lékid

Black Eyed Molly - Eva Cassidy

2011-11-15T20:08:00.000+05:30

Deep and dark are my true love's eyes,

Blacker still is the winter's turning,

As the sadness of parting proves.

And brighter now is the lantern burning

That lightens my path to love.

No fiddle tune will take the air,

But I will see his swift feet dancing

And the swirl of his dark brown hair,

His smiling face and his dark eyes glancing

As we stepped out Blinkbonny Fair.

And if my waiting prove in vain,

Then I will pack and track ever take me.

The long road will ease my pain.

No jewel of mankind would ever make me

Whisper love's words again.

For in drink I'll seek good company,

My ears will ring with the tavern's laughter,

And I'll hear not his last sweet sigh.

And who's to know in the morning after

How I long for his dear dark eyes

M & A , with a three year old T.A.

2011-09-15T14:06:00.003+05:30

Writing after a long time and as has been the case far too often in the recent past, it is about a little 'un.

Aged three, speaks pretty good English, striking brownish-green eyes on a face framed by curls, dressed in an electric blue sleeveless dress that had elaborate smocking on the yoke and at the hemline and with a bow behind that was at least 6 inches wide, and answers to the name Amy. You have the description now.

Met her at an event I was attending and she with her games and giggles was hard to miss among the old foggies that made up the rest of the party.

The lunch was done, folks were leaving and that's when I got introduced to her uncle, who is a Professor at a university in an area not far removed from my own.

Soon enough we were talking about the general state of academics, opportunities and career plans.

That's when she interrupted us.

"Uncle."

"Uncle, I am tired."

We continued our conversation and she grasped his palm when she repeated this time. Girls learn really young, the basics of getting undivided attention from a man.

"Uncle I am really tired."

He smiled at me, turned to look at her and said

"I am also tired, why don't you sit her beside me on this chair"

Her voice grew more insistent as she said

"No, I don't want to do that"

"If I sit there, I will fall asleep" she summed up her explanation

"And my clothes, they are wet" she added the killer punch.

He reached across and felt her dress and pointed out that it wasn't the case.

"They were wet, but dried off."

"I am tired, let's go" she continued.

At this point, I was ready to leave and stopped in my seat as I heard him say

"Two minutes, give me two minutes" holding up two fingers

Looking at him squarely in the face she replied

"One minute" holding up one of hers.

"Three minutes"

"One minute"

"Four minutes"

"One minute"

"Five minutes"

"OK, two minutes"

Needless to say, I was impressed. From all my past experiences with kids this age, I always thought negotiations never worked. Apparently they do.

She did interrupt him before his two minutes were up, but in true uncle fashion he turned indulgent and we got up to leave.

Finally as we were wrapping up our conversation. I asked him.

"So what exactly do you teach?"

"Mergers and Acquisitions" he replied with a straight face and the smiles were all mine.

I really don't know about his students or what ideas they acquire attending his classes, but he sure had acquired the affections of his niece in boundless measure.

Friendship day.

2010-09-14T18:08:00.003+05:30

"Hello friend, happy friendship day !!!". the l'il un marched up to me and stretched out his hand. I did grip it firmly and give him a man to man handshake.

His world is all about Spidey and Ben10. The greatest failure of the crushing kind he envisions is losing to his sister in an internecine rivalry over who possesses the object of desire in all of kid-land - the newest toy.

And I, well I don't really know much about me.

But we are friends.

Birdie for l'il Victoria

2010-08-22T21:00:00.003+05:30

Partition time - > young widow from Sindh reaches Madras -> Sons enter business -> Grand daughter meets Keralite -> Love ensues -> two kids follow -> spied me with the hook and yarn -> insisted on a gift for her 'to be born'

Post-delivery enquiry about gift -> 10 minute google search -> few days effort -> Li'l Victoria gets her birdie blanket

Muse

2010-07-20T22:58:00.002+05:30

Every writer has one. That one person, thought or feeling that makes him write. The reason for which he pours out emotions in ink on paper. The anticipation of the reception his words will get. The satisfaction sought amongst the appreciative smiles of the reader.

.
.

In Spidey we trust

2010-05-31T13:22:00.003+05:30

"Tintin", I heard a plaintive voice at my bedside in the morning.

"Are you sleeping?"

"I was", I muttered and rolled over to the other side, not before opening my eyes and smiling at Matt.

"Are you getting up?", the voice and its source were at the other side of the bed.

Deciding it was futile to fight fate, I got up.

"You have a cold, what happened? got wet in the rain?"

"No, you see Mish was having a cold and I slept beside her and got the cold", he explained.

"Where's dad?" I asked, knowing fully well that he was on an official tour and would be back in a day or two.

"He has gone to office". Lowering his voice he said, "but this time he has not taken his motorbike"

"Is that so?", I asked and shared in his confusion at this inexplicable situation.

Lowering his voice even further to a conspiratorial tone, he continued

"I was scared last evening that he was not home, so I wore my Spiderman dress"

and .... I prodded

"Then I was not scared because I was Spiderman".

I have heard of many fears and the fixes for them. They included prayers before sleep, Holy oils and waters, Bibles under pillows, extracting promises from God and the angels that they take care of you till dawn.

Now there is the Spidey costume to add to the list.

manipuri and kathakali and lost tempers

2010-04-24T20:49:00.000+05:30

Obit - K R

2010-04-12T14:10:00.003+05:30

His list of degrees read PhD, DTh, DD, DLitt. The first among them in Economics from London School of Economics. Impressive resume, member of many academic and administrative committees in the country and internationally.

When I first met Dr K. R. He was 83. Three score years my senior. He took a liking for me

He was used to ruling the body that I was a part of. During his tenure, he had made such far reaching changes that the changed power equations and resultant problems almost paralyzed the body. His was still a voice to be reckoned with. When he spoke it was forceful and visionary.

I heard many of the others in the group mostly the elderly criticising him for his style of working and envying him for the substance of his argument.

His greatest passion at the time of our interaction was the Dalit question. The seeming injustice of the social structures and the callous attitude of the other sections of society to what in his opinion was unfair, riled him up.

A tall impressive personality in his youth, he had become a pale shadow of his self. As he stood propped by the lectern, a frail body with a voice that had become a hiss

Met him for the final time three years ago at the Nagpur airport as we waited for our flights, me to Bombay and he to Madras.

Last Wednesday he passed away. Rest in peace Dr K. R. You did reveal to me the dangers of thinking small.

Perspective Shift

2010-03-26T18:09:00.002+05:30

Somewhere in the midst of the huge disappointment, the resultant anger and the crushing sadness that has marked existence of late, I pause to think of what the other saw, heard and felt.

Unfortunate situation that heightens the loneliness and increases the realization that my arms are simply too short to box with the situation.

An old Jim Reeves song comes to mind 'Ohh I missed me, how I missed me .....'

Life in memories

2010-01-06T10:15:00.004+05:30

When most of one's existence has been spent in a dream, there is bound to be a conflict when it encounters life as we know it.

.
.
.
.
.

to do . No. umpteen

Nana Mouskouri

2010-01-01T14:06:00.001+05:30

The Greek looks, the glasses that went out of fashion decades ago but look stylish in a retro way, above all the voice that haunts. I am in love with it.

2009-12-22T17:51:00.003+05:30

A pretty yarn.

2009-11-13T10:35:00.003+05:30

It started off as a means to beat boredom and happening to be in the right place to learn it. After many knits, purls and creations little and big. I tried my hand at crochet. The first attempt was a mess. Second time around it turned out like this

The funny thing about this has been the difference in male and female reactions to this. The men look at it, crack a joke and then walk on and finally shrug at the finished one. The women on the other hand are more vocal about their feelings and imagine little feet in them.

I could not manage a pair of lil feet for you, but here is how it might look.

P.S. I am happy with what I have managed :)

Omana thinkal kidavo..

2009-11-11T11:47:00.004+05:30

Why do I remember all of a sudden, the melody of a song that my mother used to sing to me as a child. A reminder of what I miss?

Originally written by Irayiamman Thampi as a lullaby for the future king of Travancore, Swati Tirunal. This song has lulled many Malayali children to sleep over the years.

"intense nostalgia for a bygone phase of one’s life filled with tender affections and motherly care, the lullaby also thrills one with a sense of deja vu. The song lists a number of wonderful things in the world and wonders which of these is the child. The lullaby stands out from other popular lullabies around the world in that it does not at all talk about sleep! The baby is supposed to be induced to sleep by the proper selection of raga (melody type in Indian music). The songs are rendered in many ragas today"
source :: http://www.swathithirunal.in/omanathinkal.htm

My attempt at a rough translation follows

Is this sweet child
-The darling of the moon?
-A beautiful lotus?
-Nectar in the flower?
-Beam of the full moon?
-String of new pearls?
-Chatter of the parrots?
-The swaying peacock?
-Gentle song of the Nightingale?
-The prancing fawn?
-A glorious swan?
-Treasure from God?
-Buds of the Parijatha?
-Fruit from my tree of fortune?
-A golden casket to hold my precious jewel. ....

.
.
.

All I want to do now is curl up into a ball :(

Football - Viva Goa

2009-11-11T10:47:00.000+05:30

Jul 2

There is something about the beautiful game 'football' and Goa. It is almost as if the two are in love with each other. I distinctly remember moments of adolescent heartbreak when Goa defeated Kerala in Santosh Trophy matches.

After a meeting that stretched on and on and on, we decided to hit the beach while the sun was still out. One of my friends said he knew a driver who could take us around and soon enough the Tata Sumo was at our door.

The driver or 'Uncle' as my friend called him all through the trip was a bank officer who had taken a VRS. His wife was no more and all his life revolved around his daughter who was home. Great guide knew all the places and drove safe and fast. The only problem was as soon as he dropped us off at some place he would be missing. On calling him later we would find out he was at a TV watching a cricket match, then he would take his sweet time getting back.

No one knew how he found out TVs in the middle of nowhere, but he was sure gone. While dropping us off, he mentioned that Goa was in the Santosh Trophy Finals being played the next day.

Next afternoon walking around Pilar, I chanced upon the Fr Agnel Home for Boys. It was a shelter for orphans and they had a beautiful football field in front of their home. It was evening and the boys were playing. The big ones got to play on the field proper and the little ones had to play on the road.

I wanted to take pics and the little ones crowded around saying - Bao, photo, bao photo. They struck poses and hit shots and I clicked. On moving towards the field, I witnessed a move by the forwards of one team that cut through the opposition defence and the only thing between them and glory was the Goalie. His name was Esteban. Too old to be named after Cambiasso, probably a remnant of the Portugese heritage of Goa. For the etymology buffs In Kerala you find two names Esthappen (Portugese source) and Punnose (Syriac source) both variations of Stephen, a la Esteban.

Finally on the car to the Railway Station, I found this sight on the road. An open jeep with a binch of guys and pretty girls, screaming their throats off and celebrating Goa's victory in the Santosh Trophy finals.

P.S I was exaggerating, the girls weren't that pretty, but then again isn't a girl who is crazy about football the prettiest of them all?

I will not entertain comments from the fairer sex on the above line

Smiling and waiting ...

2009-11-10T19:02:00.001+05:30

12/7

So it was that I found myself with a group of friends visiting an old-age home one Sunday afternoon.

I don't know if it was because the group was predominantly late teens and early twenties, or it was the MJ effect, but the first song we sang was 'Heal the world'

"Guys they need our help and they are thankful for what they received but you can make a difference to them individually by spending time with them. Please spread out and mingle" he said.

I hemmed and hawed and finally agreed to do it. My pals had started speaking to the others.

"I am here only for a little while,my family will take me back soon"

"My younger son was so nice, he died in an accident and my older son ... well he cannot take care of me" signed off another as she wiped a picture of her son beside her pillow.

looked around and saw a lady who sat in a dignified stately manner. She smiled invitingly and I went over.

"I am so happy to see so many young people, I spent 27 years of my life teaching math to students at K... B... school. I always feel better around youngsters. Now if I go to my school, people tell me there is no one left from back then"

"What are you doing?" she asked. I mentioned the institute and research and she had a twinkle in her eyes. "My daughter did her PhD in Maths from there 25 years ago".

The topic changed to roads and traffic in Bangalore and she recounted how she used to travel the breadth of the city on the buses in the olden days. She had done her schooling in Mysore with the Sisters who later started Mount Carmel College in Bangalore and got very nostalgic with memories of the people and places filling her sentences.

"Do you go around"? I asked.

"I would have loved to. But I had a surgery in my hip and my right ankle. It took a while to recuperate and in the mean time my right leg became really week. I do manage to go out on an Auto by asking the driver to help me in and later help me out. But no one really encourages that".

"Your daughters?" I finally asked the question I did not want to.

"The older one is in Hyderabad, the younger one is in an IT firm in Bangalore. "

After the briefest of pauses, she continued "I know what you are going to ask me next. My answer is, it does not work out." She ended the conversation.

No complaints, no gripes, only the smile on her face and a quizzical gaze defining her persona.

My friendly neighbourhood Spiderman

2009-09-25T21:35:00.007+05:30

"Tintinnnnnnnnnnn, look at me" came a shriek as I neared his house one morning. Out came Matt, dressed in a distinctive blue and red tees and pants.

"Ohhhh my Gawd!!! It is Spiderman"

"I have a mask too"

"Really? show me" I replied. In he ran and soon Spidey was out in all glory.

What followed was a string of dialogues from the movie in babytalk. I could only catch words like 'gonna', 'finish' and 'maaaaan'.

"Are you all powerful now?" I asked to my misfortune. A flurry of punches and I could almost imagine how Frazier felt at the hands of Ali. "No", his mother chimed in. "You cannot hit elders" and after a short pause "and older sisters".

Little Spidey was in no mood for a moral science class and I bundled him up and took him home.

"Mommmmm look what I found on the road", I yelled.

"Now that's a little Spiderman you got there"

Spidey started giggling by now and my tickles were not really helping him maintain the defender of justice, refuge of the helpless look.

The moment I set him on his feet, he ripped off his mask and gushed "Auntieee, it is meee, it is not Spiderman"

"Really!!! I was thinking it was Spiderman" she managed a look of incredulity.

******--------------------------******
Flashback
******--------------------------******

In the 80's a little boy 'A' participated in a fancy dress contest as Spiderman. Mind you this was way before today's availability of ready to wear costumes for just about any character from Harry Potter to Raj Malhotra( or any other of SRK clones). Back in the good old days, fancy dress was mostly about the creativity of the parent. Your little bundle of joy looks like a drunk and walks like one and everyone around you is too nice to point it out, don't worry. You have a shot at fame. Get him in a torn tee and shorts too big for him , a bottle of whitish liquid in his hands and tell him to walk and sway or sway and walk. That's all folks, First price is yours. :D

'A' was attired in a Spiderman mask and for the rest of his body he looked like the unfortunate villain in the story wrapped up in spider web. For the record 'A' was third that year in the competition.

A friend of his offered him a costume that could spurt out the web. He said he got it from his cousin in Canada. This was way before 'A' saw "The Sting". 'A' had no idea of a setup. He produced candy from 'Quality Street' and started using a snackbox that was an empty chocolate box again from 'Quality Street'.

The next part of the scam was telling the name of the place in Canada his Aunt was at. Ontario. The quizzer in 'A' reasoned, 'he is likely to know the name only if he knows someone there. Heck he is the best in football in the class but I know more players than him.' By the time he described the costume with the button on the wrist that if pressed with the middle and ring finger folded in caused a web to squirt out, 'A' was sold.

Being a cash less economy only barter was possible and 'A' agreed to part with a portion of his collection of stickers for this. 'A's deliveries were made in Uberimmae Fidei (Utmost good faith) over a period of weeks and his was supposed to be on the last day of the school term.

He cheated 'A' and on hearing on the last day that he had forgotten to get it to school, 'A' recalls feeling a little sad and a lot amused. 'A' was not angry. 'A' was right royally conned but not angry.

When I look back it looks like the perfect job. Sell an idea, reinforce it, make a story, stick to it, push the victim to the limits of gullibility and finally poof. There you go, he wont know what hit him.

******--------------------------******

Many cons later here I am still a sucker for a good yarn :(

Cut to present

******--------------------------******

Two days later I met Matt who sported a mournful look on his face. Where is Spidey? I asked him.

"There" he pointed towards the temporary clothesline outside his house. On it hung the Spiderman costume drying in the sun. The more he looked at it the longer his face grew.

"Is he always in this?" I asked his mom. "You won't believe it. Since morning he has been waiting for it to dry so that he can get back into it. The trouble I had getting him out of it this morning." Motherly woes narrated in that fashion unique to mom's describing their kids. Complaints described with smiles.

I grinned.

For those of you who patiently read until now, here's a treat.

Cant you imagine the Green Goblin quiver in his pants on seeing him

P.S. Spidey turned 4 yesterday.

5000 hits

2009-09-11T13:21:00.003+05:30

As far as milestones go this one makes me grin.

5000 views for this blog.

Even discounting the 4945 times I clicked on it myself. :D

For all those patient enough to keep clicking, will be soon posting all those in stuck in the works. There is Goa, football, food and people coming right up

Cannibals us all

2009-07-25T15:05:00.005+05:30

Matt jumped on me and his sister was by my side. Both of them looked expectantly at what new game we could play. Lets eat Matt, I announced and it was greeted with a groan from him and enthusiastic clapping from his sister. Probably this behavior is the remnant of some reptilian trait of eating ones young and siblings.

"What do you want to eat"? I was being the chivalrous gentleman allowing the lady to order.

"Legs, I like to eat his legs", she replied.

Matt had a mournful look as he stroked his thighs for what might be the last time. "I will take his hands", I was also done ordering. "Let's leave his body for auntie", she was not done as yet. "That will leave him with just a head. Actually it will be funny to see him with just a head." "Lets do it", I was enthusiastic.

The unfortunate victim of our cannibalstic party decided that offense is the best form of defence and said, "Tintin I will eat you".

Sure, what do you want to eat?

"I will eat your legs"

"They are kinda big, so you must eat it all, no wasting food OK" No better time to give a lesson to the young un's in food security.

His sister found it funny and gave me a high five.

"I wont waste any food", said he and he bent over my knee.

That was the last I smiled.

Two minutes later I was extricating my knee from his mouth. Later inspection after rolling up the PJ legs confirmed the presence of his lasting impression on my knee, a fine specimen of a 4 year old's dental imprint.

P.S. Nothing much to add but that the bite mark is slowly wearing off.

Broken Wings

2009-07-03T15:56:00.003+05:30

A bird with broken wings seeking consolation from a desolate spirit.

Selma Karamy, love, the spirits, the souls, the pain, the glory, the memory

Deep.

Bebinca

2009-06-19T14:05:00.003+05:30

Somethings are so difficult to write about, especially when one starts drooling at the very thought of it.

For me 'Bebinca' is no different. A type of pudding, or layered pudding if you must, containing flour, sugar, ghee, egg whites and coconut milk. Baked in layers and one of the most popular desserts in Goa.

Having had relatives in Goa, I was introduced to this rather early on. From the first slice where one royally bites into all 12-16 layers at the same time ... to the last one where each layer is separated and nibbled on, in the futile attempt to extend the enjoyment.

When one gets to Goa one is to make most use of the situation and so it was that two packs found their way into my luggage. Polished off soon, with a few new converts to this sinful way of life.

Church and Chennai

2009-06-10T22:05:00.000+05:30

Warning :: The following contains lines in Tamil, at least the way I understand it and use it. It is not perfect, leaves the puritans fuming at the way I desecrate their language and shopkeepers chuckling at the memories long since I leave their stores. Most of the spoken Tamil I hear comes from the occasional movie, and there is really a limit to the things one can convey with lines like "En vazhi thani vazhi", "Aandavan sollarein ..." and "Naan oru thadavai ..." . Apologies in advance for what follows. Like the Scots say - In defens.

On a train that leaves at an unearthly hour sitting opposite a Keralite, wearing a long kurta with flowing shoulder length hair and a well maintained beard. I would not be surprised to find a pack of beedis in his pocket and a copy of some Anarchists guidebook to revolution in his bag. He looked just like any character from one of those Naxalite Malayalam movies from the 70s.

This story is not about him and lets move on. Reached Madras or Chennai if you please, early in the morning and walked past all those stalls selling yummy smelling idlis and dosas.

I am partial to dosas made anywhere in Tamil Nadu. They make them thin and crispy, serve it with 2 kinds of chutney made using grated coconuts and sambhar that is the kind made at home. Did gorge on those during the little time I was there.

Met friends, listened to talks, discussed and finally the days work was done and people wanted to visit places like Santhome. Not for me, I knew exactly where I wanted to go. It was something I could not manage on the last trip. Found a willing partner and soon we were off to the Armenian Church.

Now this was to be the pièce de résistance of the entire trip. All along the auto ride, I kept drilling into my partner, the uniqueness of the place, the bells there, the musical quality of them and all I could remember from my past reading on this.

I must admit what really attracted me to the place was not the chance to sample Armenian Culture or meet Armenians. It is a little complex but I will try and explain. To me the idea that a community that is so closely tied to its own culture and heritage and religion can come all this way to a different land for trading. Settle down here, contribute to society and culture and also recreate a slice of home. It amazes me at times what humans are capable of. It is not done in a year or two but generations work to make it happen. What keeps them going? The faith that it will happen some day? I don't know.

Spoke to a knowledgeable person and he said, "Yes I know the Armenian Church, It is near the high court".

Suitably armed we set out to find a Rick. The only thing that you find in Chennai faster than a mosquito finds you is a Rick. Listening to the way they talk one could not be blamed for thinking that the average Auto-Driver is the nicest slice of humanity. No matter where you want to go, they ask you "How much will you pay?" mostly in the vernacular "Evalu kodukkarein?"

Having sat through a whole semester of a course titled Services Management, I can speak a little authoritatively here. Price is key component of any service offering and is usually decided after lots of thinking and analysis. Here is the Rick-Driver , sorry Aatokaaran, telling me that I could price his service. Woe befall the unsuspecting passenger who mentions an amount. If more than the driver expects, he smiles invitingly. If not, you get to hear stories ranging from great distances, to high fuel prices or at times even get insulted at your inability to guess the magic amount that is floating around in his mind.

All is not lost, one can always get back with a line like "naan neenga auto vila kelkallein, trip povaruthukku evalu? athu sollu". Have tried this once and we both had a nice laugh over this. The Aatokkaran agreed that I was a funny guy, but refused to take me with him.

This time around, he did not know the Armenian Church. So I told him "High Court pakkathile oru church irikkein, antha idathile povanam". "OK sir" he agreed and we were off. Finally we reached a building with a board that read CSI Anderson Church. I thought he got my pronunciation of Armenian wrong and repeated.

He replied, "Athu paaru, right side High Court, ithu church. Neengale solliyathu". Stumped with his logic, we paid and exited. The actual destination was nearby and on reaching there more disappointment was to follow.

We were stopped by the Keeper of the place saying "It is closed for painting and you cannot go in". Tried all kinds of begging and pleading and even offered to go in and not disturb the painters but just take a look from the outside. He was adamant. Probably taking pity on me he said there is another church nearby and assured me it is another Armenian one. I followed his instructions and reached a Catholic church. On getting back and asking about it, he said "You wanted a Church, I sent you to one, You can pray there, God will hear".

It was beginning to look like the National Get together of the Logical-Response-to-Human-Issues Society was happening in Chennai.

My very Indian brain came up with an idea. "Can I meet the In-charge here?", I started to pull rank. Nothing works like authority and influence here. "Sure" he said and directed me to a man sitting on a chair just inside the main doors. "Sir, would it be possible to see the Church?" I tried an earnest look. "No it is closed for maintenance", the reply was short.

"I have read a lot about it on the net, and was very much interested in coming here, It is only now I could make it here, I don't know when I will be here next, Can I please see the place from outside?" "Well where are you from?, You can always come after one month. Right now you cannot go inside." He had made his decision and was starting to show his irritation.

"OK, I respect your decision, but can you tell me one thing. If some one has to come to the office to say meet you, where do you receive them? surely you must be calling them inside." This was my final attempt. "What office?" he sniggered, "During the maintenance, this is my office" he pointed to a red plastic chair just inside the big wooden doors.

Asked him a few questions and doubts about the place and the Armenians and left there.

Not before taking a picture of the doors that I hope to enter the next time I am there. Deo Volente :)

So if you are getting to Chennai sometime, it is worth a visit. Unless you have something better to do, and for your sakes I hope the alternate is not a trip to some Ispahani Centre. OK Chennaites laugh, this is a private joke. Others ignore the line.

O tempora

2009-06-07T21:54:00.002+05:30

Well.......

Bed time tales and questions

2009-05-30T23:37:00.005+05:30

"Tintin, I am coming to your house" Matt announced to all who cared to listen. Actually it was meant primarily for his mother who had refused to let him go out to play. He strategically inserted it in the middle of a very adult conversation at his place, hoping to get away with it. Luck did not quite favor the brave this time.

"I cant take you with me unless you get permission from your mom", I made my stand clear on this rather contentious issue. "Mommmmm, can I go to Tintin's place?" He implored with the most expectant look I have seen on a young face. Only the most hard hearted person could deny such an appeal, and his mom was not in the running for that.

We walked home and after the usual walking around, playing with toys that he was granted access to, looking longingly at the ones where he had only look access and no touch access. (For those who came in late - Matt's definition of toys includes anything in glass that is breakable) He joined me as I lay down to take a nap.

"Tintin what are you going to do? Will you play?" He asked.

"I think I will sleep now"

"Do you know how I sleep?" He started. Well if your friend is not willing to play a game and sleep, you might as well make a game of his sleep. That must have been his reasoning.

"No, I don't"

The response was a demonstration of different positions for him. either his head was on my torso or upper arm, or his legs were there, the orientation varied but the common thing among it all was that he curled up in a fetal position.

"What do you like to listen to, when you are put to sleep? ... you know stories or songs? " I was determined to bring about an end to this almost incessant twisting and turning.

"Stories!!! my mom tells me stories" he was emphatic in his choice.

This was going to be easy I thought. I should not have a problem telling him a story. Remembering a suitable one was difficult, I knew the funny ones, the Tolstoy ones, the O Henry ones and even the politically incorrect ones, but not one for a three year old.

Finally I dug into my reserves of the ones I had heard when I was his age. It was a long long time ago but surprisingly I remembered them well. After a normal dry British humor style story telling, I was forced to add some more passion into the delivery and he responded in style. His little head was on my tummy and bobbed up and down with every breath of mine. Except when he heard some thing really funny and had to chuckle and look at the expression on my face to ensure he got the understanding right.

I was done with the Cat and the Monkey one and the Monkeys and the Cap-seller one. He loved them both and assured me that they were nice.

"You can go home and tell your mom a story tonight" I suggested.

"Yes" he agreed. "But I don't know the story, so why don't you come home and tell my mom this story" he vocalized his ultra rational thoughts.

I took a rain check on that offer and hinted that the session was over. It was for me and not for him, soon I realized. He wanted to hear the Crow story now. Aesop's classic tale was delivered by me not once but twice as the solitary audience pleaded for an encore.

"But" he started. Uh oh, here it comes, I knew a question would follow. "There are fishes and big fishes in water, so when the water in the pot rises won't they come up and eat the crow?" A very valid doubt, I must admit. If I were his mom, I could probably shush him down and make him sleep. I wasn't and he got an explanation about big water and little water and how big fish cannot live in little water from me.

He nodded his head and had a look that said "looks like this bugger does not know the answer either, I will have to find a really smart adult to answer this one". We waved good night and I decided not get outwitted another time.

P.S. On second thoughts may be I will tell his mom the story, the next time I meet her.

And she walked in

2009-04-22T19:14:00.001+05:30

The old man reached his favorite bench in the park. The steps that were light and had a spring in them long ago were now labored and painfully slow. His arthritic knees and shaky balance steadied by a cane made the whole exercise agonizing but just like all unpleasant things are justified in life by the promise of a happy tomorrow, he too believed - the end will justify the means.

The end in question here - an unremarkable park bench. There were no markings on the planks where he long ago carved out the names of his lover and him in a heart. There were no holes in the wood or bends in them or even secret hiding places where he had hidden messages. It was a plain bottle green bench painted many times over, standing by the edge of the play area next to the willow that was struck by lightning. It did not have the leafy shade sought by the elders or the privacy looked for by the younger ones. The only patrons ever for this bench were the old man, the young mothers who nervously watched over their little ones play and the kids who were not playing because they were hurt or had a fight with the others or were unwell.

He was a creature of habit. At 4 every evening he was on the bench and he stayed there till 7 or the rains came whichever was earlier. He had his reading, his snack and his glasses in his bag. Once he had disposed off with the food for the body and mind, he watched, spoke to those around him. It was usually a frazzled mom or a petulant kid, not that it bothered him one bit that he had no company like himself. Everyone was treated to the same amount of wide eyed curiosity and a genuine concern and interest in their affairs.

He did not like this spot particularly for what it was. He loved it for what it could have been. Nothing remarkable had happened here that changed his life in any measure. It would have been nice if this were the spot where the old man met his true love many many years ago. Maybe the place where he went down on one knee to propose or at least stole his first kiss. All he did there was imagine the ifs and the might-have-beens, that the rest of the world is eager to forget. Practicality and getting on with life was alien to him. Imprisoned by the past, haunted by memories he sought relief in the flights of fancy.

He dreamt of adventure and action. Of romance and passion. Through books he read and stories he heard a long time ago and dreams that were all his and his alone, he had travelled far and wide. For someone who never stepped out of his little town in all his 67 years, he knew a lot about the world. By extension he knew a lot about himself, or so he thought.

And she walked in.

will be continued .... promise :)

You gotta know when to hold 'em when to fold 'em

2009-04-19T06:17:00.001+05:30

The choice was tough, an ideal on one side a friend on another. Maybe life itself. He could reach out and touch one, maybe hold on. One shot was all that was permitted and if it was good, you could cling on for life. Embrace one and let the other go.

He chose and God, he knows he made a mistake.

Pavane again

2009-04-18T12:08:00.002+05:30

The song came upon me all of a sudden. It was long forgotten - not that long ago maybe a little under 3 years. In one's 20s time flies by and every person, every place, every event seems so important and life changing, forcing us to pay attention and invest in time and emotions, crowding out existence itself. Change is so quick and enormous that there is simply no time to sit down and look at the years roll by.

The stretch of the road on which the song came across is one of my favorites. Leafy sky, isolated on either side. Usually empty except for the occasional bus or two-wheeler. Safe enough to take your attention off the road and chase that thought that came in to the mind uninvited.

The music is by Gabriel Faure circa 1887. Wikipedia says "Obtaining its rhythm from the slow processional Spanish court dance of the same name, the Pavane ebbs and flows from a series of harmonic and melodic climaxes, conjuring a cool, somewhat haunting, Belle Époque elegance."

Not sure about what that means, but what struck me when I first heard it was the haunting nature of the rise and fall in tone. It was easy to visualize as the song the suns first rays would probably sing as it lit up a mountain. High and quick up the eastern face, low and slow down the western one.

"Amici (Italian for Friends) Forever", came out with a song set to this music and an episode of Sex and the City had this for a background. Listening favorite for a while, indelibly scarred in memory for other reasons, mainly by association. The words came back to me instantly.

I was yours before the first morn broke
Before the sun that woke the earth
And I was yours before rain kissed the ground
Before the first dawn's sound was heard

I'll be the whisper of angels
And I'll be the frost on your glass
And I'll be the shadows at twilight
I'll be your first your last

I'm the rush-the fire in your veins
Across the desert plains I ride
I'm the ache the sound that midnight makes
A streak of star across the sky

Sights and thoughts

2009-04-14T15:38:00.002+05:30

He stands there for long hours pouring out cups of tea and coffee and the occasional milk in cups, clean and dirty, new and old, full and chipped. His head is tilted at an awkward angle and a pronounced bend in his neck that probably is scoliosis. He probably is in a job where the working environment with all that standing and repetitive motion aggravates his condition. Like most in this country he does not have a choice.

Generally fine in the mornings, as the day progresses he gets grumpier by the hour and finally by evening he is usually very irritated. The slightest complaint or suggestion made gets a variety of responses from him ranging from the tsk tsk of disapproval to the incoherent muttering in Kannada about the customers and their behavior. Usually tolerated by the patrons who consider it beneath their dignity to engage in dialogue with some one serving them. Occasionally ticked off by by the more conscientious of the lot, an act that makes his frown deeper and attitude worse for a while.

No excuses for his behavior, but on whom and where is he to take out his frustration?

Off for lunch and witnessed a car backing up that nearly hits a lady walking on the footpath and smashes her umbrella. She is shocked, the onlookers are relieved there is no mishap. She hurries off and all the errant driver has to offer by way of apology is a cheeky grin.

A family of three taking rest under a tree on the side of the road. The man was blind in both eyes and had a white cane that made the tap tap noise as he walked. Holding his hand and guiding him was his wife, who had a horrific burn on the right side of her face that extended from the top of her head to her shoulder. She could see in her right eye. Rounding up the trio was a younger girl, probably their daughter who like her father had the light snuffed out of her eyes.

Incomplete in their physique and their experience of a sensation we take for granted. The family still made complete and whole by the evident companionship and togetherness and the not so evident love that bound them together. They were smiling.

One blessed with sight who can't see, others denied sight but blessed with love and company.

Laborers getting back from lunch break to build a new temple of post-modern India. The irony of it all is that the very day they complete the temple the Gods of Education will deny them entry to the very place they built. How many generations will pass before their descendants gain entry to the place built by the sweat on the brow and the straining sinew of their ancestor? Can we realise true social justice and equal opportunity for all or will it remain a goal with mere aspirational value?

One sight too many and one thought too many for a day that heralds the dawn of a new year at least for those west of down south.

Words

2009-04-07T21:24:00.002+05:30

Said ... Unsaid ... Meant ... Misunderstood ... Clear ... Confusing

Happiness behind,
Unease above,
Solitude ahead,
Peace beyond

From a distance

2009-03-29T22:32:00.003+05:30

It so happened that a dear friend was graduating and he invited me to share in his moment of joy and sense of achievement. A commencement/ graduation event like them all, complete with the commencement speaker who made it clear that he was addressing the graduates and only them. The message was peppered with congratulations, a grim picture of the challenges that will stare at them in the real world and finally like all good speeches, sensible and practical advice on what they can do to overcome the challenges while keeping their head and their standards.

Most of the audience were bored to death, but a general sense of propriety and adherence to 'normal' behavior meant that the only outlet they had for all that frustration was the ever so slight squirming in the seats.

The good thing about getting there late was that I did not find a seat. Without a seat to restrain my movements, I strolled on the lawn, stretched my legs and indulged in all those activities that add 'spice' to life.

Felt pretty good with myself until I came across them pretty ladies in black and pink if you must. They had not a care in the world and seemed to be in one of their own making where I am sure it was all rainbows and fluffy clouds and little ponies. Did not seem to matter to them that one was speaking in heavily Ao accented English and the other's had a Telegu flavor to it.

While taking pictures of the campus beautiful, they decided to come into some of the frames.

A deeper understanding of the whole situation struck me only later while driving back and listening to Bette Midler croon in the background

From a distance we are instruments
marching in a common band.
Playing songs of hope, playing songs of peace.
They're the songs of every man.

God is watching us. God is watching us.
God is watching us from a distance.

From a distance you look like my friend,
.
.

From a distance there is harmony,
and it echoes through the land.
And it's the hope of hopes, it's the love of loves,
it's the heart of every man.

I like 'em muffins and tyres and handles

2009-03-13T20:27:00.000+05:30

And it so happened that one rather unremarkable day in the recent past, yours truly was browsing through wikipedia searching for references, setting questions for a quiz. Just like how the best intentioned searches often take us to unexpected places, this one also held a surprise. Somehow I ended up in 'wardrobe malfunction' (Clarification:- I was not looking for Janet Jackson ...... I swear). Anyway that is an interesting topic for the observant kind. Soon I was reading about Whale tails and Muffin-tops managing whatever chuckles I could in a busy office.

Apparently the muffin-top is where ones midriff resembles the edge of a muffin (or a large cup cake) with some matter flowing over the edge. Now this sounded funny and I had my laughs about it. It was only on removing my tee later that evening that reality hit and boy did it hit hard. I pretty much had my very own muffin-top, and it was no 'small matter'. True, that day I had tried to fit into a pair of jeans that fit well a couple of years ago. Whoever said that only women struggle to get into their college year jeans just to reassure themselves they are no more 'expansive' than they were.

Through out history we come across incidents that make folks think and spur them into action and this was to be my moment of reckoning.

On one side the future held had endless sessions of movies sprawled out on the couch with a bowl of chips and popcorn and a exponentially increasing waistline until one day I pop off thanks to an impressive sounding cardiac condition. Aneurysm or infraction or something like that for the **** artery.

One the other I had a controlled diet and a strict exercise regime, and I would look like Bruce Lee without the grimace or Ghajini without the indelible ink markings. The first option sounded like heaven and the second well sounded like it would lead to heaven, assuming that was what the female interest was in.

While I was at it, I also imagined to my horrors the prospect of general female likes changing from the 'I like them lean, mean and fit, health conscious without an ounce of flab' to one of 'I want a real nice warm live teddy bear to cuddle up with, one who is more in love with me than his reflection in the mirror'. Now this was a real risk I was running. Female sentiment being fickle and opinions changing faster than Yana Gupta's costumes in an item number, meant that I was exposing myself to significant downside risk (pun intended).

To hedge my position in case of an unfavorable turn in market sentiment, I adopted the following strategy. Came across a kind soul, a lady with whom I made a deal that incase we did not have flat tummies in the future, we would paint 6-packs for each other. Heck there was no limit we could do 6 or 8 or 12 depending on the canvas area. This was a win win situation, either a set of abs to get the lady, or the lady to draw the abs.

Anyways what is resolve without some effort and strife to realise the objective. So it was that I found a book on Hatha Yoga and videos by some guy in a crew cut with beefcakes for muscles and washboard abs who kept promising me that I could do what he did if I really wanted it. He wanted me to visualise my future and work towards it. The exercises were simple and for motivation the video had beautiful all-muscle-no-fat bodies popping in and out of the camera frame. In fact the first time I watched it I had a bag of chips with me.

Finally I did the crunches and the twists and the turns and felt good with myself. Until the next morning when I woke up with pains around my middle in muscles I did not know existed. Take it easy said the Yoga dude, and I willingly decided to follow.

So much for dreams and aspirations.

P.S. My revised reading list includes
"How to live with being a muffin-top" by E. Normaus Igo,
"Why stay in shape when you can feel you are in shape" by the Art of Alternate Thinking Fellowship

and my shopping list now includes body paint.

Where's death thy sting?

2009-02-28T00:55:00.000+05:30

Commemoration of the death anniversary of a dear son, loving husband, caring father, friend, guide, refuge, philosopher, many things to many people, missed by all.

A celebration of the passing away of the matriarch of a family who lived more than four score years. Lived to see her kids grow and have their kids and even her great grand kids. Struggles in early life, rewarded by ample rest and the reflected glory of her children's achievements in old age. Her kids had done it really well in the world. No expense was too great for spending on what was thought was a honour for the dear departed. A round bouquet of of pink carnations and white roses. Wreaths with purple and white orchids. All made for a pretty picture, though knowing the lady in question I wonder if she would actually like all this or merely allow her children to indulge themselves.

To a funeral of a middle-aged man, well respected in society. At least the crowds and their whispers attested to this fact. I did not know him personally, but knew several who did. His two daughters barely out of their teens were in tears and struggling to maintain a semblance of poise. The saddest part of any funeral is probably the ending, where you know that you cannot see the departed for too long. When you don't want to close your eyes to lose sight of the face of the departed, when tears cloud your vision and sobs rock your chest, but you still somehow try to soak in every sight, every sound, every smell and every feeling. It was a touching sight seeing the wife of the deceased stroking her husbands forehead ever so gently with her right hand, her left resting on her left shoulder over the hands of her daughters standing behind her. The elder daughter supporting her younger sisters head on her shoulder and steadying her with her left arm around her. Nothing really unique about the scene, but somethings just stay in the mind.

Off to meet an aged relative who had a history of cardiac complaints and suddenly felt very weak and on examination was found to have really gotten to a serious state. She was at ease speaking about her condition and did not mince words. I don't know if the elderly really feel reassured when they see the next generations come to meet them in their last days. Maybe it speaks of the sense of continuity of life, maybe it is just the simple human need for companionship. Maybe it is something I don't know about.

Next day, to see another relative. Now this was closer to my childhood. This was a person who knew me from the clothing-optional days and tantrum times. I always remembered him as the sprightly person, ever ready to help with a smile and especially for me, the one with a special word and a pat on the back of the head or the shoulder. He had been diagnosed with cancer and it was in its final stages. Basically every breath was a strain for him and he could eat nothing.

It is true that as we grow bigger, the great things of our younger days don't seem so great anymore. More so with people who impressed you with their strength and reach and terrorised you with their bristling moustaches. They start looking puny and small and the moustaches start to gray and thin out. I was still not prepared for what he had become. In the space of a few months he had reduced to almost half and the only thing from the old memories that stayed was the smile and the stress on courtesy and proper behavior.

Everyone but him knew about his condition and we spoke about his symptoms and the weather and what we were doing in and with our lives. It is difficult to carry on a conversation when you know the other has but a few more weeks of life left. It was time to leave and bid farewell. Guess I had grown too old for a pat. We ended with a handshake like men do and a promise to meet each other soon.

Not everything was sombre and serious. Finally managed to see pictures of an angelic new born cousin. Like Harold Kushner says "We don't cheat death by living for ever, we cheat it by creating life and living on through our children"

My school is better and I am so big

2009-02-21T15:37:00.001+05:30

"T, you're back" he screamed and ran towards me as I opened the gates.

"Where were you all the while?" he started. "School" I replied. "You can come back in the morning itself from your school?" his look was one of incredulity. "Yes, and guess what we dont get homework in our school", I piled it on conveniently hiding the fact that where I am, there is no distinction between home and school, that work is all life reduces to.

"Ohh but you dont have a uniform in your school", he gloated. "You dont even have a yellow schoolbus", he had landed the sucker punch and waited for me to die of shame and a general sense of inadequacy about my academic resources.

"You are right", I admitted. Just for the record, I tried to remember if we have a yellow bus with the university's name somewhere on campus. Nopes we don't I realised.

Two steps and he was back at his door.

"I am so big now, I can touch the the door handle" he demonstrated for the umpteenth time how little kids apparently grow when you are not looking.

"Not always, at times he is small too". his no-so-big sister piped in.

"And when's that?"

"That's when mom is pampering me - u know, he comes and and tries to shoo me away saying 'you are the big one, I am the small one' thats when he is small" she presented the facts with all the seriousness of a defence lawyer making her closing remarks.

I gravely nodded my head like the judge in a boring courtroom drama.

Sibling rivalry is best explained by the little ones. They can do it in a matter of fact way. no need for any political correctness, victimisation of self or explanations of errant behavior as having external loci of control.

I had to leave.

[smile begins] "Well I will get going now, ... [smile ends, evil grin on face] but you know I am meeting you after a long time, [evil glint in eyes] so here is a punch for you". [sound effects added for general entertainment] I play acted. "Here's one for you" he gave one back in all seriousness. He had no need for the expressions or the sounds. His little fist landed in the general direction of my solar plexus.

That was my cue, as I moved away, he followed making sounds resembling a Red Indian war-cry.

Losing another page from the book of memories

2009-02-03T15:06:00.000+05:30

The news paper in the morning came with the news that Premier Book Shop was closing.

It was in the early 90's that I first went to the store with my father clutching a gift coupon I received as a prize for an elocution competition in school. A small store, with big glass panes with a thin layer of the grime from the road and best sellers on display. Pretty unremarkable, I must admit. It is only on entering the place that you realize you are in a different world altogether. Books piled from floor to ceiling on shelves, mountains of books in stacks that were at least 5' - 6' high resting on the floor. A thin passage between the book mountains and the shelves is what one has to traverse to get around. In my imagination it was the old curiosity shop.

To get the books one had to ask the attendants or the owner Mr Shanbagh. Now he was really something for a young impressionable boy who loved to read. He knew about every book and every author I could think of. Even those times when ignoring his warnings, in my excitement I pulled books out and had the whole pile crashing down, he would only show the slightest exasperation.

Things got better over the years. I joined a school, strategically placed between Brigade Road and Commercial Street. Coming home was basically a stroll down Brigade Road. For the record, it was much less crowded those days and for schoolboys who didn't have to really see or be seen there ;) the walk was a lot less stressful that it is now.

It was just a small detour to the store and I was a regular there. It helped that my new school also gave gift coupons from this store. This time around I was determined to buy something for keeps and I decided to go in for the books by Nehru. The only problem - not enough coupons for all the three books. 'Glimpses ...' was mine first, then with some scrimping of allowances 'Discovery ....' also made it to my personal book shelf. Now I was in real trouble, I simply had no funds for 'Autobiography'. It became a ritual for me to visit the store every 2-3 days, browse through the book and then put it back. I guess the owner noticed after a while and he spoke to me one day. I explained the entire story. He smiled and said 'I don't see many youngsters your age wanting to read these books' . 'How much money do you have?' he continued. He let me have the book for whatever I could spare that day. In terms of discount, it worked to about 60% if my memory serves me right.

The other big store on M.G. Road was a different experience. I found the 'Sound of Music' by Maria von Trapp. Same problem of not enough money at the moment. While I was scrimping and saving, I used to regularly ask the salesman there to keep it for me and he promised. Finally when I managed the funds, he just shrugged and said "this lady came and she wanted it, she took it". It did not matter to him or his store that I wanted it more. Economics at work, but leaves a bitter taste for sure. I did ask them if they could get another copy for me and they hemmed and hawed about how it might take time. The message was loud if not very clear. I left.

Almost all my book lover friends have been coaxed, cajoled or tricked by me into going to the store with me. Each visit left me richer in books and poorer in money. :) As time went by, in B-school I learnt terms like value-proposition, financial-viability and economies of scale. It was not viable to run a store like that with the discounts it was giving and the smaller scale of business . The changing nature of the publishing industry with its publicity drives and authors whose reputations are built on the strength of advertising blitzes, strategically placed interviews and book signing drives made the whole book selling business a different ball game I guess.

Much later I had been to the store with a friend to whom I waxed endlessly on the magic of the little bookstore. It was evident the store was not doing too well. Something else had changed ever so subtly, I almost did not notice it. I had become so specialized in my areas of interest and favorite authors, that he could no longer answer all my queries and requests. It is always a small disappointment when you realize your daddy is not the strongest, your friend is not the sweetest, or even that the genial owner of the bookstore does not know everything.

I never got the same feeling of being welcome from the Crossw***s of the world or the Relian*e outlets, with their cold appearance and ignorant employees. I don't want a sales person tell me about what is the latest best seller, I want him or her to speak to me, understand what I want and suggest something for me. Maybe I am old fashioned, but for me a book is lot more than a product, it should have dreams and imagination within it or at the very minimum hold a promise of it.

The news paper article said that it was not profitable to keep the shop running given that the owner of the premises had other plans for the space and that the rent had gone really high. All true, indisputable facts and make business sense but for a school boy back in the 90s it was a special place with fond memories, where I took my first steps into the world of picking books for myself. According to the newspaper report the owner is retiring and plans to visit his daughter in Australia. Here's to you Mr Shanbagh, for all you were to the book lovers of Bangalore and to me.

I did wrestle in my mind with the decision on whether to go to my favorite book store one last time before it closed. I have decided against it. I would rather have the memories of my old curiosity book-store stay wondrous and magical, unsullied by the cruel currents of commercial interest.

Tonight I am going to watch "You've Got Mail" one more time :(

The end ain't in sight folks

2009-01-26T17:36:00.003+05:30

waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah

baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwlll

get me safely out of this dark forest of ignorance to the simple lights of realisation

me ready and packed what are u waiting for?

Pretty in pink

2009-01-19T13:59:00.000+05:30

It was at a wedding reception that I saw her again.

Rolling stones even has a song (good one at that) starting "I saw her today at the reception ...". The rest of the song doesnt quite capture what happened, so I will have to just sit and tell you all that happened.

It is not everyday that you have your old girlfriend grin at you invitingly and dance all around you and then walk backwards facing you keeping with the beat of the music and showing the 'come hither' gesture with her open outstretched palms. 'You want me to dance with you'? I asked, adding my name to the list of the people who asked the stupidest questions ever. "Yes I want to dance dance" she said and was off like a flash.

She did not want to be at the dance floor. It was too crowded for her. She was out on the lawns with the full moon lighting up her hair (the no highlight only moonlight look) and her pretty pink dress with lots of satin and lovely pink shoes with small bows in some indeterminate yet matching color.

R is 3 years old and is probably the prettiest sight in pink that ever crossed my eyes.

I first met her at a party about a year ago. Once you spend about 3 hours with any lady, squeeze all her animal toys and make sounds to see who is a better mimic, play with her, make coffee-coffee, have it in miniature yellow plastic cups and talk about best friends and colors and vegetables and how milk is all the more better with lots of sugar in it, you realise things are not the same between you anymore :D

At that age the ladies call themselves BABY and dont have a problem being called a baby. For people more like my age, the word is only to be used in very intimate settings if at all. Try it in a conversation with someone my age and if you are not Austin Powers you would end up stepping on all ten of her toes and about thirty seven belonging to other women within hearing range. R baby did not have such issues and neither did I (atleast with her)

Finally it was time to say good night and the producer of the show (her dad) came over and said " I must thank you man for taking care of her through the evening" slapping me on the back. "Ohh the pleasure was all mine, your daughter is lovely company" I paid back a compliment. "Hah" he snorted, "Wait till you are a father and have to deal with this every single evening of your life, then you will understand what this meant to me" he completed.

It was farewell time and Dada made her do the nosey-nosey followed by kisses on either side of the cheek in a very Arab style. He made her repeat the nosey-nosey and I said "Guess you are tiring her out". "Not at all" he answered, "she is a pro at this, I practice with her three times each day".

Now that you have the background, you are ready for what happened next.

Can you twirl? I asked. A surprised look was the response. After I was done with my impromptu lesson and a photo recorded for posterity, we parted. Me going home and she to the dinner counter on her dad's shoulder.

Sadness becomes me

2009-01-18T00:07:00.002+05:30

Great day, wonderful evening, a soft tender feeling.
.
.
.
and all I have is this incredible sense of sadness. The kind that wells up inside you and rises till your throat and chokes you with its heaviness.

What? I guess I know
Why? I dont want to think.
How? would I be typing this if I knew

The unfairness of it all. Realisation just to let you know what you will miss.

Confusion -> smiles

2009-01-15T00:09:00.004+05:30

He had a blank stare on his face as we came across him during one of our rambles over the place. Knowing each other there was no need for introductions or topics to start a conversation with.

"Hey there, you look lost" I started. "Actually I am a little confused and was walking randomly", he replied. Soon talk turned to the inanities that most conversations are made of. His story came out in bits and pieces and it was not very pretty. He was unsure of where his life and work was going. He did not have a plan for the future and the uncertainty in almost everything around was not something he reveled in. Definitely not the kind of person, you could wave a goodbye to and move on.

We stayed and spoke. A bit here about our own fears, a bit there about how we deal with them, confessions about what really scares us and some advice on what could be done.

I wanted to give him a big hug and tell him that things will work out fine. But I am not quite the junior Dutt, this is not Munna Bhai and even if it were I still am embarrassed to do some of the things I would love to do. I am not sure what exactly was on the other's mind, but from what I know the feelings are likely to be just the same.

We said our Good Bye's and were moving on, as he said "You guys appear to be happy here, how can you do it ?"

"You can hide a lot behind a smile" I shrugged smilingly.

"What is the point in being unhappy when all we can realistically do is be cheerful" came the other response.

Two very differently worded responses that essentially meant the same. Wonder how he took it or if it registered at all.

"It's getting late", we agreed and went our ways searching for our own smiles and rainbows.

Earning a smile

2008-12-21T03:22:00.001+05:30

She must be fifteen or sixteen. The age when most girls are conscious about just about any remark on their appearance. She wanted some lip guard and one of the older ones fished out a stick from her handbag. For some reason handbags seem to have almost everything in the world, not to mention that access to those mysterious packages are restricted to the female folk. Not that the guys are dying to look, but is curiosity really that bad :D

Does it have any shade of color? Is it glossy? Is it good? Her questions had no end. A little shade of pink, some gloss etc etc went the answers from the older ones. Soon she had it on her lips and was ready to go.

"Isn't that some really red thing you got there on your lips?" I started. "Really", she started wiping it off. "Yeah it looks like a postbox" I was getting into form. The wiping only got faster. "And that shine looks real bling bling". The wiping was furious by now, accompanied by asking her friends if it showed on her. Their reassurances were of no help. The guys joined in and she was soon lip guard free.

Finally at lunch, after greeting her with a smile, I walked up. To be honest I was feeling bad about all the ribbing. "You know I actually still remember the first time I saw you". Her eyes lit up. "It was a meeting and your dad was there; I was the youngest in the group and totally bored; In you walked in little pigtails and clambered up on your dads knee. You must have been about three. I had nothing to do in any case and no way to contribute with the meeting. I started making funny faces at you and you responded in style. By the end of the meeting, we were communicating in sign language and I was actually sad it ended". By this time I had her undivided attention. Maybe it is human to enjoy listening to others recollection of our childhood. I am no different and neither was she.

A nice smile with a hint of incredulity was all she offered back.

"Come to think of it, you are in 10th grade now" Boy I am old. I winked

P.S In case you are wondering I did apologise for all that ribbing. She wasnt convinced :(

My fair ladies .... and gentlemen

2008-12-18T13:48:00.001+05:30

I am no Prof Higgins and claim no pretenses to that effect, but the recent happenings here had me play a role that was like him (At least in my fancies ;) )

An institute turned a 100 years old, like they all do ultimately. The ones around now, decided it is time to remember the past, evaluate the present and visualise the future. At least on paper that is what they wanted. I must confess, I have this sneaking suspicion that the whole shin-dig was 'coz thats what all folks do'. The show was great, food was nice, people were sweet. It was a good time and I enjoyed.

Getting back to what made you read till here, I had to instruct a few members of the fairer sex on matters of deportment, gait, poise, diction, clarity and many other things that are vital in turning a head. OK I got carried away a bit on that last part. For the record, it was a happy coincidence that made all this happen.

There were no "Tut tut, not like that my dear, that is not a curtsy, that is more like a hen sitting down to lay an egg" dialogues. No books to balance on heads, no doors to hold open for the ladies. It was simply put a mass of tense nerves of a lot of first-timers suddenly finding themselves on one of the biggest stages of their lives until then. My sports loving commie friend would say "a rookie being tried out in the championship game".

Entry to the select club was in a way difficult. Definitely not meant for all and sundry. One had to read a poster that was not particularly appealing. Feel that this was a worthwhile pursuit keeping aside one's books and research. Basically one had to show up for this. ;)

Personally speaking a great experience. Managing the expectations, frustrations, disappointments and congratulations of all the stakeholders involved meant that I was emotionally drained almost every evening. The overwhelming sense of achievement at the end of it all basically resulted in such high levels of serotonin in my system that it took me a couple of days to get to normalcy :)

Not everything can be good and the whole exercise gave sneak peeks into many a psyche. Not all was pretty, most reaffirmed what is generally said about the male and female responses to potential competition. The tendency to pat on the back encouragingly, that to intentionally make a hurtful remark, to justify unwarranted criticism as free speech, failure to realise when a joke stops being a joke. All was there. I was more intrigued by the female psyche. Not that I learnt a lot, but a little for sure.

Vulnerability is one of the things we hide the most from those around us. Like I heard recently, 'we build walls around our fears, and hide our tears with smiles'. We were all weak in the knees and had woolly feet backstage. Having to soothe fears and strengthen vulnerabilities is a learning experience. Suddenly I am filled with respect for all parents and mentors who do this with kids on a daily basis. Getting back from what I promise was my last digression - Cometh the hour cometh the (wo)man, assured the wise elders and it is true. When it was time to stand up and deliver, that is just what we did.

To sum it all up. The back biting, the seething resentment, the griping and whining were all turn offs. At the same time the sense of camaraderie, the pats on the shoulders for work well done, genuine feeling of concern for those feeling low, willingness to put on the jokers hat, if only to force smiles from the sad ones - all showing us again that there is humanity left in all of us and in good measure at that.

Is it really that significant an event or is the understanding so unique that it merits all these words? Maybe all that happened is that your narrator has just rediscovered man's fascination for the woman all over again. :) The journey was worth the while, would I change anything about the way? Not really.

P.S In retrospect, if that means anything at all, I should have 'done a bit more' with the Eliza Dolittle's around here :D

Two minds, two ideas, one event.

2008-12-15T22:13:00.002+05:30

They sat beside each other and watched what unfolded before their eyes. It was his first. When the itch that is so common to all writers yet personal to each, struck her, she came out with the verse. He responded with the prose. To each his or her best. The result was beautiful

The sacred and the sensuous,
Was in epitome, virtuous and meticulous.
The anklets created a rhythm of life,
The music soothed the heart in strife.
The danseuse was a silhouette in dream!

Her hands moved in the space around her in a fluid fashion. Rhythm created by her footsteps that were firm yet gentle. Expressions on her face conveying the message of her performance to the discerning observer of human behaviour.

It was an uncommon medium, a message timeless and powerful. The simplest of human emotions and feelings expressed in a form that takes a lifetime of diligent practice. The contrast itself was not so obvious to all around. Her subject was all too common, her performance seemingly within the realm of human possibility.

This is the beauty of dance as an art form. The viewer sees life reflected back and the understanding is so simple yet profound.

Is life and its experience so common that another can express it so well? Or is there a common thread that binds us all, one that she has touched and one that we are searching for, or even worse blind to?

Gone before their time

2008-12-11T04:25:00.001+05:30

There is something truly poignant about dying young. And especially when the one dying feels it is too early to go.

I heard about a person who back in the 70s developed a condition with his kidneys that can be cured with a simple surgical procedure lasting less than half an hour today. Back then it was simply incurable. He was my fathers age and I have heard my father tell me about him when I was much younger. He used to love the hymn 'What a friend we have in Jesus' and ask my dad to sing it for him. I could never not feel sad when I heard my dad repeat his words.

"I just dont know why I have to go now. I am not tired of living as yet. There are so many things I want to ...."

He died in his early 20s much before I was born. It was sad no doubt but I used to like listening to this story several times. The good thing about hearing bed time tales in childhood is the distinct memories we carry of most of them. At times Dad used to give me an option, I could choose a happy tale or a sad tale. Maybe it is to do with personalities but I usually plumbed for the sad one.

I am pretty sure the story of the Titanic is not a usual bed time story, but the first time I heard it was when I was being put to sleep. To a little boy of five the rooms in your house are what you suppose the cabins in the ship to be. Nightmares about drowning on a ship followed. They were not really nightmares, just vivid dreams about a sinking. At five, sinking did not mean the end. Death being a hazy concept was not even considered a possibility. I asked too many questions about the orchestra on the ship that played 'Abide with me'. Guess he assured me that the bugles and the trumpets were still on the ocean floor. In my dreams, the bright brass bugles lay shining on the ocean bed. Infact much later when I saw the movie version, it never had an impact as much as the imagined version all those years ago had.

Coming back to all this at this point, because I read about Lou Gehrig. who dies in his 30s not before declaring to all and sundry that he considers himself the luckiest man alive. His voice was cracked and his eyes were downcast as he said this, but the import of his words was not lost on any of the thousands at Yankee Stadium that day or anyone who has heard it since. It is there on youtube if you are interested. He concluded his speech in this fashion

When you have a wonderful mother-in-law who takes sides with you in squabbles with her own daughter - that's something. When you have a father and a mother who work all their lives so you can have an education and build your body - it's a blessing. When you have a wife who has been a tower of strength and shown more courage than you dreamed existed - that's the finest I know.
"So I close in saying that I may have had a tough break, but I have an awful lot to live for."

Listening to him makes us wonder on our priorities in life. Do we really understand or appreciate the fact that we all have an awful lot to live for? Do we pause to tell our dear ones what they mean to us and how grateful we are, before it is too late?

P.S Getting back to the original story. Many years later the younger brother of the deceased developed the same condition. By that time in the 90's, this could be fixed with a small surgical procedure that was routine. His mother was inconsolable. She kept remarking about her son who did not quite have the chance back then. It is true what they say about 'Mothers never forgetting'. I have heard ladies talk at times (rarely at that) about their miscarriages. To the rest of the world it is possibly something that never was, hence not needing a memory, but for the mother it is someone who never came into being. The unborn never really go before their time, they just dont have any point in time to mark them in our world.

In the mists of December

2008-12-10T00:52:00.006+05:30

Under the sodium vapour lamps in the distance she looked like a butterfly. The ends of her dupatta were floating around in the gentle breeze along her sides . In the misty evenings that are common in this place in the month of December, the whole setting seemed surreal. Accentuating it was the lights of the car at the main gate that illuminated her 'wings'. She walked normally, but from the distance I stood at, it looked as though it was a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis.

All of this took but a few seconds. That is all I saw and I think I have seen enough. I did not have my glasses with me and even if I did, I do not quite fancy my chances of identifying the person to any degree of certainity. Not that it matters, perhaps the beauty of the sight was to be cherished at a distance. Perhaps the anonymity of the subject ensures that I have an experience not sullied by my own concepts and prejudices,. I have one that is to be cherished for all that it is in essentiality and nothing more ... nothing less.

Today I can say I saw a butterfly that was big and beautiful and shared its beauty but for a fleeting instant in time.

One misty evening in December, loaded by the cares and worries that characterize most of existence of late, I had the opportunity to forget it all, stand transfixed by the sheer beauty of the sight that was in front of me, and not a soul in the world to share it with.

A glimpse of heaven, right here on earth.

Sex and the Institute

2008-11-15T20:11:00.000+05:30

"You know, apparently there is this study that says women in academics do not pay much attention to their appearance" she thrust.

"Yeah they sure do come up with excuses for that too" I countered.

With a look that could kill, she parried.

"Come to think of it, who is there in this place to spend time looking better for" the seconds lunged.

Touche!!!

I was fatally injured and slowly bled to death in this battle of the sexes.

JCB Man

2008-11-05T20:51:00.001+05:30

When I was growing up, the only toy vehicles that little boys usually played with were Jeeps and Bikes. Have had the pleasure of owning several ones of them both, driving them up along the walls, racing down the floor where the toes of the seated adults are but bumps in the road to be jumped over. I practised my first and until now only wheelies on those bikes. In fact by the age of 5-6 I was a pro racer if only in my imagination. However this story is not about me, but another and lets cut to the chase.

Thanks to the construction boom, helped along by the government's tax saving opportunities and the demolition drives started by the authorities from Dixit ma'am up north, to Achu maman down south to pull down illegal structures, the excavator is a common sight on our roads. Maybe it is the size, probably even the power to pull down structures that take a long time being built up and appear powerful. I honestly don't know the answer, but li'l boys increasingly prefer a JCB (a popular model of excavator) for their toys. The cars and bikes are passe. In comes the cool-toy-of-the-season 'the JCB'

Now that the intro is out of the way, lets move on to the meat of the tale. A road near my house was being relaid. The contractor got this huge smoke belching monstrous JCB and it was impressive no doubt. Matt soon decided that what he wanted for a toy was a JCB.

Whining, crying and pleading in varying measures for a couple of days and he had the yellow JCB in his hands.

One evening as I was parking he came up and said. "Tintin, I am going to run you over with my new JCB". "Oh yeah" I countered, "why don't you go and shift that mound of mud on the other road?" He grinned back. I went out on with my chores and finally when I got back his mom stopped me and said "Well you asked him to move some earth and he has gone to your home to do that, telling me that you told him so."

Hmmm, I muttered as I moved home. Now the best thing about having a resourceful mom at home is that most problems have solutions. Matt had walked home and informed my mom dearest that he had to shift a load of earth as Tintin told him to do it. I don't know what transpired next, but when I got there, he was happy on the floor with a large plate with a mound of rice grains in it. He was driving up his JCB to the mount, loading some rice grains, driving back and then finally dumping them at the other end of the plate.

Now this was the kind of solution that would have made my Math professor in Engg. School say "Here's an elegant solution ... QED"

Soon the little JCG handler got tired and sleepy and he decided to leave. Goodbyes done dutifully we set out to his home.

"When you meet your dad you must tell him that you moved one load" I instructed. He agreed and on meeting his father, he went full blast "ONE ROR ROR-ED". I had to translate his slurred sleepy baby talk into "one load moved"

I blew him a goodnight kiss and asked in parting "when are you back? there are more loads"

"Tomorrow" in that sing-song voice little kids have floated back in the night air.

P.S

Those who love Kung-Fu movies hear terms like Drunken Monkey Style, Tiger Claw, Iron Fist etc. They are all styles of fighting. In those movies the exponents of these styles are usually very old men in black silk clothes with a long single braid that falls down from the back of their head. Nowadays it appears innovators start young. My three year old friend has come up with a new style. The JCB style. Let me describe it to you.

This is to be performed only on a bed or any other place where the poor unsuspecting victim to be is lying down. The warrior comes crawling on his knees and palms without making any sound. The only thing that might give him away is his giggles. He lifts one arm like the claw of an excavator and then brings it down with a thud. All you need to do or rather must do is fall down dead with closed eyes. Any other response and you get a petulant voice complaining "But you are dead you can't move".

Diwali and the crackers

2008-10-27T20:29:00.000+05:30

The festival of lights is surely a sight for the eye and heaven for the sweet tooth in all of us. But the smoke from all those crackers makes it close to hell for me.

Actually I do remember a time when I could burst crackers for hours together and still be fine. Like all allergies, this one too took me by surprise. In fact it arrival was like the entry of the lone gunslinger hero into the copybook Hollywood western of the 60s. "No one knows where he came from, he was not here, one day he was here" says the old wizened toothless man.

The problem with all this is that I need to bid goodbye to all those celebrations and even worse I need to get clean air. This year the fates were good as I missed the main chunk thanks to a wedding back in the green valley.

The luck did not last for long. Had to return you see. In one hour I had a sneeze, a cold by the next and a wheeze by the third.

What makes this all the more bearable, is the voice with genuine concern that asks you at the end of the day - 'How are you keeping?'

Writer for hire

2008-10-16T10:36:00.002+05:30

In the recent past I was asked to ghost write for someone ghost writing for a corporate honcho. Now would you believe that. !!!

All great and not so great artist's career really take off by getting a commission for work, something that sets them on the path to fame and glory. Maybe it is bad luck to reject the very first commission in your career. So I accepted. The only problem was that this was meant to be widely communicated and had to be formal, proper and exciting to the intended audience.

The only person I felt more sorry for, than myself was the original g-writer, you know the one that is only once-removed from the honcho. Imagine having to ask yours truly for help. When times are desperate .....

Try as I might, nothing even remotely exciting or inspiring or honcho-like-sounding was forthcoming. Finally I decided that there was enough bile in me to come out with what is below, and get it all out of my system.

This is your evil overlord commanding from his lair high up in the snowy mountains, incidentally built on your sweat and toil.

How are my little slaves doing today. Are you happy doing what you do best, copy-pasting code and documentation, wondering if you should make a pass at that pretty young thing in the next cubicle, or deciding to let things be for lack of guts, opportunity, time or all three. You cant be complaining much given that you enjoy the food give you here.

Admittedly we take away the best part of your life - the sun on your face, the wind in your hair and the smiles on those around you, but in all fairness, we don't leave you shortchanged. We have carefully programmed into you a sense of immense satisfaction at making more money than you need or can spend, at traveling to distant shores and working more than the natives and getting paid less and leading lives that are much less in quality than your sorry ones here.

To my fellow managers, those not exactly green behind the ears, and black at the temples. I have stepped over a lot of you to reach this place and in rare moments of retrospection, I think I could have done it differently - crushing my opposition. Anyways - Confucius said " Wise man looks behind ... enemy may be lurking ... knife in hand", and Julius Caesar made the fatal mistake of not doing this. I do not intend to add to the statistic, and both my eyes are on you ... you scheming devious bunch.

.
.

I stopped at this point realizing I have just enough bile left in me to carry on my normal liver functions. Sent it off and am done or so I think.

P.S. G-Writer-I decides to have nothing more to do with me. Changed name, phone number, email id and wears a disguise nowadays. Now methinks I need to find a new patron, a real connoisseur for fine independent thought and meaningless drivel.

Officer & Gentleman and I

2008-10-09T00:37:00.001+05:30

He was always the well mannered boy, who was mostly quiet in class but for those unfortunate instances when the teachers took a fancy for him as the sacrificial goat for their questions.

All I really remember about the him of old was his smile. It is not quite the confident grin that marks his face today. It was a kind of uncertain smile, one that hid behind it hidden concern and worries rarely shared. It never came in a flash, always grew gradually from the corner of his lips.

The intervening years did him good, gone is the boyish frame, the spring in his step. Shoulders filled out, voice deep from commanding, assured gait... all the features that would make any Sherlock Holmes scream 'Military Officer'

Coming to the present, ... I met him after a long time and talk veered around to the paths we chose in life and where they have led us. Moments, of surprise at how the other has changed, of a sense of assurance that in essence we stay as we were.

Once the catching up was done, we got down to what old friends do when they meet up after a long time - Discuss other old friends. The guys were quickly dispensed with, the girls lingered on for a little longer. The conversation time allotted to each being proportional to the interest they generated and sustained in either or both of us.

All went with clockwork precision until we came to her. She was also a quiet person, unremarkable to most but not for him, or so I discover now after nearly a decade.

"You know she was really something" he started.

"I actually checked up on her a couple of years ago".

"Well she is married now and ... that's that" he concluded.

'Well maybe you spent a lot of time becoming an officer and she never really got around to knowing that you had become a gentleman as well". I ventured.

'Maybe' he sighed and leaned back on his chair with his eyes drifting dreamily to his left.

I happened to read somewhere that our eyes drift to the left when we think of the past and to the right when we think of the future. Neither can I recall the source nor do I know if this is true.

What I do know is that imagining the possibility of a romance among two friends in school adds beauty to what stays a wonderful sepia toned memory.

Plunging the depths

2008-09-28T00:13:00.002+05:30

I want to feel singular and exposed. To be just as I am, not care about what the world thinks. To experience the heady feeling of exhilaration and the overwhelming despair. To feel human and sense the boundaries of our abilities. To be helpless and learn to accept. To enlarge the realm of possibilities and do it. To learn when to hold the cards life deals and when to fold them.

Through the maze of all these wants, above all I need You by my side.

Be thou my vision

A secret

2008-09-17T00:08:00.003+05:30

Times are bad for someone trying to appear to be doing research in finance and specifically in Risk Management. Of all the times, Lehmann Brothers could not find a foster home, Merill Lynch got itself adopted by a rich daddy and AIG is having its share of pinches in the soft part of the body where u are used to having a purse.

Just about 3 out of 5 people I speak to who know or are told what my current worldly pursuits are want my opinion on the things that are going on around us.

I am bugged with questions like. "So what do you think went wrong with LB and ML? What would you have suggested them to do?". "Do you think there will be a turnaround?" "Is this a correction... isn't it too big to be a correction?"

Cant really blame them, for the popular image of a researcher is that they have lots of answers for just about any question and most importantly they have an opinion. C'mon if you are a researcher, all you do is read books and reports and form opinions on topics. The TV image of know-all experts who flood news channels after any news worthy incident is apparently seared in our collective psyche. I strongly recommend the Guy Goma episode at BBC for anyone who ever trusted a TV expert. You can google it.

The honest response to all those queries is "Do I really look like I know the answer." That offers no respite as the inquisitioners are convinced that I really do know the answer and they continue digging for the response. I do play safe going into the realms of philosophy and spouting wisdom on randomness and risk and bounded understanding of human minds.

In any case for the next couple of business cycles, or atleast until the Fed or any Central Bank fixes the markets or atleast till the news caster on my local TV channel decides it is not news worthy - I am not doing research in Finance.

Until further notice, I am studying moulting patterns on penguin bellies in autumn.

P.S No autumn in Antartica, no moulting for penguins .. all facts to the unititiated, merely hurdles for the focussed researcher (gleam in eye)

In a little world

2008-09-06T17:09:00.005+05:30

Someone thinks I am his hero.

To be honest I did teach him a few valuable living skills like - flexing one's biceps, blowing soap bubbles through one's fist, saying please in a plaintive tone at the end of his requests to get them done. When he wears what he feels are adult clothes, he declares to all who care to listen that he is Tintin.

I can almost picture his mom shaking her head in despair. Every little boy wants to grow up into a Tendulkar or a Shah Rukh or atleast a Manmohan Singh and here is her precious bundle wanting to grow up into Tintin. Matt is all of 3 years old , other than calling me Tintin, there are no misunderstandings in our relation.

I had to go shop for a new handset and he tagged along (with parental approval, in case you are wondering).

We set off him in my arm. By the time we reached the second store I decided that it was safer for him to be on the counter where I could see him rather than the floor. After a few minutes of indecision for me on the required features and irritation for him, he tugged on my sleeve and in an almost conspiratorial tone "Tintin, you know something" Probably he wants to go home, I thought. "When I hold my mobile phone to my ears, I dont hear anything at all".

Painful past experiences have taught me the dangers of using new words in conversation with little ones and the futility of trying to explain things to them. Putting it plainly I just couldn't explain to him that his phone was just a dummy and that was why he couldn't hear anything. Soon I would be trying to explain the meaning to dummy to him. Hmm lets take a look at it when we get home, I consoled him.

Finally after a visit to a few other stores it was time to go home.

There is a pet store on the way and I decided to stop there to look at some of the fish in the aquariums. As expected he was fascinated with the Gold Fish and the Angel Fish and not too much with the Guppies or the Black Mollys. We started off on our way back him on my shoulder this time.

"Tintin, why are those fish put in those boxes" he started. Well they live there. That is their home. I pointed out the fattest Goldfish and said thats the Dada, and the Mamma and the babies. Nothing like a family analog to put things in place in a 3 year old mind.

"Tintin, what do you do after that?" he continued. Hmmm, we take these fish home and give them food so they become big and strong. "And after that ...". We do nothing after that, we leave them as they are. "No" he shook his little head vehemently. "We have to take it from the box and then put it in a plate and then like this ..." he paused to turn my head to make sure my face was looking at his hands. "then we do like this to the fish and throw something out then we make curry and finally like this we eat the fish" he concluded.

Well thats right but these fish are not for that, I countered. "What are they for?" They are only for putting in boxes and giving food to become big. What an idiotic explanation? , I thought to myself, keeping a straight face.

He nodded his head and a few seconds later he turned and started "You have to take it from the box ........." and he stopped only at ".... you eat it like this". Yes I nodded my head taking the last possible defence in an argument with a child - stoic silence. Thankfully we reached home and I did not have to go through anymore Bubba-Gump-shrimping-style-conversation.

On recounting this story to his mom back at his place, she shrugged it off saying. "Every fish he sees is meant to be eaten, be it from the store, in a fish bowl or even on TV." That explained everything to me.

Lesson for the day - In a little world where fish is the tastiest food, everything that swims is potential food.

Back

2008-08-29T19:33:00.003+05:30

Close to 2 years since my last post and lots of things in the meantime. Relocations, new career, changing interests, loads of self reflection resulting in no new understanding about the self, relations old, new and newly old ....

Been a while and I am back

2006-12-21T03:31:00.001+05:30

Loads of postings to upload, time in excess .... inclination missing :(

Injustice witnessed

2006-12-17T03:28:00.000+05:30

Today I was witness to a great injustice. More accurately speaking I heard and saw the effects of an unjust action.

An individual in a position of authority where he had to advise, counsel and nourish the spirits of a group of people rubbed certain individuals the wrong way. Carrying out his responsibilities often meant that he needed to stand firm in what was right. Call a spade a spade and even chastise those with big egos and tiny quantities of tolerance.

There are many advocates to a consensus school of management, one where adjustments are made and everyone gets along fine. But in matters where the rights and wrongs are clearly demarcated there is no room for gray, everything is white or black. The grays are convenient spaces in our conscience where we hide the wrongs of our actions and the untenability of our arguments. No one is right or wrong, the provision of doubt and search for other contributing causes all seek to justify the action. Wonder if this search for scapegoats prevent identification of the real problem and its resolution .It seems we are so afraid of being wrong that we avoid doing the right

That was not to be, the aggrieved could not realise the nobility of intent or sense of purpose which guided the individual in the discharge of his duties. They did not take it light, they ganged up pulled rank and managed to humiliate the individual bu influencing his superior.

Perhaps it was the sacrifice of one for the greater good of all, I really dont know. In the end when all accounts are tallied I am fairly certain that they will come up short. The individual was clearly hurt inside, but a confidence that can only come from the certain knowledge of having done what is right and posession of a clear conscience, allowed him to hold his head high and look at them straight in the face, a serene smile crowning his face.

My stakes were really low in this issue and I shrugged my shoulders and walked away with a wry smile. Doubts on whether I should have protested the injustice continue

Kohne Myaqro

Chana

2006-12-03T04:31:00.000+05:30

Chana came with her dad to the bowling alley and there was something odd about them.

It was not that the Ashkenazi Jews dont go bowling, but they always come in groups of entire families and it is generally a happy time for all of them. Here was a young dad with his daughter not more than 2 years old. The rails on the sides of the lane were raised as they are for kids and they started off with a bright orange ball.

He started off by introducing her to the ball and kept speaking to her, she looked like she wasnt paying too much attention and her head veered off to the sides every now and then. It is only when he turned with her in his arms that I noticed her distinctively mongloid nose and forehead. Some explanation for the small party, but a lot more questions left in the mind as to why it was just the two of them and not the rest of the family? was she able to understand what she was doing? the general sense of unfairness that creeps in thanks to the limited understanding of the grand picture.

All these thoughts made me lose focus on my game and my partners were soon concerned at the obvious disconnect I was having with the game and I for one could not explain why. Ended up making the evening less enjoyable for everyone

Now I am no authority on parenting or Down's Syndrome, but the sight of them leaving was as pretty or maybe prettier than any Dad-daughter scene I have witnessed. Her Dad telling her to say bye to the orange ball and indicating how to wave good bye, not the regular one with the palm moving side to side, but the baby version of it with the fingers of the hand folding and opening like a come-hither gesture. Off they went into the cold evening, out of sight though not out of mind at least until now.

Mercy Me

2006-11-17T07:28:00.000+05:30

Gripped with this affliction of the mind that threatens to defile the corpus im sempiternam, me pause to wonder, ... is this it? the bolt of lightning for the d'Sthuno.

ohh for a drop of salve.

Another bite of the Apple and a dip in the river

2006-11-08T00:57:00.000+05:30

Back to the big Apple behind the wheels of a car. Cant help but remember as I cross the Hudson on the George Washington bridge. Some of my good dmemories have been connected to the Hudson. The links of the gigantic chain that was used at Westpoint and Garrison to literally chain the river to prevent transport of the British war ships. Looking at the town of Garrison across the river through the wet windows of the tour bus and catching strains of 'It takes a woman ...'. Drive on 202 along the banks of the river, the sight of the meandering river and the Bear Mountain bridge from the viewpoint at the peak of the mountain. The river light house at Saugerties that could not be reached thanks to a flooded Hudson. Technically we could if we were willing to wade through 5 feet deep waters. The dead river port at Rondout restored to a heritage site. Not to forget my favorite the Tappan Zee.

The experience turned sour soon enough with a couple of cabs cutting across right in front of me. Welcome to NYC driving I thought. Not to be left behind, I did teach the offending driver a lesson or two learnt driving in namma ooru, before sanity returned and I became the goody rule following human on the road.

The surge of life on a NY street is amazing. People scurrying around like mice in search of cheese, not a moment to pause. Perhaps constant exposure dulls the senses.

Saddest thing, no pics.

So it is that I found me-self talking some veree propah stiff upper lip style of English, today. If all goes well, will have a Pussy cat rhyme of my own. Details to follow soon ....

The corner

2006-08-29T14:01:00.001+05:30

My co-workers

German-Angel-born-in-China-lived-on-US-Christmas-tree , Seven-happy-pigs, Father-Christmas (L to R)

Nerds and tests

2006-08-24T17:57:00.000+05:30

Nerd must be the most abused word when it comes to describing guys in school. Everyone knew the 'hunk' had the biggest muscles, the 'baba' refused to use profanities even in the most guyish groups, when even the gentleman-in-front-of-girls starts with the m**** c**** f**** words, 'hero' was the modern equivalent of Ravana in front of Sita , [though most modern day hero's fare better than Ravana did] and so on.

While 'nerd' was this intangibly amorphous conglomerate of all the detestable things associated with adolescent education namely fat books that double up as pillows and dumbbells, regular completion of assignments, crying over that one mark you lost in the exams, being the first to answer the questions in class pretty much like Donkey in Shrek [me me me me ...]

Being the first in the class to format a floppy on their own [I am talking abt the old five quarter disks here] would confer super nerd-dom on one. On the other hand boasting to everyone who cared to listen that you knew the entire name of Pele and Picasso not to mention even what Kierkegaard called his pet kitten, thinking that the prettiest girl in class asking you to complete her homework for her is a clear sign of the opposite gender's interest in you. Getting called a nerd and secretly feeling thrilled with it. In the US where this originated the nerd also implies being asocial or unsociable with, but I never really saw that happen around here.

Cutting this long blah blah short, I took a nerdiness test today and the scores are given below, the site recommended that I apply at MIT. If only these sites gave admissions as easily as they give these results.

The only word that comes close to 'nerd' in terms of confusion is 'cute'. For all my life I still dont have the slightest clue as to what girls mean when they describe something as 'cute'. I have asked a few of them to explain what they mean and the most detailed answer I got until now was ...

"Cute is used to describe something that is ..... ahem .... [smiles] .... hmmm .... [looks] ..... where was I .... yaaaa ... well cute means cute [walks away deciding not to be trapped in a conversation with me ever again] . "

More on that later

P.S. Honestly I am not thrilled :(

Khasia DIL and Oriya MIL

2006-08-03T20:37:00.000+05:30

"Hello" I smiled as I walked across to her from my table. She was the hostess at dinner and did play the role to perfection.

"Do you remember me? We met last year"

"Ohh yes!!!" she exclaimed, trying hard hide the fact that he had not the faintest clue about who I was. Actually her eyes gave her away as they screwed up in that funny way when the mind is straining to remember.

"I am .... " relieving her of her misery. Talk soon got around to families, relations, weather, food and just about anything that can be discussed between a 25 year old and a 50 year old.

"How is your relation with your mother?" her question came out of the blue and I replied that but for the occasional disagreements it was going just fine with a lot of 'agape'.

"Hmmmmmmmm" her reply was long drawn and hinted of many a word to follow. "That is really good, but you should take care to see that it stays that way into the future".

"It will" I assured her.

"You never know what happens when another enters your life" she continued on with the story of her son. Fell in love with a Khasia gal and married her. As with the custom of theirs, her family moved in with their daughter. Difficulty of the girl in adjusting with her in-laws. All these contribute to a sad state of affairs in their family.

A mother missing her son a lot, ruing over a decision that was not in her power to reverse or change. Perhaps she wonders each night about what went wrong, where the careful calculations about the future went awry. Perhaps she feels it was her failing, perhaps she takes it all on the chin stoically.

All through her narrative, there was not one word of blame. Not for her son, not for the DIL, not for the customs of a different people. A rare perspective in today's world.

She was made of stern stuff and had been through times that were hard in the interiors of Orissa and around Kalimpong in WB. Toughened by the struggles of life on the outside, she clearly appeared broken on the inside.

In the center of the country - NGP

2006-08-03T14:03:00.000+05:30

Zero Mile - Nagpur

Talking of Lapis Lazuli

2006-07-25T22:24:00.000+05:30

Lapis Lazuli jewellery set in sterling silver is a good gift for the lady in your life, said the gentleman at the Aurobindo Ashram store. Fully agree.

Climb to heavens

2006-07-25T20:35:00.001+05:30

Back at San Thome after 10 years. Had faint memories of the last time I was here, mostly about the interiors of the shrine and the view from the top. The Rick driver decided to make his task easy and parked at the bottom of the stairs, and I started to climb.

The tiles were originally laid by an Armenian merchant in the 19th century, easing the ascent for many a pilgrim in the quest for inner peace, answers to prayers, fulfilment of vows made or any of the multitude of reasons that make man put in that extra bit of effort to reach out and experience divinity.

The climb was easy enough at first and I was making good progress. Halfway to the top, I was out of breath and starting to feel all kinds of heaviness and aches in the chest. Indicator of poor state of health and endurance abilities. The ancient cry escaped my lips, the one that comes only when the human is crushed by the enormity of the task facing him. With the help of providence, I could finally make it to the top.

A sight familiar and new at the same time.

Interiors of the shrine modified by the Portugese arrivals in the 16th and 17th centuries. Dedicating it to the Senhora da expectecao (Our Lady of Expectation). Writing this during the "saumo d'shunoyo d'Yoldath Aloho" cant help thinking about the millions who have found refuge in the special relation and the privileges is affords the truly contrite.

Relics of Sleeha were next and finally a tomb inside the shrine with inscriptions in some primitive form of Tamil.

Apparently the Great Arc - 'triangulation of the Indian subcontinent' was begun from this point over 200 years ago. Survey of India has unveiled a commemorative structure to mark this event and location. From outside the shrine one can see the city of Chennai for a great distance.

Soon it was back to the real world, had a Kirk to see u see :)

St Andrew's Kirk

2006-07-25T20:33:00.000+05:30

Kirk is a Celtic word for church and cities in India with sizeable Scottish and Welsh soldiers and civilians built Churches dedicated to the patron Saint of Scotland - St Andrew. Originally built by the East India Company for the Church of Scotland soon after the construction of St George's Cathedral for the Church of England, this has moved into the hands of the CSI. Crowned by a spire that is 170 feet tall this church was modelled on the lines of St Martins in London. link

An interesting building no doubt from a structural engineers perspective. (the Kirk was built on marshy land and the wells dug into it and serving as the foundation make for interesting reading link ) and a real lesson in Georgian architecture for a student of that science. For me all I had was a love for everything Celtic and I sure am thankful for that.

Nave

Most of the walls have memorials of soldiers who died before their time in campaigns and of illnesses. Reminder of the difference between humans and other beasts.

'Poor deer,' quoth he, 'thou makest a testament
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more
To that which had too much:' then, being there alone,
Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends," Jaques - As you like it.

These men were anything but abandoned, grieved over, remembered and eternalized in beautiful marble memorials.

From the nave the beautiful Stained Glass pictures of Saints Peter and Andrew making up the eastern wall of the Sanctuary catch ones eye immediately.

The circle marks the center of the dome

Getting closer up

The tall fluted Ionic pillars of the nave rise up to support a dome that is almost 52 feet wide in diameter. Painted the shade of Lapis Lazuli with golden stars in it, it is a pretty sight from the base.

The most interesting detail I learnt about the Kirk was of the stars painted on its dome. They are claimed to be a replica of the pattern of stars in the Scottish skies at night. Should have been a welcome sight to many a homesick Scotch parishioner as they knelt down and lifted their eyes to heaven. Sorry to spoil the imagery, apparently this is not true and is an urban legend. Probably was true originally but not any longer.

The Bishop's Chair has the Royal Coat of Arms of Scotland. I was seeing it for the first time in India. It had the Scottish lions in 2 quarters, the English ones in one and the Irish harp in the last quarter. It had started to fade but the lettering was still very clear. 'In Defens' part of the original 'In My Defens God Me Defend' and the latin line 'Nemo me impune lacessit' symbolising the thistle and the famed Scottish resolve at the same time. More in it . Would have been nice of the cushions and the upholstery were cleaned up.

Next on the list St Andrew's Kirk Bangalore with its beautiful Pipe organ.

Mother's lament

2006-07-08T12:54:00.000+05:30

The mother had rather unwillingly sent her first born daughter to stay with her sister.

'How is your daughter doing?' went the question.

"I know my sister will take very good care of her, even better than she looks after her own kids. My daughter is enjoying her stay there and is really happy, I am sure. It is that I miss her an awful lot and when things seem so right for just about everyone else, I dont know if I am being selfish in wanting her back."

She had a wry smile that pushed back the littlest tear that was taking form in the corner of her eyes

Return

2006-07-03T12:53:00.000+05:30

Had another ride in a Merc Taxi. Though I peddled my ware in the momma of all Merc markets, I had never gotten around to riding in one much less driving one.

Like the wise men say, a time for everything. In Singapore there are Merc Taxis that cost as much as regular meter taxis. Can remember each of the 3 rides very well. Sitting in the plush interiors of an E 320.

In a way it was a fitting end to have a Merc pick me up from Bedok for the trip to Changi. Three weeks of experiences and a load of memories.

Gate D42 at Changi and I am already in India, the familiar hustle and bustle that reminds one of home :) and those near and dear.

I guess Malayalis are the only people in India who can pronounce Changi like the locals, they have an alphabet for the 'ngi' sound which is identical.

Finally to sign off the Sing way.

OK la

Rahel

2006-06-30T12:54:00.000+05:30

She was of a small build. So small that I had to bend over to hear what she says. She never really said anything, she always whispered and that made listening to her talk a taxing experience.

During the UN style meeting, she had more than a few doubts when I was speaking and I literally bent over double to listen to what she was saying amid all that noise. Thats when I noticed her toe-nails, rather the enamel on them. It was a base of a shade of violet with tiny white daisies painted over them with a sparkling silver dot for the centre.

'Did you do that yourself'? I asked.

'Ohh no I did not do that' she whispered back and smiled.

'Looks very pretty'

'Thank you verymuch'

Lady with a lot of spunk and character, who ended up making a lot of enemies out of her peers.

Time to bid farewell and she gifted us all magnetic bookmarks. I was seeing one for the first time and trust me they are useful, especially for people like me who read from different parts of a book in parallel.

Another farewell

2006-06-30T12:52:00.000+05:30

Time to bid farewell to another group of acquaintances, met a lot of new folks, lived the bad boy's life and finally it is here, the time to move on.

This time around it is easier. The 'take care' in April was hard and painful, the 'until then' in May was hard but the pain was not sensed as it was numbed by the busy schedule. Finally the 'ok la' and the 'sayonara' delivered with bows, gentle squeeze of the palm, firm handshakes and hugs.

I dont know if this is what ageing or the more politically correct 'maturing' entails, a kind of detachment where the self becomes supreme. A state of mind where the transitoriness of it all makes one think first and foremost of one's self.

If boss has his way I should be saying Auf Wiedersehn at the end of July.

Guess it is too many farewells for one year.

Alternate Career

2006-06-29T12:51:00.000+05:30

You realise you have cracked one joke too many, when the listener turns and makes an observation like - 'You dont really have to stick to functional consulting. You could start an alternate career as a stand-up comedian' :D

Designation

2006-06-28T12:50:00.000+05:30

"So what's your title at work"?

"I can be anything you want me to be", I replied.

The split second of silence was followed by loud guffaws from all around. Some laughed at the expression on his face, some at the meaning of what I said and the sukebes laughed at the meaning of the words unsaid.

Till death do us part

2006-06-26T12:45:00.000+05:30

Something made me wonder about the sincerity with which these words are said.

Is 'J' who refuses to have anything to do with another woman following the right approach?

Is 'B' who practises what he calls window-shopping-no-buying-la right?

Or

Is 'N' who feels anything his wife doesnt know about does not hurt her doing the right thing as the practical modern man?

Three married men, with different interpretations on the sanctity of the vows of matrimony.

Plans 4 tonight

2006-06-26T12:44:00.000+05:30

Tonight I go out with the MBA (married but available) bunch at work for trying out some Okinawa (apparently the southern most prefecture in Japan) cuisine. Activities for the rest of the evening are still being worked out, in all likelihood, I should end up with a bunch of men who like being boys wildly cheering either Italy or Australia in front of a huge screen somewhere in Singapore.

Japanese Lessons

2006-06-25T12:43:00.000+05:30

Japanese for beginners

Note :: No claim of authenticity of the spellings of the English translations. This is how they sounded to me

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
This expression is used to indicate a dawn of realisation and understanding. Women use a longer version of this and the men have a shorter one. Very difficult to imitate and it starts as low guttural note and progressively gets louder and also gets raised in pitch until one runs out of breath.

Woooooosaaaaaa
Most likely a corruption of 'awesome' not exactly a Japanese term, but unlikely to be heard anywhere else.

Arriey
Used as an exclamation or a genuine expression of surprise. Spoken just like the Hindi Arrey and can be used in most cases where Arrey is used to indicate that one has been surprised by the other's action/ words.

Sukebe
Man with a healthy interest in the opposite sex.

Arrichu -
Alcoholic

Chin Chin Atrashin
Very fresh. Used more in terms of flesh. Not to be confused with the Singaporean Chin Chin.

Tamago
slices of compressed scrambled eggs/rolls of omlettes. Not sure how it is made.

Gyoza
Fried Dumplings. tastes great.

Ramen (tenshin)
Amazing food, tasty and fattening. A kind of noodles served in a soup

Soba
A kind of soup that is common for breakfast

Sake
Alcohol. Sake is a ageneric term for alcohol

Shotsu
A specific kind of sake. Very high alcohol content. Apparently 30-40% vw

to to to to to to to to to
sound that informs someone pouring you a liquid that it is enough

Chinese heritage museum

2006-06-24T12:42:00.000+05:30

The unassuming building in China Town houses a very touching testimony to human endurance and the spirit of survival.

The walk through the old shop building with its worn out wooden floor and slippery steps is guided by a red ribbon much like the walking trail in Boston, MA. Starts with a brief history of the colony of Singapore and the need for laborers met by the peasants from southern China.

Tales of survival on the ships amid sickness and the deadly storms of the South China sea. Finally as the travellers set their foot on land, they burnt incense sticks to honor the Chinese deity of the seas - Ma Chu Poh. The legend of Ma Chu Poh made for interesting reading, she was the daughter of a sailor/captain who dies [I cant recall how :( ] and transforms into a spirit that protects the travellers in the sea. Not very different from the reaction of the Portugese sailors at Vailankanni closer home, or the rituals associated with the Kadalamma on coastal Kerala.

The sea at once mysterious, perilous, powerful, benevolent, maternal. Tales of sailors down the centuries reinforcing it. Just that morning the Presbyter at St George's in Tanglin was recounting his experiences on a South African frigate around the Cape of Good Hope.

Along with the experiences in a new land came poverty amid the struggle to set up lives anew. Stories of kids of the labourers who had not much to wear or play with and used to look forward to getting a toy paper lantern on the Moondance festival. The only plaything they got during the entire year. Sometimes we need to be reminded of the bounty we enjoy. They had no pets in their homes and the really lucky could find a stray kitten to keep as a pet. Of late museums around the world have started portraying the life and experiences of the usually silent majority consisting of women and children. It was easy to see why it makes a difference to the entire family that visits such a place. Hope the museums in India take a cue.

With a predominantly male working class, the vices were quick to follow. Opium, prostitution, crime all came soon enough and many a man sent his lives savings up into the swirling smoke from the opium pipes and tried to find solace in the arms of a lady of the night. The recreation of the interiors of a brothel with its dark rooms and dim lighting is a sad sight. The laborers missed their homeland and the families back home and almost all harboured a dream of returning some day. It was not to be and many a life ended in loneliness andd privation in this hot tropical island.

Over time the situation improved and more avenues of work and business came about. The chinese tailors and the shop houses were shown. Most of the exhibits in the museum was created with contributions from the local chinese community.

There were a few contributions made by a rich couple and it included some period furniture from their home, the lovely Pink embroidered silk dress worn by the lady at her wedding sometime in the 1920s and my favorite - a bound book of verses all written by the husband for his fiancee during their long courtship. Apparently the lady had saved them all and got them bound. They all do it, dont they ;). They also had the Waterman pen he used to pen them down.

It is almost impossible to leave the building without a tear in the eye, and a smile as you wipe it down, wondering at the amazing resilience and ability that best describes the whole experience of living.

P.S. It is very difficult to find another desi in the museum, dont bother asking any desis in singapore about this place. Chances are that they havent even heard of it. Just get of at Chinatown MRT and walk to Pagoda St.

Atticus again

2006-06-23T12:41:00.000+05:30

A Singaporean met an Australian in a bar a few years ago. After an interesting courtship, they got married in front of a beautiful old colonial mansion located inside the Botanical Gardens in Singapore. Honeymoon in Maldives and soon enough they had a son.

I came on the scene much later about the time when the boy was 18 months old. All the above information was gleaned from snippets of conversation with the Singaporean.

One day as we were going out for lunch to the nearby Poka place. I saw the boys pic on his cell phone and he looked real sweet.

"So what do you call him?"

"Atticus"

A pleasant surprise it sure was.

"You mean the one from To Kill a Mockingbird?" I asked , pretty sure the name in this case was not from the original Roman source.

"My wife and I liked the name a lot" he replied.

Exchange of cards

2006-06-22T12:41:00.000+05:30

The Japanese are a very respectful people and I had my first inkling of it in the way -san gets added to a name.

I was introduced to the colleagues here at work and everyones name had a san added. When they asked me something I was A-san. Soon Boss realised my difficulty in calling everyone san and the rules of engagement changed. I was back to how Pulimoottil Joseph Qassisso first called me over 25 years ago. The san was substituted in direct conversation with personal pronouns and was used only in third party references.

It was all to change today with the guests from Japan and China. Greeting new faces was almost a ritual. I observed S-san and the others and repeated their actions. You have to hold your card by the edges facing away from you. A little bow, followed by a soft announcement of your name, designation and organization. After this the cards are engaged and both of you bow even more in respect for the other.

A babe in your arms

2006-06-21T12:40:00.000+05:30

Some times you need to hold a little bundle of joy in your arms to take your mind of all the worries and dissapointments and remember to look at life's greatest miracle.

Its ability to renew itself, to recreate a form, that is new and old at the same time.

The push we need under our chins, making us aware of the need for resilience.

OK-la

2006-06-20T12:38:00.000+05:30

Singlish or the Singaporean dialect of English can sound quite odd to the untrained ear. Perhaps it is true about every dialect of English. Anyways the best thing I liked about the language is the way 'la' gets appended to most words.

The security guard who lets you out, the lady serving you at the poka-place, all have a smiling face as they say OK-la. Infact there was a Malayalam movie a few years ago shot in Singapore which has a song ok-la ok-la. Did not understand the meaning back then.

There is also a tendency to exchange the 'l' and the 'r' sounds. Oir Lig can actually mean Oil Rig. I am not exaggerating one bit here and half my understanding difficulties here vanished after I started substitting the l's for the r's.

Coming to office today, the cabbie wanted a confirmation of the street name and I blurted 'Changi South II Stleet'. OK-la he replied. Great accent, came Boss's appreciation :)

Maybe in the remaining time here, I will figure out more about the language, until then Bye-la

Dim Sum

2006-06-18T06:09:00.000+05:30

After an evening of WC2006 and conversations that went late into the night and straight into her sleeping hubby's ear, t'was time to move on and move out.

Keep yourselves free this morning, said Boss. Yes said I, not having the wildest idea what was in store. So it was that I found myself with S san, M san, S san and his in-laws.

Off we go to a restaurant called Red-Star. Usually a name I would associate with the Chinese PLA, but this one was a huge restaurant. Packed to the rafters (yes this one had rafters) with a 25 minute wait. in a queue that grew longer by the hour

So what are we going to have? I asked?

Dim Sum is all the answer I got. Turned out to be rice dumplings (our own kozhukotta) with a variety of fillings, from sea weed, to vegetables, to chicken, to meat, to stuff I had absolutely no idea of.
They were steamed in bamboo containers with meshed bases. Pretty much like the Appachembu of Kerala. Waitresses brought the steaming bamboo boxes to the tables on trolleys and announce the contents. If we are interested we can order it and they make a note in the bill at our table.

Initially I was curious about what the contents were. Beyond a point I Stopped asking what they were and started popping everthing that came by into my mouth. Maybe the sight of an Indian with such an appetite was strange, but S san's mother in law, asked in Japanese if I ate everything and he dutifully translated for me. A smiling nod of the head with a mouth full of another dumpling was all the response she got from me. The idea got through.

Hint :: The cheapest food in Singapore is Chinese, you need to know the right place to go to and the right locals to guide u there.

During a rather boring period during the lunch table conversation, I turned to S san and asked her, how many people do u think are here? 'I dont know' she answered. 'Lets count' said I and soon she was counting the number of rows and I was counting the no of columns of tables in the place. Finally we multiplied the two and then by the avg no of folks at a table. We reached a fgure of about 500-600. I was dissapointed as I expected a lot more, maybe it is the effect of being the only brown face in the sea of yellow.

The best thing was the look on her face. There no doubt is a child in everyone and it is especially cute to see it come out on the face of a normally prim and proper lady. For some time, age and location and language differences did not seem to matter. We were just a little boy and girl making a big discovery.

Lil India - Suntec

2006-06-17T18:08:00.000+05:30

After a late night, we decided to go to Little India. Being from Big India myself, I offered to be the host and the guide.

Taxi to Serangoon road, walk through narrow passages by the side of restarants making 'paalappams' and the Indian curio store with carved wooden boxes and silk fabric in shapes I cannot make any use of. Finally we decided to go to some place where one could buy some saris.

Searching for it, brought us in front of a store with jewellery both real and faux. The Tamil gentleman inside was a little dissapointed with the fact that I was not Tamil, but my interest in Tamil politics probably conviced him that I was also one of the 'namma pasangal'. The usual litany of complaints about Indian politicians followed and also suggestions on how to fix matters. We parted promising to keep meeting.

In the faux jewellery section, he had chains of aquamarine and black beads with a huge shiny shell as the pendant. S san wanted it and I was soon suggesting on what looked better. For the tiniest instant I wondered if I should get one of them too. Not one woman came to mind. Sometimes you just need the right people in mind to buy stuff for :(

We moved on to the stores and got lost in the market. The best time I had in SG. The varieties of fish and mutton and vegetables and chicken. I saw why sword fishes are called so. Why the rambutan is among the prettiest looking fruits. The smell of the Durian that drives any sane person away. Even goat scalps, used for some dish.

Lunch at the hawker center. I still called them the poka centers back then. Pratas (Singaporean spelling of the humble paratha) and mutton curry and we were on our way to Suntec City.

The largest commercial development in SG. Wandering about I found a store with a lot of dvd's. Ben hur, The widow of Saint Pierre and Kolya in my hand I was back at the decided meeting place. Lunch at Olio with a great soup, salad and steak and a brownie and gellato to push it down with :)

End of a great day atleast until the sea food dinner that evening at Red House.

Club Hopping

2006-06-16T18:03:00.000+05:30

Ice cold at Emerald Hue was recommended as a must visit place and we decided to go there later in the evening. On a cab through Orchard Street and we reached the place soon enough. The street (name turned out to be Emerald Hill) was great and the place was even better. It was the night of the Argentina-Serbia game and there was barely standing room. We were looking for a place to sit and decided to stand.

Maybe it was the inappropriateness of having a lady stand, or maybe they were just nice. But Martin and Jennifer, invited us to join them at their table. After our round of introductions, I learned that Jen was into film making and that she specialised in shorts and documentaries. Conversation moved to sundance, tribeca and atomfilms and the topic being so boring for the others, they started off on their parallel conversation.

We were off on our way when Martin called her and asked if we had any particular plans for the evening. On hearing our answer in the negative. They offered to take us around and show us the Singapore that we wouldnt generally see. Brushing my apprehensions aside, we decided to jump in.

Martin was into education and had been to school in Australia and had his theory about how they keep the best in Oz and export 2nd grade stuff. The best was his tale about singing his way out of the country after running out of money. Seeing my incredulous look, he broke into the best rendition of 'Knock knock knockin on heavens door' I have heard in a long time. He admitted that what probably got him the money was being the 'chinese' street musician.

I had my first ride in the MRT that evening and we reached Clarke Quay on our way Home. Home was this club where Martin assured us we would see the hep crowd in SG. After getting intro'ed to the DJ for the evening. Closest interaction as yet to a real DJ. Truthfully the image of a DJ I had was of a guy with dreadlocks or some crazy crew cut in mind and was not prepared to meet a sweet 16 looking prim and proper girl. Turned out to be a lil disappointment in terms of the people but I was more than happy to see Cambiasso's goal.

It helps to be with a guy who knows half the people in town and we were soon traipsing in and out of the hot-spots along the quay side. Finally it was time for the finale and he got it right by taking us to the Butter Factory. Jam packed with the -in- crowd, pulsating music great ambience all made it memorable. I was transfixed by the outfit worn by a girl. It was like the uniform of the Red Army. I has seen such stuff only in pics of Mao's Great March and the tragic events related to it. Here she was in a Khaki shirt, Khaki shorts and a khaki peaked cap with the all-to-familiar red star.

One mans shame is another's pride and one's horror is anothers sweet memory. We still have the confederate flag, the swastika and all those symbols that arouse passion and feelings so strong. So it was with this girl's dress too me thinks.

P.S I dont know if there is a racial angle to it, but there were no Indians or even Caucasians in all those places. Maybe they have their own places, or the orientals dont like to mingle. In any case I was the odd one almost everywhere :) the saakshi

Bak-kut-teh

2006-06-15T14:01:00.000+05:30

Dinner time today and as advised by boss, I had kept myself free for some thing they all called 'Bakte'. This was before I understood the Japanese tendency to swallow entire syllables in words.

Finally we reached a place called Balestier in a street that looked like it was stuck in the 70s. Filled with shops selling lighting accessories with lampshades and chandeliers in every shop window. Destination was 347, Balestier Road. And the name of the restaurant "Founder Rou Gu Cha - Bak Kut Teh House" I am sure these names sound great in Chinese but when the English translation reads something like Foo Yeng Chinese Eating House, one really wishes they had a better translator.

Realisation 1. The Japanese English 'Bakte' is actually 'Bak-kut-teh', with a short kut. Getting back to the story .... after a wait of lose to thirty minutes we made it to the insides of the place.

This was served with 'yio tiao' basically long doughy fried stuff that is soaked in the broth before eating. Alongside came some greens and the staple chillies sliced in soy sauce. Each of us got a bowl with a pork rib dipped in the soup. Apparently it is cooked like this. "First, he simmers pork bones, herbs and other ingredients to make a big pot of stock. That becomes his base stock in which the Founder boss cooks his bak kut teh. The result is a soothing, light peppery soup with a very subtle flavour of Chinese herbs."

Replenishments of the stock are plentiful and frequent. We need to make a sign like the Roman emperor used to make in the Colosseum to signal that the gladiator was to be killed. Apparently that is the locall understood sign for more of the soup.

Honestly that is the best soup I have tasted ever anywhere. Apparently this place is popular with most stars of Hong Kong and Taiwan. They even have pics of the owner with Andy Lau. More on him later.

hall of fame

Strongly recommended, a must visit for anyone to Singapore who wants great authentic Singapore food and say thank you la at the end. Burpppppp :)

The lounge

2006-06-14T14:00:00.000+05:30

One of the perks of being in the royal class rooms at the Mercure Roxy is that there is a lounge with a view of the east coast of Singapore, the sea beyond and ships waiting for a berth in the harbor. and in the lounge they serve complimentary cocktails for 2 hours in the evening.

I find it the best place to catch up on the newspapers and so I was sipping tall glasses of apple juice and poring through the Straits Times of the morning, when he stepped in. Tall (about 6'3") and handsome, without any clear indication in his facial features of his origins. I did not have to think too long, his clipped Brit accent gave him away.

"So you following the World Cup?" he started seeing me pore over the sports pages. "Ohh yes" said I. He did not have a particular fancy for the game and did not seem to care too much that I was an Argentina fan. Simon was from the UK but had spent most of his adult life on the road.

I moved from my table and joined him and soon we were talking of the pains of travelling and the stability that the traveller misses. Like many of the other fellow travellers I had met from the west, he too had a vast repertoire of tales to recount from his trips. He spoke about a (shoestring) road trip he had taken from UK to the far east through asia about 25-30 years ago. It cost him all of 200 GBP and he took a train to Turkey and a series of buses and trains across Iraq through the Kurd territory, Iran, Pakistan, India, Burma, Thailand, Laos, Vietnam and finally would up in Indonesia. Travellers tales usually grab my attention and here I was with someone who actually had done something I only read about.

The evening was only getting better and were joined at the table by a middle aged East European looking gent. I was right this time too and he turned out to be Andriy from Croatia. Another frequent traveller who mostly worked in the Oil industry he had a lot of tales about times and places in the middle east. Particularly interesting was his opinion of the Armed forces in some of the Near East countries. He felt that having their 'protection' put their lifes at greater risk from the desert bandits and the insurgents. He had a healthy interest in women and any tale he shared with us had women in it :D

The final member of the party came in at that time, he was so loud and imposing that he had to be a Yankee. Mike from Cleveland, Ohio made up the loudest quartet in the lounge that evening. The elderly couple who came everyday to solve crossword puzzles and read might have been bothered, but they did not voice any disapproval and we continued.

Soon it turned into a very interesting conversation covering topics as diverse as most embarassing moments on the road (malay greeting of the Paisan was hilarious), importance of cultural sensitivity (women in India), remarkable places and people and later on even the ontentious topics of war, terrorism, world peace, religion, racism and discrimination. It is always a little thrill for me to discover the philosopher in men around me. These three men were not dissapointing at all. The Yankee had a very simplistic America centered idea of life and the world. The Brit had a balanced perspective on developement of the third world and a non-neogtiable stance on peace being the only way to a better future. War was not acceptable even as the means. The Croat was an embittered man, worn down by the years. He was too tired to fight anymore and had given up on the world. He had reduced his existence to identifying injustice and unfairness in the world and letting it be at that. And I ..... well I was just collecting more soundbytes and information than I could process and broadening my perspective.

Our hostess in the lounge was the prettiest lady from the orient I have seen until today. Carefully applied rouge highlighting the near perfect bone structure above her cheeks and a smile that can add the delight to the service. It helps to be taught Services Marketing from a master of the art. Guruve namah::

About 3 litres of Apple juice later I was done and it was time to move on. To another day, another set of people and to gather my own set of life's little experiences that I will probably narrate 20 -30 years down the line.

2006-06-13T19:30:00.000+05:30

A dull dazed crazed existence, no longer bothered with making any sense of where it is all heading. Drifting from humyn to humyn, scared of relating, tired of wanting, being without knowing.

It sure is a funny feeling when even existential angst is absent. Floating on a dream in the dead of the night, knowing not where from, caring even less where to. The emptiness that seems to characterize today is so complete and so dense that if perfection were anything else one would sure be dissatisfied.

The pretence has gone on too long and too well. Maybe life just stops being itself, once you cross the boundaries of the mind that are not to be even peered over.

Why should despair, angst and anger be channelized to bring forth results that are desirable and positive. Begrudging anothers joy so much that you seek it yourself. As if two joys are ever the same, either a greater one or a lesser one, never the same.

--- Ihidoio

Evening with a bum-pal

2006-06-13T13:59:00.000+05:30

Met a bum-pal (to borrow school lingo) after over 25 months, not much by human standards but a lot in terms of the see-saw experiences I went through. Blah blah for a really long time, catching up on career, loves, jokes and generally happenings in life in the past.
Too late for the lounge :( and off we are to China Town.

Hop into one of the comfort cabs and we are on our way. Maybe it is the fact that we looked too Indian and too Tamizh magas at that. The Chinese cab-driver dutifully drops us off at the Mariamman temple in Chinatown. I wanted to see something red and chinese with the hideous looking lions and fans and I end up in front of a temple that looks just right for any place named *****palayam in TN.

Guided soon enough to the right place, to the Japanese street, where many a labourer in the old days of Singapore ended blowing up his earnings in the opium dens and in the arms of ladies of the night. The walls may be painted many times over, the businesses have changed, the streets tarred and the pavements cobbled, but nothing can really remove the ghosts of the place. The heady perfumes still tickle the nostrils and if only we pause to close our eyes and listen carefully. Underneath all that hustle and bustle of modern day China town one can still hear the voices from the past. Today I will go back thinking of the women in the place and the tales of exploitation. Tomorrow maybe another version of the story.

Teeming crowd at China town. Wonder if they have the time or inclination to stop and think.

The best thing of the evening - Yam ice-cream. Yes our very own 'Chena' they made ice cream out of it.

Looks purple and smells funny but tastes just right and the vendor even let me get a pic taken with him. Dinner at an Indian restaurant with a Vietnamese table hostess.

Samy's @ Katong

2006-06-12T13:59:00.000+05:30

My biggest complaint about Indian restaurants abroad is that they usually have only North Indian food. Not quite sure whether the reason is that foreign taste buds prefer that food, or that most of the Indians who eat outside prefer that. I strongly suspect the latter to be the case given the profile of the regular clientele at those places.

Anyways it was a pleasant surprise to walk into Samy's at Katong behind my hotel. Food especially NV cooked the south indian way. :) The fish curry was great and it went well with the rice and the different Kozhambus. The ambience of the placec was nothing great to write about. Just a regular little place with prints of Ravi Varma paintings on the walls. But the entrance to the complex more than made up for it.

During WW II that area housed the barracks for the British army stationed there and it also had the War HeadQuarters or something similar. Heaven for the history buff in me. The grand old colonial architechture with the red Mangalore tiles on the roof, the huge windows (guess the real term is louvred ... just like the ones in the home by the sea) painted black by the present owners. All in all a great walk and great food.

A new place

2006-06-11T13:57:00.000+05:30

Landed in a new place after a flight that took all of the night. Had heard horror stories about Indian Airlines, but honestly I was satisfied with the whole deal. Atleast it was cheap enough to warrant satisfaction. If there is one thing I would change in the whole trip, it is the toilet manners of Indians. I just dont understand why we want things to be clean before we use it and have no qualms about leaving it dirty. It does not take too much effort and the mlechaa-quotient (that we invariably use to evaluate the propriety of a task) is also really low. Why can the folks using the loo, take some paper-napkins and wipe the seat and the countertop after they have made it messy.

The best part of the flight was the hostess. The stewardess in charge of section of the craft where I sat was this very pretty Bengali lady called Bidisha. Unlike the cold business like frauleins on Lufthansa, she was sweet enough to wake me up everytime and ask if I wanted to drink or eat something. Normally such behavior is sure to get me worked up a great deal, especially when I am trying to catch some sleep. It was simply not possible in this case. Afterall it is not everyday that I wake up and see a pair of beautiful Bengali doe eyes look back at me.

Inspite of those sleep heavy drowsy eyes of mine, this image looks destined to stay in mind for a long time.

Immigration was easy, except for understanding Chinese English and a permit for a month stamped, I was on my way to the Forex and Taxi and the Hotel, in that order.

In the hotel they had no more of the regular rooms and so I got freely upgraded to the Royal Class suites. I wasnt paying and I couldnt care less, but those rooms were cool.

Scent

2006-06-05T13:12:00.000+05:30

The scent wafted through a crowd and tickled my nose, causing a rush of memories. A feeling so exhilarating that it would have been shared as soon as I could get to a phone. Some pleasures are best kept to ourselves. If only memories were wings and feelings the wind, I would be floating around like a feather, above the swirling cess pool that life sometimes looks like from close.

Kai ke Photos

2006-06-03T13:06:00.000+05:30

Trying out my camera ina bye-lane off SP Road turned out to be a bad idea. To make matters worse the particular pic I wanted was of the tall buildings by the sides of the narrow road and the haphazardly packed vehicles. As I stood there trying to get the exposure correct and checkign out various locations for the best possible lighting, I caught the attention of more than a few people there.

Once I was done, a man approached me and gestured in a questioning manner. Seeing my confused face, he decided to vocalize his question.

Kai ke liye photo liya?

Hindi skills pathetic at best totally deserted me. "Personal photos" I mumbled. Ohh 'Personal photo .... toh mera bhi ek lo'. He smirked. The expressions of hostility on the faces of the small crowd that had gathered there convinced me that I had done something really wrong there.

Bro came in time and whisked me away. On the way he tried to explain to me that there are certain areas that are not to be photographed. Apparently while he was in the shop, the shopkeeper was questioning him on why the guy who came with him was taking pics.

The stores keep violating the traffic regulations on that lane and play hide and seek with the police and the city corporation on this issue.

They thought I was from some news paper. :D

Adios home for a year

2006-05-29T13:01:00.000+05:30

Linda, Lorna, Jaya, Tara, AJ, Sanju, Anil, Elsa, Sherin, Lijo, Michael, Ann, Shawn, Jerry, Chris, Tony, Betsy, Benci, Sumod, Sanil.

Roy, Joe, Sophie, Melissa,

Luisa, Tasha, Chierra, Joe.

Until we meet again

:)

2006-05-28T12:24:00.000+05:30

When I first met his parents he was taking shape in his mother's womb. Over the months, I heard of his birth and saw him on most weekends. Images ranging from a little angel in blue baby blankets, to little tees and bright bibs for the drool. Colicky days when he never stopped crying, bright sunny ones when he had smiles for all who passed by. He usually never left his parents arms for a strangers. I stretched mine out and I guess they were more surprised when he displayed willingness to come into mine. Held a baby after a long time and it felt familiar and comforting at once.

L had tried many a time to hold him and seeing him in my hands decided that if the baby could go with me, it could go with her too. I warned her against trying it, but she persisted and in the best ever display of brushing-away-advances of the opposite gender. Jonathan literally brushed her hands away. Embarassment for her, glee for me, and a happy gurgle sound from the babies throat. After a brief round of tossing around and rubbing of noses, he was back safely in Papa's arms.

Cafeteria Lady

2006-05-25T12:23:00.000+05:30

Hallo she said and walked towards me as I was waiting in line at the local Walmart. Hallo said I extending my right hand to greet her extended one. She smiled fully revealing the two golden covered canine teeth on wither side of her upper jaw and I knew her.

She used to serve food at the cafeteria at work and used to be treated pretty bad by her American supervisors, who made her do all the tough work. Always had a smile for me and used to leave me thinking, it must be pretty hard for a Haitian immigrant here. Had not seen her for over 7 months at office and learnt today that she had quit the job and moved to another place.

"It is nice, I met you" I said. "I am leaving in 2 days and will be leaving for good". What started off as a nicety from my mouth ended up as a honest statement.

Truck Driver Abe

2006-05-24T12:23:00.000+05:30

Drive 100 miles one day, 150 the next, a red eye flight with 2 hrs sleep in the last night and today here I am agreeing, to drive 200 miles to meet a friend and say good bye. Feel like a truck driver already.

At the end of the day and driving back home at 12.30 in the night, on a road that lies out in front of me like the road did in the poem 'The Highwayman'. Areas so unpopulated that if you look up, you can see the stars in the black cloudless sky winking at you. All I can think was it turned out to be a good idea.

His wife was expecting and for her first trimester she was having a particularly bad time with morning sickness, and today was the first day she was cooking in months. Cooking for the special visitors. She was happy with the way the food turned out, but gracious hostess that she is, apologised for any short comings at the beginning.

The food was great and the effort she put into it made it even more special for me. As I was leaving I bade him farewell, and smiled at her, wondering all the time (how does one wish an expectant mom ??? Good luck/ Best wishes. I was stumped).

Finally turned around, drew in a long breath and said indicating her tummy. I will pray for you and the baby. "Thanks" she grinned back. "I need that most of all".

Japanese Gardens

2006-05-23T12:20:00.000+05:30

Heavenly place the pic says it all. Some day I want a garden like this next to my house

Wisteria lanes, iris beds, waterfalls, sand gardens :)

Funny combo

2006-05-23T09:19:00.000+05:30

The TV was on while I was checking on the running water and the soft strains of 'Pavane' floated in to the bath. Wondering what it was that had that tune for a background, I stepped back in and it was Sex 'n the City. Funny combination, but interesting all the same. Some how music I consider great and a sitcom I consider silly got along just fine for some fine TV viewing

Smiles for Mama and diapers for Baby

2006-05-22T16:15:00.000+05:30

In a small town called Stevenson in Washington state is a little drive in eatery called Little Vikings Drive-In. Stepped in and decided to take my dinner from there with me. Placed my order for some Root-Beer Smoothie with a Burger. The lady rang it up in the cash register and as she gave me my change, I noticed a little tin to the left of the register. It had a couple of pictures of a sweet baby boy on its sides and a note that was pasted to it. The note read '******'s Diaper and Formula Fund' All the change went into it.

While I was waiting there for my food. I understood more of the situation in that place. She was a single mom, looking hardly 21-22. Had her baby with her at work, obviously could not afford a babysitter. He was seated in his Pram and was crying out for his Mom. She could not hold him and work at the same time. All the maternal attention he got in the 10-15 minutes I was there, was pats on the head and brushes of her palm on his cheeks as she hurried from the kitchen to the main counter to the drive-in window to take orders and get them for the impatient customers. She also spoke to him as she worked and tried to keep him in good humor.

He started wailing and she came over to where I was and said with a smile. 'The entertainment is on the house' . I could only grin.

Something stirred deep inside me and I felt like Amelie. Walked up as if I wanted to stretch my legs and walked over to the counter, waited for her to go to the drive-in counter and when she was away, stuck a wad of notes into the tin box by the register. Felt thrilled at having done something good and crept back to my chair.

My dinner was ready and as I collected it I thanked her, smiled and wished her a good evening.

Drove back imagining what the Mom will think when she sees all that money :)

Columbia River Gorge

2006-05-22T16:11:00.000+05:30

A river at sea level in the mountains, at least thats what that travel sites claimed. The drive was short about an hour and a lazy sunday afternoon was spent doing just that. Drive up from Portland to the Gorge passing the Multnomah Falls on the way. I could not see any falls and all I saw was a parking area. Continued on and reached a spot where one could take breath taking pictures of the river that cleaved the mountains. As far as I know the Columbia river also serves as a state boundary between OR and WA.

So it was here too. Crossing an old bridge with a quaint name something to the tune of 'Bridge of the Gods' I reached the town of Stevenson in Skamania county in Washington State.

Long before recorded history began, Indian legend says the Great Spirit built a bridge of stone that was a gift of great magnitude. The bridge was called, "The Great Cross Over" and is now named "The Bridge of the Gods".

Most of the time I have spent in this country have been in the big cities and the suburbs and on the freeways. High rises, neat houses with good lawns, people on the move. In all a picture of first world prosperity.

Had heard of areas where industries had died and development had looked over. Never saw a decaying small town. Downtown was a short half-mile stretch of some stores. Most of them empty or suttered. Rusting old pickups parked or abandoned by the road. Unpainted houses, over grown lawns if any. In all a depressing picture.

What made it more striking is the stunning natural beauty the town was set in. The snow capped mist covered mountains, the great river snaking through. Roads cut through hills, with wild flowers in a burst of color on the sheer rocks on the sides of the rocks. Nature had done more than its part, and man was found wanting.

The place could be called a red-neck area and it fit the bill rather closely. I was hungry and rather try the safer, tested McDonalds or BurgerKings. I decided to go to a local joint to grab some quick dinner. The brownies like me are generally advised by more experienced brownies here to avoid all white areas. Seems there is no escaping the feeling of being unwelcome.

Made myself to the Little Viking Drive-In and walked in. The whole place was white and for about 5 minutes i could feel all eyes there boring into me. Not in a hostile fashion. Just a little upset at the intruder.

I knew I was not sitting and eating there, got my sandwich the root beer smoothie and I was out.

P.S. Smoothies with root beer flavored ice-cream is truly scrumptious

If ...

2006-05-22T16:04:00.000+05:30

If he was to make an objective stance, it is a big relief. No longer was he weighed down by cares too great to bear.

It still hurts and the reasons are not far to seek. Fidelity was maintained and expected, intimated explicitly too at times.

Would have been better if the pooch did not run away like it did. It is one thing to say farewell when we are uncertain about what lies ahead and it is another to express the sentiment when one is faring well.

Relief at having done the right thing given the circumstances for one. Guilt and pain at the circumstances for the other. Life sure treated them differently, but to each is due that he can bear and so it is in this case.

Mikhail is right. The beam of light that scares the evil into hiding and cleanses the seat of one's existence - the soul. He wanted to find it earlier to see if it existed, given his innate curiosity. He needs to find it now to keep sane. Does he search for the heart with the beam, or the beam in the heart. Ohh he needs it so.

Come now fount ...

Grotto

2006-05-21T20:01:00.000+05:30

Hewn out of a sheer stone wall, nestled in dense woods with tall pines, song birds flitting through the trees, playing with the sunlight streaming through, is a place in Portland, OR. Called the Grotto, it is a cave cut in the rock face with a big replica of the Pieta. Wild flowers in yellow and purple adorning the wall. The most beautiful open air church I have ever set these eyes of mine on.

True the place was a little too RC for my liking, but the peace and calm I could experience there was truly divine. Just being there wass so soothing for the soul.

A little token to remember the grotto, from the store and off I was.

Lady at the bar

2006-05-21T18:00:00.000+05:30

The good thing about restaurants with bars is that if one is not averse to the idea of eating at the bar, one need not wait for a long time for the table hostess to find you a table. Dont know if it is aconincidence but in a busy restaurant, the requesting a table for one usually ends up waiting a much longer time.

So it was that I found myself at the bar in a restaurant in Portland. Wolfing down on my lunch I did not really notice the lady to my left, until I heard a 'Hi'. Surprised I turned to see a very all-american looking girl. A drink in her hand and words freely flowing out of her mouth, she started talking about Portland and how she moved down here two weeks ago from Chicago. I was the New Yorker and to my great amusement, found myself comparing people, cab drivers and pooches in the 2 places.

Mackenzie was a dancer, and wanted to become a History teacher.

Conversation soon moved to her name and I wanted to know if she was Irish or Scottish from the 'Mac' in her name. Celtic hangovers do last long. Neither she replied and said that she was half-German, quarter-Bohemian and quarter-Italian. 'Do you know there is no place called Bohemia now. 'Yes' I said, 'with the breakup of the Prussian empire, your ancestors must have become kinda stateless'. I added tongue-in-cheek, not of you count Greewich village in NYC. I still dont know if it was genuinely funny and original of if she was a little high on spirits, but her laughter was the exact special kind that women possess that make men they are with go on and on with the jokes, long after they stop being funny.

'Not bad ' said she, warming up to the way the conversation was going. MY excitement died all too soon as I realised that all hopes I had of conversing on an interesting portion of 19th century European history was lost, when she continued. Guess I got my skin from the Bohemian side of the family. In the dim bar lights, I could not really make out what Bohemian skin was. She leaned closer and pointed out the skin on her cheeks to me. To me it just looked white ;). Still I said. Ahhh I see it now. Instead on any talk on Prussia or Bohemia or Czechoslovakia or even Dracula, she moved on to her sense of fashion which she claimed was Bohemian.

Well if she is gonna be a history teacher, I better make her a good one. 'The former Prime Minister of India, Nehru spent a lot of time in prison and wrote letters to his daughter teaching her a bit of history one letter at a time'. 'Really!!! that sounds cool'. 'Yes' I continued. 'Maybe you could take a look at it, trust me it is a refreshing way of learning world history'. Having scribbled the name of the book on a paper napkin I was ready to move, but she was not.

Talk meandered around family and the thrills of breaking out in independence and rebellion from a conservative family. As she described other aspects of what she called her personality, I could not help notice the striking similarities with someone I know too well.

I used to know someone like that very well until quite recently. I said and paused for a moment of retrospection. 'I can see your mind rewinding' said she and traced her hands in counter-clockwise circles on my left temple. A smile was all I had in response.

Finally my lunch was done, her drink was done and it was time to move on with our little lives. Dont know what made her sit there and talk that day, but it brightened up a very very dull day for me. Angels around in forms we realise not clearly.

Smiles handshakes and a hug later, we were off. .... Hugging ladies, now thats a whole posting in itself. :)