It’s been ages since we’ve heard situational sarcasm delivered with such flair.
Aunty was back from the University around five. Most of you must have heard of Lord Byron’s "She Walks in Beauty." Aunty could have been the woman Byron was talking about. There are just two other contemporary women who could have been his subjects, my Mother or my Grandmother. But then, yes, Byron wrote it a hundred years ago, I know, I know. For the sake of comparison, people!!! Five feet tall, swathed in a deep purple silk sari, she still looked like she was in her twenties, very sprightly with twinkling eyes and dimpled cheeks. She loved to drink tea like most people of the old school and she had a happy way of bringing her hands together whenever she spoke. She was truly a very beautiful woman.
In the evening, we went out for a bit. Having discovered the Banta, a lime soda drink shot through with kala namak (half the pleasure lies in seeing….and hearing the man making the thing. Pop! Squuesh! Pfzzzz!) , I went on to spend nearly 2000 Rupees on a very flashy pink suit piece for my sister, totally smothered in embroidery and sequins. Dubey informed me that it was typical Punjabi shaadi wear. After rigorous calculations, I figured 2000 was definitely a decent price to pay for the humiliation of a younger sibling who had no shaadi to attend and would therefore be forced, by my very patriotic parents, to don the habit at one of my mother’s innumerable kitty parties.
Oh yes! Let me tell you before it slips out of my mind - if you ever go to Haryana, I must tell you, the kulfis are to die for. Solidified milk cream seasoned with elaichi, badam and I can’t say what else.
Next stop, a typical Haryanvi house.
Haryanvi houses generally have very interesting motifs carved into the walls. The house I had been to had birds, particularly storks, as a predominant theme. The walls are generally done in pastel shades and the motifs tinted a pale blue or deep navy. The furniture is generally very functional. The hookah is a necessary part of the décor and an intellectual meeting point for the men in the house. Since the fire had nearly died out, Uncle allowed the two of us girls to take a puff. For five minutes, we listened to ourselves make gurgling noises….and then we grew up. They had a large silo to store the wheat. I have never seen a silo before and for those of you who haven’t, allow me to describe it for you. It is a large cylindrical tin can, with a lid to pour the wheat flour in, and a small kitty-trap kind of door in front, to retrieve it later. Very funky.
Somewhere in between this potpourri of events, Pranjal and Gullu discovered that I had never seen a live buffalo before and this started what could be called a rather relentless period of buffalo spotting where the two of them pointed at a number of assorted buffaloes that they encountered, for my benefit.
Unfortunately, the incorrigible trio also discovered that I have never seen Sholay before, which in India, amounts to treason. To remedy this sorry state of affairs, a VCD was hastily purchased and I was instructed to watch this monumental Bollywood saga. I struggled to keep myself awake but my tired eyes refused to take in anything after Basanti elopes with Dharmendra’s character or at least what seems like it. I think his name was Kalia. Whatever. End of Day one.
The next day I spent lazing around, while I arrogantly proclaimed to the world that I was writing my SOPs. Observation: I never knew that roti could be made of corn flour. But yes, I am introduced to Makki di roti and sarson da sag. I hope I got it right this time. Sometime in the evening we decide to surprise everyone by preparing Litti.
I am interrupted by two big surprises of my own. Tilak Bhaiyya, the very cute driver, and Tanima’s Dad unanimously think that it’s a shame I’ve never had sugar cane before. Two separate loads of sugarcane have been arranged, again for my benefit, Tilak Bhaiyya, having gone the extra mile, stealing it from a factory for me. Unfortunately my teeth are not the material Vicco Vajradanthi advertisements are made of and two inches of the cane can uproot most of them. Uncle threatens that if I don’t finish it, I will have to take the rest of them with me to Saudi. I nervously chop onions for the Litti. We end up making something that is definitely not Litti but tastes fantabulous never the same. End of Day two.
Uncle has to leave to Hyderabad for a conference. After we drop him off at the Air Port, we head for the Air India office at Connought Place to confirm my international ticket.
During my 21 years of being an NRI and nearly 15 years of being a fully conscious NRI, Air India has taken an incredible amount of trouble to establish that they are the worst means of International aviation available. And yet again, they dramatically exceed my expectations. They achieve amazing new levels of incompetence and inconvenience. Besides ordering me to translate my Visa which was already in English to English, they treat Tanima’s Mother with not even a pretense at basic courtesy. Also, the guy at the counter was suspiciously aware of the number of the stall at Sarojini market where I could get it done. And the cost (300 bucks). Infuriated at this turn of events, we approached one of his superiors who informed us that the translation was required because Saudis look at the moon and we follow the sun. The next half an hour the two of us spent in giving a lecture on reading English and assimilating it. Seeing that I was not the average dumb teenager traveling alone, AI finally had to give up. Ta da! (symbols clanging, angels singing, trumpets in the sky)
What followed was a whirlwind tour of the underground market, Janpath and numerous other markets where we purchased a range of junk jewellery, bags and trinkets at bargain prizes. The problem with bargains is that you end up buying much more than you intend to and then later, you are forced to buy clothes at not-such-a-bargain prices to go with the accessories.
I have formally declared myself madly in love with the Delhi Metro. It looks like a slice of Australia in India, great staff, great rates, great look, great services- forcing Indians to treat their public transport with respect. No paan spitting or littering here, this is truly a holy place. Kudos to Mr. Sashidharan and his team for completing it in time and to the Indian junta for keeping it spanking clean.
On the way back to Rohtak, we get stuck in a three hour long traffic jam. Punjabi shaadi. Hmmm. End of day three.
National Bandh. Damn! What do we do now? Gullu, I and Pranjal settle down to make Cheenu didi’s favourite snack- blueberry muffins. Gullu exerts all her mental and physical prowess to get the can of blueberries to open. I keep my hands in the dough and swirl it around coz I am sure opening the tin is beyond my intellect, or my strength. The dough is cold and after five minutes I cannot feel my fingers. Hardly are the muffins in the oven, Tanima ushers us out to see an Indus Valley Civilization excavation site.
We spend two hours in the Honda Civic, getting to a remote village, on the outskirts of the technically defined outskirts of Rohtak. Two young men in pronounced neon jackets-one yellow, the other orange-take us to a small house, by the side of which runs a wall with cow dung cakes plastered all over. This semi-plateau like structure juts over a vast planar area where rows and rows of dung cakes have been neatly arranged. Where the vertical surface of the plateau met the surface below was a trench, one foot wide and maybe two feet deep. Our guide explained to us that certain statues and artifacts had been found in that trench. "What kind of artifacts?" He had no idea. "Which period?" He opined that it was at least a hundred years old. Most important question: "Can we see them?" No, they didn’t keep them (obviously! Duh!) the museum people came and took them away. "Which museum?" Rohtak University. "OOOOOH!" Pranjal and Gullu look at me, the perfect picture of dismay. I can’t stop laughing. They think I have gone mad. "We should have gone to Kurukshetra," "Akshardam Temple", they lament. I on the other hand, wouldn’t have traded this experience for the world.
When we used to travel with my Dad, which we have done quite extensively, we always took a tour bus, stopped at landmarks, took a snap posed in front of them, and moved on. Back then, the whole idea of anthropocentric tourism, cultural tourism, eco-tourism, all these GenY concepts had not developed. I had seen lots of things before my time, I had many snaps to show, I knew lots of useless trivia…..but what I wanted, what I craved for, were the fragments of experience that piece the snapshots together, the moments that are bigger than the snapshots and the memories that live after the snapshots are forgotten. And I thank Tanima’s family for giving these to me. Later in the evening, I attended my first North Indian wedding. It was just the four of us kids. We made a buzz for the food stalls where we spared no one. Chats, flavoured milk, sweets, served in amusing little pots, all generously doused in ghee. Once Tanima showed me a container that could hold nearly four kgs of ghee. She informed me that it didn’t last a month in their house. The upper fourth of the can was suspiciously empty. It was the ghee used since the two of us had arrived and I could begin to feel it accumulate on my hips already. Woe is me!
When it was time for me to leave, Madhulika Auntie showered me, for that is what she did, with goodies. Of the many beautiful trinkets that she set aside for me, one is particularly close to my heart. It is a brown book made of handmade paper and cardboard. The cover has a crinkly old leather sort of effect and the two lapels are held together by a brown rod that you can slide through the hinges. Auntie liked the way I wrote and told me to write in that book.
When I got back to Saudi Arabia, I couldn’t wait to start. I sat down with the front page facing me, reliving all my memories of Rohtak, and strangely, I could not write anything. I struggled with the many fragments of thought creating havoc in my mind and finally understood their import. I just drew a rainbow.

Self-Exploration: Was I ever a Feminist?

2006-08-21T01:55:00.000-07:00

(For Ayesha Khan with love, the Zog)
There she was. For the better part of the last three years I despised her. I couldn’t believe she lived the way she did. That she didn’t expect more out of herself, or of her children, of God, of anything. There she was babbling ignorantly about sarees, matching bangles, spoilt pickles, and the female next door. I would have brushed her aside yesterday, forgiving her for a lack of education. But people of my own age, I could be cruel. How could they want to give up their jobs after they got married? How could they say that “They would put their family first” after the State spent so much money on their education? How could they be so unbelievably satisfied with so little? Where was their drive? How could they be like this in the 21st century, after Y2K? Feminism had gone to the dogs.

Today things were different. The very feel of the air, the way the sky shone an electric blue seemed to signal awakening. It’s strange, but when a relationship is over or a new one made, do you ever notice that the object of your affection looks different? It might be the change in perspective, an innocent figment of your imagination, but there is a violent change shaking that perpetual sameness. Like a picture covered by a transparent plastic sheet. Once the sheet is removed, it looks the same and yet it’s naked, and you can’t seem to escape the fact. So she stood today, it took time to get used to such unabashed truth.
And the truth was: SHE WAS HER. AND I WAS ME.
And like a sword it pierced me: WHEN WERE YOU EVER A FEMINIST IF YOU CAN'T EVEN LOOK THAT WOMAN IN THE EYE?

Feminism has gone to the dogs. Any group with a crack under the surface cannot as a rule get anywhere. Before I went all-out male bashing, I had to quit female bashing. It was ok. The cop, the doc, the housewife, the rebel and the prostitute, we were all in the same boat. Real feminism was about giving women the power to do exactly what they chose to do. If she wants to croon lullabies and moon over her son’s first medal, it was upto her. What we as a group were trying to gift her was the ability to choose. If she wishes to be a goon or a mistress or a hired help, it was upto her. We were here to make sure the choices were safe and available. Just like the career-girl was given the rough ride half a century ago, here we were, giving the stay-at-home moms hell now. Just like the tomboy could never come out of her shell yesterday, the girly-girl keeps her eyes low today. It’s not ok to be dumb or blond or like Barbie dolls, to like poetry and embroidery, to want to stay neat and organized, to prefer pastel to navy, to choose Chanel over Brut. Why do we make life difficult for other women? Why do we stereotype them? Guys never make it difficult for nerds or playboys or blokes. With guys I guess it’s just the fear of gays. For the average 21st century feminist, being feminine, watching soaps, not having crushes, being virgin when you’re married and being a teetotaler are all punishable offenses. Besides the numero uno offense-not placing your career over the family. Guys do that too. It’s just they sacrifice the career of their choice to keep the family together. Same offense-different style. Other guys don’t mind.

It’s time we got the act together. As feminists true to ourselves, what we have to do first is make women feel at home in their traditional roles, convincing them they are no less than other women with careers. We have to fix our sights on educating women to better perform these roles and educating men not to treat these women like dirt. They had other options. They chose this one. Considering that a significant majority of women all over the world are performing traditional roles, a boost to their morale could only further the cause of feminism. The movement was conceived as a tool to empower women and enrich their lives. At least the latter objective would be partially realized by our move and it would pave the way to the former. It’s simple but it’s effects would be like a tidal wave washing over all of humanity. If today we choose to give these women the respect they deserve, to acknowledge them as a part of the movement, it would do no end of good to the spirit of the woman of tomorrow.

Eve chose to eat the apple. What people often forget is that Adam had a choice too. Women have been crucified long enough for that one choice at the very beginning. It’s time other women stop crucifying them. Leave that to men and the devil. And as to God, he banished both from the garden. And I think the additional sentence of nine months of labour on Eve is bull. Since she had the strength to take her own decision, God knew only she would have the strength to bring forth life, from which all else begins.

Getting the Zog to tie the knot…. (Pun intended)

2006-08-17T23:23:00.000-07:00

This vacation was loaded with surprises. Well most vacations are but this one sort of made me rethink my entire 21 year old perception about my so called “upwardly mobile” family. That basically they are not that. Or anything else that was cool or elevating. No, they were normal. For a person who derives such a disproportionate sense of pride from being abnormal, this was not good news. It sort of indicated that my genes too were normal to some extent and as a consequence I was ordinary. A piece of knowledge I could live without.

It began with the slow realization that my family too like Bindhu-Leela-Seema’s expected me to get married soon after my graduation. The hints were meant to be subtle to begin with but you normally don’t expect it out of a family where females don’t flinch speaking about your choice of lingerie in front of your cousin’s wife, twice removed, on her first visit home. It began with sending younger cousin spies with me wherever I went. I suddenly noticed how hopelessly interested those pesky things were in my phone calls, how often they kept checking through my smses, and questions like,” Oh Nikhil called again? That was his third today. What does he look like?” or more blatant interrogations like,” How many boyfriends do you have?” Wow! People had amazing faith in my sensuality and overwhelming charm.

Step 2: All my relatives start to establish with a vengeance that they lead happy married lives. Hellooo! I’ve seen you guys at it for 2 decades now. I know you guys stayed married all these years just for this moment, when you could somehow convince me to inflict the same mind-numbing torture on myself.

Step 3: Try to find out the sort of guys who interest me. “You’re going to the states right? So what if there’s this proposal from someone in the states? You know-an engineer like you.” I think for a moment and say,”No, not an engineer.” “Doctor?” ”No, By any chance is Dylan McDermott still single?” My aunt turns to my mom and asks her, “Did you know about this guy? You never told us.” My sis and I could have died laughing.
My sis is lectured to on being good and helping my dad out during these “difficult times”.
All she could think of was,”Is there gonna be another gulf war? Do we get to wear gas masks?” Another round of solid chastising brings her around,”Chechi marry a rich guy so that he can buy me a seat in MBBS.”

Step 4: Getting close family friends, so called “forward-thinking” aunts and uncles and other Gen Y people to talk me into it.
My mom’s friends: But mole, you’ll have a person to be with you and take care of you in the states.
Zog: I can take care of myself. Thank you.
Friends: But you never wake up on time and stuff, he could sort of, you know wake you up, help you do your chores.
Zog: Do you want me to get married to an alarm clock or a dish-washer? And hired help is a possibility worth considering at this point.
Friends: Why do you think you don’t want to get married?
Zog: I am young. There are a lot of things I have to see and do, a lot of places to explore…
Friends: And he can be a companion!
Zog: Don’t you think I’d get bored having the same person with me all the time?
(Pin drop silence in the hall)
My mom’s younger sis, a Gulf returned wannabe tries next.
Aunty: Of all your guy friends, who do you like best?
Zog: I dunno, like all of ‘em.
Aunty: But someone must be a bit more fun?
Zog: Naaa…
Aunty: Then why is it you keep a nickname for Haathi only?
Zog: Um maybe coz he’s the only one who looks like an elephant and can puncture your ribs with his fist.
Aunty: You’ve never had any crushes?
Zog: Loads
Aunty: How ‘bout now? Who’s the lucky guy this time?
Zog: Have you ever considered the possibility I might be interested in females?
(God, I swear I could die in peace after just watching the expression on her face)

Step 5: Restricting movement and emotional blackmail.
Dad: Who was the guy on whose bike you were riding today?
Zog: Brijesh
Dad: Why did you get on his bike?
Zog: It was the fastest way home?!
Dad: Tell me the truth
Zog: Oh I’m gonna marry him next week that’s why. (You asked for it honey.)
My granddad and granny
Gd: Mole, we’re growing old and we wish to see at least one of our grand-children married before God calls us.
Zog: He seems quite busy now don’t you think, so could be a while before he remembers you guys. So you stay put.
Gm: You were always a selfish child. When you were a child remember the china doll that…
Zog: You guys don’t have to live with the thing I marry for the next 40 years of your life. So cut the selfish crap.
(Dumbstruck expression. For a moment I felt sorry for them there)

Step 6: Logic. Or the lack of it.
Dad: But mole the average Indian guy is placed in an MNC by the time he’s 22. Once he’s settled his parents will get him married. So by the time you’re ready to get married there, will be no eligible bachelors left.
Oh my god! A scarcity of bachelor boys. Who would have thought of it?
Zog: Get me married to a Jhat. Majorly skewed sex ratio there with all the female infanticide and stuff.
Dad: Why don’t you even try to be serious? (Angry)

Zog: Coz you’re trying to get a female who can’t even wake up in the morning for class on time, who doesn’t have even the most basic social skills, who can’t stand it if it takes five seconds more to load her homepage, still carries a lucky pen to her exam hall and believes with all her heart and soul that she’s going to win the Nobel prize before she’s 25, to establish a family. Coz YOU are not even trying to be serious.

At the end of all this, the best surprise of them all came with the realization that Indian guys too were under similar pressure. At the last wedding of the season, the first Hindu wedding I ever attended, I came upon a group of mommies who were in the throes of a most animated conversation.
Mommy A: The groom is quite young, barely 24 it seems.
Mommy B: Well it’s better to get them married than to wait for them to find some characterless whore in those software companies in Bangalore.
Hmmm….I wonder if it ever occurred to them that even after the knot such a possibility exists.

On a positive note...

2006-07-14T03:02:00.001-07:00

It's almost time for me to leave this place....and people have most unfairly labelled me anti-all-things-mallu-and-necessarily-beautiful. Hmmm...I wonder if it has ever occured to any of them that the fact a woman keeps ranting on and on without deviance about a particular subject...even if she's whining or strongly antagonistic....is generally a sign that she loves it. Or at least that the subject has that something that forces her not to be indifferent. I really can't make generalizations, but I have always assumed that to love something you must learn to hate it, at some point. The two emotions coexist in oxymoronic harmony till kingdom come. So it is with Kerala. Hell, do you guys think I really hate all the loons who call themselves my relatives? Do you think I detest driving school? Do you think I am repelled by my sister's antics in public(or private for that matter)? Well yes I am. But believe me when I tell you I love it too. That I worship the earth my sister treads on; that I can't imagine life without my interfering relatives; that i enjoy every minute of the driving school instructor's yapiness....because it's what I stay alive for...the colour, the variety, the vibrancy.
Absence of emotion is my greatest fear and Kerala is ambrosia for a person who lives with such a phobia. A brief jolt from the anaesthesized existence one is forced into in the four walls of the modern day nuclear family or the drone of semester schedules and reality...thats what Kerala always meant to me. Once the plane rumbles it's way on the familair runway,my heart skips a beat,the first time you catch sight of those familiar coconut trees, trying desperately to see your cousins from an impossible altitude while below perhaps they are chasing your flight across the greens as far as they can keep track of it....the feeling of belonging somewhere, the first tear on your grandfathers cheek, the warmth of granny's kiss, her trying to make sense of your younger sister's anglicized wail for attention, the fact that it's always raining when we have to load or unload our luggage....the long lines of laundry the first few days, on the roof, under the fan....relatives trying to remember what we looked like the year before and trying to draw a comparison, always wrong, always desperate. My cousins trying to teach us cricket, hockey or when it rains carroms and cards...the smell of the powder they spray on the carrom board, the faint dissapointment on their chestnut brown, perpetually cheerful faces when the tin is empty, the scramble for the red coin, the deck of cards where the jack of diamonds and the ace of hearts was always missing, thats what my earliest memories are made of. While we're playing hide and seek Uncle comes in with patties and plum cake, the mad rush to take the packet from him, the youngest child, then forced into an early reckoning of his place in the family heirarhy, the bottom,wails. Paper boats in the rain, stealing our fresh-from-Bangalore-student-uncle's film magazines coz they made better boats, swinging under the mango tree, eating unripe tamarind and falling ill, being forbidden to play and consequently the nickname "saipinkutty"(foreigner's child). Kerala is what I am, what I am forced to return to no matter how hard I try to tear myself away...every inch of me is infused with her spirit...every coconut oiled strand of my hair, every bit of me fed on puttu and appams, every inch of my soul that cries out amma when I'm tired and need a guiding hand...I am a mallu and proud of it. And my critisizing her and teasing her and caricaturing her people....what do I say...love has funny ways of expressing itself...you have yours, don't grudge me mine.

Behind the wheels...

2006-07-09T09:46:00.000-07:00

The title sort of explains what I do at driving school...sit behind the wheels. Thats it, the moment I ever so much as try to steer the vehichle or even touch the accelerator a torrent of the most fluent malayalam floods my ears, most of which i can't and really don't want to understand. I wonder if the woman knows my history with manipulating modes of conveyance.
My earliest memory includes my roller blades and me hurtling right into my fat instructors heaving 50th-anniversary-of beer-drinking-belly. The memory of that event haunts me to this day. In most of my abduction-by-freakin-aliens nightmares, green,blue or red, the aliens always had a disproportionate belly.
For most children cycling is a relatively simple affair involving imbalance and a few falls at the beginning. Nooo! The Zog is different. Besides starting trouble, the Zog simply cannot cycle straight. no-o. The Zog requires acres of leeway on either side, in front and at the back. Besides ramming into the side-walk every now and then. A million twisted ankles later, someone took mercy on her and stole her cycle.
I thought i could get away with being a pedestrian for the rest of my life. But it was not to be. For a woman to survive in the world today, she has to know how to drive. All other means of transport are unsafe. When is it that my dad started approving of suicide I wonder?
Okie so I try learning how to ride the scooter first. My 13 year old cousin is my official guru. And his Activa the test vehichle. We try in the gully between our house and his. Hah! I can do this it's easy. I beam at everyone around me. Thats when he let go.
I ram into the wall on the left. I want to stop the monster from running up the wall but my hand refuses to let go of the accelerator OR clutch the brake. There I was my hand acting like it had a mind of it's own just poised to kill me. But help was at hand and I didn't land up on the other side as I imagined.(Yes I am capable of thinking up such absurdities. If you watch cartoon network after you reach a certain age, it happens)
Next stop driving school. Man this place is a whole new dimension. The car they use doesn't have a single part thats actually still in working condition and the female refuses to let you touch anything for fear you find out. Man these losers! To make things worse the woman imagines the extended history of her and her family is of vital interest to all her students. So there she goes yappety-yap on your left while you sit behind the wheel trying really hard to touch anything that makes the baby move.
What really beats me is her reverse concept. She totally insists on making us do it in this old guy's lawn when he's looking. Soon enough it rains tea on me as he sprays every possible abuse at us in the middle of the road. The female is...a female. She keeps screaming back. When both of them are done, I feel seriously disoriented and to top it she tells me,"Tomorrow we'll turn here itself. That old fool should learn a lesson." Ouch!
H-classes on wednesdays are a nightmare. Suddenly there's a guy teaching me who actually expects me to drive. And we are expected to do so in a trekker. And I'm 5 ft tall. Sitting on the edge of the seat I can barely make it to the brake or the clutch or anything. The accumulated strength of 10 Zogs cannot get the gear to change or the stearing wheel to turn. At the end of it all I feel like my arms have been cut off. Oh well...
I've 5 days to my license test and I still have'nt got to touch the steering....oh well...the guy would be smart if he didn't pass me.The way things are now I'm on the way to becoming the serial road killer.

Welcome to Zogland

2006-07-08T12:46:00.000-07:00

Of the many things that seriously screw my life, I'd rate going on a road trip with my family number one. Who am I kidding? Living with them is an art.
Imagine a lazy Sunday afternoon. My mom's classmate from her good ol' CUSAT days is coming over. (Disclaimer: This is not a comment on the CUSAT student community, just on my family and how CUSAT has no effect on it)
My mom's friend asks for directions to our house.
Momsy replies helpfully," It's the house with the remote-controlled gate."
And puts down the receiver.
I can't believe this is happening.
Well the thing is, it's not over, yet.
Of the many things that puzzle me to this day am why my parents took their vows? They take the most sadistic pleasure in annoying each other.
For example, to the above exchange daddy darling comes up with the very helpful comment," Do you want me to stand outside with the remote, dear?"
I force myself to believe my life depends on reading the Hindu in 5 minutes flat.
So when we travel long distance, I really dunno why my dad insists my mom give the directions, given her amazing orientation skills, which rival only mine.
But he does.
After 7 fruitless round trips around the same cupola my mom claims, "Now I remember, I've seen this shrine before."
Duh...like all of us have in the past 1/2 hour. Lots of times.
But noooo, she's sure now. Just as sure as the hour before.
Things get really heated up when you have a younger sibling of an IQ below 20.
"Why is the sky blue?”,"Why did mommy wear a red sari today?”,” Why does that granny have a hunchback?" EVERY 5 minutes can drive anyone nuts. Besides, laughing at a joke an hour after it was cracked and while daddy finally condescends to check out the road map.
Uggghh!
At this point, when daddy is fuming purple, someone digs an elbow at the Zog's side. It's funny, after an hour, even four people in a Scorpio can get stuffy. And I'm a peaceful thing really; my nose stuck in a book all along, but touch me....and its war! The Zog proceeds to unleash enough physical violence on her sister, and create enough mayhem to cause the driver to miss THE VITAL TURN. On your visit to a long-forgotten relative's house this is a carnal mistake. It's consequences are worse than death. If you turn right, you'll get there and get back home before dusk. If you miss it you float perilously in a place called the "no cell phone range and I dunno where I am" land. To make things worse, the place has not been populated by humans yet. And if any do pass by they lead you deeper into its misty, murky interiors regions...till there is no way back....except....the most long-winded and undiscovered route back home.
Of course if you are on the right route, further perils await you, like maternal instinct for instance.
When we are nearly there...as in a nanosecond away, momsy claims, "This is the wrong way. We went this way last time and we ended up on the national highway."
Your dad, who has been bestowed by the almighty with all the common sense in the world EXCEPT the sense to ignore his wife in critical situations....no points for guessing...agrees with her!!! That’s when you begin to understand what the book of Genesis was all about. Eve=dumb, Adam=dumber.
That’s not it. Owing to the relative being the Zog's relative he can give priceless directions like, "The Street that we live on has a tuition centre where my daughter goes for entrance coaching." Or better yet, "Our house is not on the same street as the Carmel hospital.” “There is a beautiful pool behind our house over which there was the loveliest rainbow yesterday. You felt you could walk on it and reach St. Peter and my father, may he rest in peace." The last guy is mildly poetic and I love a poet, so excuse him.
If we do get there we generally go through the infinite torture of "smile that smile till your jaw falls off" routine. Small talk rules. Gems like, "Ah! Babu two girls, no boys?" You asked us the same question for the last 15 years you jackass, and my dads 60 now. "Oh dear Sonia's grown so thin/dark/short/eyes are sunk/looks so tired."
Hellooo! Travelling for 30 days non-stop doesn't exactly give you glowing skin and sparkling eyes darling.
"Oh! So and so got married, whose turn is it now?"(Significant smile in my direction)
Get a life woman! And who the hell got the turn thing started? Is it like this ride in an amusement park that you queue up for? What’s with these people?
"Oh Sonia has taken after her father, you should have seen Laly at this age."
My mother is a beautiful woman, but I can't imagine life without my dad's eye-brow lift. Momsy can't crush people in the dirt with the "look" like my dad and moi.
If ever we get back home after all this crap and cheerful to boot, my ever inquisitive house-maid awaits us. “Where did you go? Who did you see? Why didn’t you go there?”
Sometimes she reminds us of those super moms. She owns the house more than we do, if you get what I mean, Hell when does it end?

Fine...

2006-06-25T12:27:00.000-07:00

It’s funny how people generally don’t say exactly what they mean, making it extremely difficult for the Zog to survive in the modern hostel ecosystem.
Take for instance the statement
“I am fine.”
When followed by the confirmatory smile, you assume it is safe to crack a joke or two and move on. Well darling, welcome to the strange and terrible land of conversational cryptography. I am fine doesn’t mean exactly that. It can mean anything but that.
The range of meanings it can assume include “I feel like shit and you’re responsible”,
“I need to drink my HOD’s blood”, “Why are you wearing the same shirt as I am bitch?” or worst yet, “My crush since first year won’t look at me though he has had a string of girl friends since.”
Once you figure out which of the above it is, you are on the high road to successful inter-personal relationships.
So how do you go about it? Was that question for me?...em…like I told you if I were any good I wouldn’t be writing this down. The thing is, there is no surefire technique. The Gods have conspired against me. The only available method, it seems, is that of trial and error.
Ohhh I’ve dreaded the term since my math teacher first introduced it in elementary school. It was like even Mathematics, the Science of preciseness, didn’t have the answers to some questions. You just couldn’t plug some problems into concrete formulae and wish them away. You had to assume…postulate…theorize…stuff that was best left to Pythagoras and his cronies, not small, insignificant, blundering…you.
Another thing I have an unreasonable fear of, for exactly the same reasons is scale-up. The laws that apply to a small system don’t apply to a larger one because of the chaos the system accumulates with size. You toil and toss and bleed to arrive at something to explain the crap you’ve been doing in lab 8 to 8, and then, somebody tells you it’s absolutely useless if you actually wanted to mass-produce something, they’re an exercise in futility that will make a brief appearance on your grade card, only.
Now imagine the horror of scaling up an imprecise technique like trial and error from the most precise art of mathematics to the most chaotic sphere of human conversation. It is the material nightmares are made of.
Lemme add, once you decide to try something out, the outcome makes all future attempts futile.
If for instance you react to “I am fine” with “Your HOD is a rat” and if you’re wrong you might get
1. Really screwed if her HOD has anything to do with your department
2. Lose a friend if she’s HOD’s puppy material
3. Lose a semester if HOD’s promoted anytime soon
If you react with “Sorry he’s still not interested in you”, and again blooper! Made a mistake
1. She’ll say, “Thank you for reminding me just when I got over him.”
2. Or “So pleased to have a boyfriend huh? So you keep pushin it down other ppls throats huh?” Ouch!
3. “Booohooo! You’re so nasty, I know I’m not pretty but I thought you were my friend”
So like moi said it’s not easy. So how do you decide? I do the “Eeny meeny miny mo…”
Which sorta explains why I’m so ant-social. If you can think of a better way please cue me in.

My brother's keeper....

2006-06-01T22:03:00.000-07:00

Cain slew Abel, so my Bible says,
And my Bible says,"thou art thy brother's keeper?"
Naughty, naughty me....
How could the Bible, would the Bible see....
what that did mean...to me?
I keep my neighbour- tied in chains, on a leash, in a box,
"So long my pet so long as you don't mind that is, my God says I am your keeper.
And if you mind, well we'll see about that later...won't we?
I decide, if your land, is your own, or if it should rather belong, to the serf who toiled away, on MY soil, a hundred years ago....
I decide, if you ought to protect yourself, from me, and my myriad xenophobic fears of you, and your kin...you who are in my chains, on a leash, in my hand, in MY box....
I decide if an incompetent fool, who lolled along the corridoors of knowledge, a man who was bestowed with education, to deprive you, may play with your ailing heart on a surgeon's table....and if you die...well good riddance...less competition for ME. whoopee!
I decide your character...don't I? And if you dare to be an Abel to your fellow men...well goody-goody...i won't slay you...I'll slay your character instead...won't that do? For who? For ME of course, you fool!
I am Cain, I survive, through it all.
At the very first selection, my genes triumphed over yours.
And through the ages my seed has multiplied, a million-fold.
My tools were many-the monarchy, the church, the aristocracy, the communists,
My aim was one- to destroy you.
After all Abel, I CAIN, was asked to be your keeper.

On it's madness....

2006-06-01T09:57:00.000-07:00

This is the age for cotton floss to substitute what was originally meant to be the brain....
And an excessive quantity of air seems to weigh more than the most solid sense....
What the devil advocates, the angels do....
God watches all from heaven.....and what is ageless ages too...
What can the sun say if the earth wishes to revolve around the moon?
When the gods cease to frown, in helpless apathy, what do mere mortals mean to me?

About the Zog.....

2006-06-01T09:27:00.000-07:00

The Zog is an extremely rare species of animal, hedonistic to a degree that it cannot quite quantify itself and given to extreme mood swings which justify people who generally try to leave it alone. The thing is given to self-worship and arrogance and a most blatant disregard for the feelings of the other animals in the zoo that it occasionally deigns to caricature in a most garish and outrightly provocative way. It is definitely feline in it's affections, adoring those who love it, scratching out the eyes of those who hurt it. Otherwise quite an unremarkable creature, it leaves it's paw-prints on this page at irregular intervals.