Quote

"The human race would have died out if it was left to men to have babies."
--- Colleague at work when discussing a picture of a woman in labour that appeared in the Sunday Age newspaper. She believes, and we all agreed, that men cannot tolerate pain as well as women do. They (men) just don't have any pain threshold level.
Pic courtesy: theage.com

Up yours, sister.

Presumptions are the mother of all cock-ups.

No matter what country you are in, some things really don't change. Complete strangers don't think twice about asking personal questions. Or stupid questions. Most people we meet here know that I have moved to Australia with Partner. If they don't know, they are told so when Partner introduces me to them. This is also a country where living together without getting married is not unusual; people know what it means to "live" with someone. It means you are going to stay together. So I don't understand when people ask, "How long are you going to stay in Australia?" What does that mean?

What answers are people expecting? "As long as Partner keeps me?" "Till I don't find a better looking, richer man?" "As long as Partner does not decide to date a blonde, white girl?" Oh yes, I did try the date-white-girl version and the reply to that was, "Ah don't worry about that. You know (wink) 'Once you date black, you never go back'?" Really. Was that wink supposed to make me ignore that you made an ignorant, underhanded comment? Or ignore your stupidity? Because LOOK again. I am B.R.O.W.N. There is a huge difference; like four shades.

Or strangers you've only just been introduced to think it's their goddamn right to ask, "So when are you getting married?" Why? Are you paying my wedding bills? Are you giving me away? Am I in love with your f-king son? No? So shut up. Till recently, I have smiled at that question and answered with a, "Let's see" and walked away. However, it's getting difficult.

At a recent meeting with people, as is the meet-new-people routine, I am introduced to everyone. I understand that people will be curious. It is a different thing to hear about mixed couples and it is a totally different thing when someone you know starts dating a 100 % Indian girl ( as against born-brought-up-overseas Indian girl). I guess it is even MORE different/bizarre when said boy goes to work in India for two years and comes back with a girlfriend. (I wonder if I should have a "Made in India" tattoo)

Perhaps some people were expecting me to wear a sari, a bindi and break into a Bollywood song-dance routine every two minutes. Or sit cross-legged on the dinner table and eat with my fingers. Well, I DO enjoy sitting cross-legged on chairs -- my size allows me to do so -- but I can use cutlery very well (including chopsticks). Though honestly, I am still partial to eating with my fingers. I can even eat pasta with my fingers (learnt in Sikkim). Anyhoo. What I know is that this curiosity is harmless. I am dead certain that Partner will be even MORE stared at when he finally meets my family back in India. Knowing some of my relatives, I am quite sure some of them will also giggle or point at him and say "White man" and perhaps ask him to do some Shane Warne bowling actions...

ARGH, digressing, getting back to the story... So I am introduced to all new people and amongst them is this offensive woman who took it upon herself to just stare at my face. Not like surreptitious looking but outright staring. There was nothing curious or harmless about the stare. It was a "what-did-he-see-in-her" stare. And no, I was not imagining. I am very good with understanding looks and even better at reading vibes. Having had enough of her silent staring, I said a polite hello and walked off. Only to have to sit next to her again. Two mintues of me sitting next to her, she asks, "So, are you going to marry him (Partner)?" This question was even more bizarre than the when-are-you-marrying one. It irritated me and I said, "No I will not." Unfortunately, I played right into her hands. She responded with, "Ah. You must be one of those people from India who come here and then never go back."

No, I did not slap her. But it's making me angry again. The second incident happened in class yesterday. This chick said something on the lines of, "Marry him then divorce him" etc. I didn't say anything to her either. BUT the next time she does, I will ensure I screw political correctness in the bum. Enough.

PS 1: Before any of you say,"Don't worry about what other people say", "Learn to let things go" or "You have a bigger heart than them, move on" etc. I KNOW all that. While I respect all attempts/suggestions at positive thinking, at this moment, I do not give a bloody damn f-ck.

PS 2: Ranted at Partner. He heard, cocked his head, hugged me BIG, kissed my forehead and said, "It's ok for you to be angry as long as you remember I am not them; I love you." Sigh. He good man.
Toon courtesy: The Back Porch Studio

A beautiful day

Today's a beautiful Sunday. The sun is bright and warm, there's no crazy wind, the birds are happily twittering in the branches and there's a single, white butterfly fluttering around in my backyard 'garden'.

Partner is out for a round of nine holes. Since we cycled almost 50 km yesterday -- went down to Collingwood Farms and Yarra Bend boat club -- my legs refused anymore exercise today. So while he is out playing golf, I am sitting and transferring my notes to the computer.

While I would have loved to go to the last day of the 2009 Formula 1 Australian Grand Prix; the cheapest tickets are $ 100 AUD. Given that I don't follow F1 and will not be allowed to sit in or even touch the cars -- should be allowed if the tickets are that expensive, no? -- I am going to sit in my backyard and keep my money.

The day ahead includes some much needed body servicing by way of olive oil on the head and body, maybe some face pack and some under-sheet snoozing in the sun. Since Partner has announced 'arranging' lunch, I am not cooking. I would really like a back massage and maybe I can bribe him into giving me one.

That apart, I'm reading Robin Cook's Sphinx; not really into Cook or medical thrillers, but found the book languishing on my book shelf. Since now my bookshelf is our bookshelf; it's a happy discovery when I find something amongst Partner's books that I have not read. That's not to say that I've read everything, but simply that I discover something amongst his book that I want to read.

My books are primarily fiction -- crime, fantasy, science fiction, period romance, Booker winners etc -- while most of Partner's are either military history, 'futures' trading or on grain. Unless a biography or history is written like a story, I really cannot be bothered reading those. As for trading and markets, I've said before that numbers make me dyslexic. Last month, while I ordered the DVDs for British comedy Green Wing from Amazon, Partner ordered Merchants of Grain and Rats in the Grain (rolls eyes). Shrug. Guess opposites attract. However, now I think I need a bigger book shelf in the toilet, because that's where I have made a 'library' for Partner. (wink)

Anyway, I shall get back to typing out the plot etc before the Net hooks me again. I do love a nice, chilled out Sunday. Have a good one y'all.

Bad things happen indoors

Disclaimer: No babies were harmed while writing this post. This blog/blogger does not support cannibalism or hurting (human) babies in any way. Neither is the picture indicative of any type of 'baby food'. Capishce?

My mother’s favourite joke – the rare times she did joke – is that once I finish cooking, the kitchen looks like a bomb blast site. What she does not realise is that her joke is very close to the mark. Each time I cook, rather each moment I am at home, it is like surviving some or the other near-death experience.

Susan Miller on her website, Astrology Zone, does warn that Venus is retrograde till April 16th or something; Venus is the planet ruling relationships and not mortality. Had it been Jupiter or Uranus, I would have been more careful. While I am usually accident-prone – I don’t like the word ‘clumsy’ – it seems that for some time now, my stars are particularly badly aligned.

Like this morning. Back from Torquay – coastal town on the Great Ocean Road – I was doing a quick-clean-up-before-blogging when I banged my head against the cupboard door. One minute I was putting away tee shirts, the other moment I turned my head and rammed into the door. I did not slip, I knew the door was there and yet… Now I have a huge bump. Any harder and my skull would have cracked. (Pic: Of the Great Ocean Road, the view is spectacular)

A little later, I was cleaning the kitchen bench and wiping away breadcrumbs under the toaster when I noticed the toaster was dirty. So I wet the dishcloth and wiped the toaster. I was about to wipe the insides of the toaster with the wet cloth when I noticed the damn thing was on. Instant electrocution narrowly avoided.

So I went to call Partner to get some reassurance that I was still alive when in my distraught state, I misjudged the distance between my arse and the chair and fell on the floor. My back could have broken, y’ know. By now I was in shock and pulling the chair slowly, sat on it carefully and called Partner. His phone was out of reach when I decided to write down my harrowing experiences.

As I typed, I leaned back on the chair – balancing on its hind legs now – when again I misjudged (must be the earlier bump-on-head) and toppled backwards. Nearly broke my neck but for my wrist getting in the way and getting horrendously twisted. Rather the wrist than the neck.

Not to mention the other day when I nearly ironed my hand while trying to iron a shirt and take down a recipe on TV. Or when the potato flew from my hands, knocked off a glass tumbler that crashed to the floor and there were glass shards all around my bare feet… And while rushing to clean up the glass, the knife slipped and fell with the pointy end between my toes.

Or when I was pouring boiling hot water over snow peas – blanching them – and since I had forgotten to cover the kettle, the steam rose straight into my hands, scalding them. Of course I let go of the kettle and had boiling water all over my chest. Now I have burnt freckles on my boobs.

While indoors is where I usually escape death, I am more careful when outdoors. However, now I have suspicions that things are changing there as well….

Like this weekend in Torquay, when Partner and I decided to go swimming in the ocean. Now let me tell you that my stepping into any body of water – even a bathtub – is fraught with danger since I cannot swim. My swimming is like putting a one-winged, fledgling into water: Much drama, much splashing, hardly any movement. Since I trust Partner to watch out for me – and also because he will have to answer to my Dad if I drown or something – I am more than happy to step into rolling tides and crashing waves with him. (Pic: Not in Torquay, but me at the 12 Apostles, further along the Great Ocean Road, Oct '08)

So there we were, Partner swimming beautifully and me doing my splash-gulp-choke-splutter when Partner’s facial expressions changed and he asked me not to move. Now staying motionless is bloody darned difficult in the ocean. Given that I was standing chin-deep in water and even the gentlest of waves make me bob like a cork, I was not happy to be told to stay still. That’s when I looked down at where Partner was pointing. And died of fright…

There have been a series of shark attacks in Australia since the beginning of 2009. It does not matter that those were on Sydney beaches and we were in Torquay… Sharks can swim can they not? Given that I’ve also seen enough TV programmes that say sharks prefer still waters – and that the ocean was particularly still when we were inside – I was sure there was a great white swimming near me. It had not helped that Partner had helpfully pointed out earlier that sharks prefer darker skin since well, darker skin looks more like a seal.

Duly terrified, I looked down at where Partner was pointing… Thankfully, it was not a shark. It was a stingray. Since the thing swimming right next to my ankle was at least a metre wide, I was somewhat alarmed. However, I was glad to point out to Partner – and relieved! – that a stingray does not have shark-teeth. I was about to show how brave I was and swim splash towards Partner when he shouted out, “A sting ray killed Steve Irwin.” I froze.

Thankfully, the big, grey stingray soon got bored of my ankles and swam away elsewhere. I, however, refused to move an inch and insisted on being carried out. And it was while I was being carried out by Partner – quite a nice feeling I must say – that I had an epiphany…

I am not prone to accidental-suicide… Someone is doing voodoo on me.

PS: If I suddenly stop blogging, know what has happened. I wouldn’t mind a nice tribute, Facebook-page either. And if you have to use a picture to go with my online obituaries, please use the nice Goa-ones on my Facebook page. I am the slimmest in those.

PS2: This advertisement for the Toyota RAV4 is so meant for people like me…




(Pic credits: 1. Baby pic, Twine.com; 2. Great Ocean Road, The Age, Stingray toon)

Bangla beer, baby and burp

As I had written in my earlier post – Love and the holi mess – Partner and I went for a dinner to this nice couple’s home last night. Partner had told me that the boys had decided it would be a curry-cook-off between the ladies.

Given that our host’s have a four-month old baby and being Aussies do not usually cook ‘Indian’ food, our hostess had made some really nice butter chicken. They had made some real effort to make the dinner ‘authentic’ and had ordered some naan – which they called ‘naan bread’, very cute – and raita from their local Indian restaurant.

I had made the JB special lamb curry and Arundati’s baked banana ice-cream. While I will be immodest enough to say the lamb curry was bloody good, the ice cream was a different story. And not because there's anything wrong with the recipe! I miscalculated the time needed for the ice cream to set properly and put more cinnamon than I intended to and so we ended up having suspicious banana pudding-with-some-frozen-bits that tasted more cinnamon than banana!

Moral of the story: It is a stupid idea to try a dish for the first time and make unsuspecting guests your guinea pigs. The guests however were gracious enough to finish the confused-pudding-masquerading-as-ice-cream that was served. I was gracious enough (ahem) to serve only two tablespoonfuls.

On our way to their house, Partner wanted to pick up some wine. Now liquor shops in Oz are called ‘bottle shops’ and are more sophisticated than the Indian ‘wine and beer’ shops. For one, you can drive-in and pick your liquor while sitting in your car and no one stares at you (if you’re a woman) when you’re buying booze. However, bottle shops in Australia are like grocery stores in India: You’ll find one at every street corner. And then they complain about rising alcoholism?!

Anyway, Partner walked in and asked for a wine that goes well with Indian food. The result was us discovering the UK-made Bangla beer and the Australian, proud-to-be-Punjabi, ‘Nazaaray’ wine. I don’t drink beer – very un-Aussie I’m told – so cannot give you feedback on the beer and will update on the wine once I have tasted it.

The highlight of the evening though – if you excuse the banana-disaster – was that I got to hold the baby. So tiny, so bloody cute and such a good baby. He did not cry at all and in fact I am quite proud to announce that I was the first 'Indian' the baby laid eyes on. And I daresay he quite liked what he saw. There's another Aussie conquered. Ha, ha.

Here’s the recipe for the lamb curry; it takes patience with this one, but the effort is bloody well worth it.

If you’re curious about Bangla beer and Nazaaray wine, read these two articles:
Indian Express
Sommelier India

Love and the Holi mess

I really don't understand men. This was supposed to be a nostalgic post on Holi, some cooking, Lucifer the cat and a sort-of-expose on Gaudiya Vaishnavites in Melbourne (if you're going huh, we'll get to that later in the post)... TILL Partner called. Now you get two stories in one post.
(Pic = http://www.zazzle.com/great_perfume_insult_t_shirts-235957917253053515)

Story 1: Men are weird

It could have been a usual checking-on-you call, but what makes this call significant was that Partner did it again. Him doing it again also goes to prove that despite age difference, cultural differences and the bloody Indian Ocean separating Australia and India... ALL men are alike. Partner and my father are so similar in so many ways that if I wasn't losing hair, I'd be pulling my hair out. You'll soon read why...

Partner announced a couple of evenings back that we were to go for dinner at this couple's place. (It's so my dad) Of course it is no big deal -- I could live with being 'informed' instead of being 'asked' -- and I was/am only happy to go out for dinner. Except that I am further informed that the "boys have decided" that the dinner is supposed to be a curry-cook-off between the "girls". As in the other bloke's wife and I are supposed to cook curries. Since I love cooking and all, it was/is still okay. So I called the lady this morning (it's 1.07 pm now) and decide on what I will bring to the table. Please note that other than 'informing' me that I am supposedly cooking a curry, Partner has given no inputs on what, hot curry or not (this is Australia), preference for meat, Indian or other curry etc. I let him know nonetheless about what is being cooked -- I've offered to make dessert as well -- and go off to the supermarket to buy the requisite items and am in the process of tying the apron... When Partner calls.

His opening words, "Do you realise how all you women are weird?" Since I am thinking gosht and not Gucci, I go "huh". Then Partner explains how he had been walking around this huge department store when he happened to pass the perfume department. With absolute incredulity he says, "And there were five women, all strangers to each other, all standing in a line SNIFFING at those silly perfume cards and behaving as if it was a cocaine hit. Women are weird," he says.
(Pic= http://www.liewcf.com/blog/archives/2004/06/perfume/

Point to be noted here is that Partner does not usually walk around department stores. He avoids them like the plague and visibly pales every time I even mention a department store. Even if it were to buy him something. Now Partner was at this department store because he 1) needs to buy a wedding present and 2) needs to buy a suit to wear to the wedding. Before you think I am throwing a fit for no reason, please let me tell you that said wedding is day after tomorrow. After repeated reminders about buying a gift, it is again at the last minute. After repeated suggestions about going to a store and buying a suit -- and him throwing tantrums that he doesn't need one -- it too, is at the last minute. And women sniffing perfume cards are weird?

Once I point out the fallacies in his "women are weird" theory, Partner scoffs and asks me what I am up to. So I tell him I am about to cook at which point he does it again. "Cooking? Oh yes, the dinner. Just cook something okay, you don't have to spend the whole day cooking the best of the best," he says. Right. WHAT THE HELL DOES COOK "SOMETHING" MEAN AND THAT TOO WHEN I DID NOT ASK TO COOK? AND SINCE I AM BLOODY HELL COOKING I COULD DO WITH SOME FRIGGIN' APPRECIATION.

(That felt good) (Hmm) (Do you think I'm being unreasonable here?) (Anyway...)

Story 2: Did Krishna do yoga?

So yesterday (Wednesday) was class and we were all sitting outside the Victoria State Library lawns -- a minute's walk from uni -- bitching about the redundancy of a Masters course when all they do (so far) is make us do silly grade-10-exercies when I hear, "Hare Krishna, Hare Rama, Hare Krishna" accompanied by the sounds of the dholak and manjira. I turn around and see a group of people, a couple of Indians and majority white, dressed in saris and dhotis and dancing away to their chants. For the first time in my life, I was very excited to see the Hare Krishna people. The Hare Krishnas are also called Gaudiya Vaishnavites and are followers of the Hindu god, Krishna. It is known to most (in India at least) that Holi is a major Vaishnavite festival and is celebrated with great aplomb by devotees of Krishna.

For those who don't know, yesterday (Mar 11) was Holi, the Indian festival of colours. Being my first Holi away from India -- and spent studying! -- I was very excited to see the Hare Krishna people and was sure they would either have some colours or would at least wish me a heartfelt Happy Holi. When I saw them, I gave an excited yelp -- to the surprise of my Aussie classmates -- and ran over to the chanting group to wish them Happy Holi. As I ran towards them, one of the Hare Krishnas, this white girl in a green cotton saree with sandalwood smeared on her foreheard came running towards me...

"Happy Holi!" I yelled jubilantly with a big grin on my face... Only to have a business card -- Urban Yoga -- thrust into my hand. I stopped mid-sentence, looked at the card and then looked at the girl who - in a very Aussie accent -- had launched into the efficacies of 'mantra meditation and philosophy from ancient Indian scriptures." I mumbled I was not interested -- by now she was holding my hand -- when she pulled out another business card and handing it to me said, "Every Wednesday night, we have vegetarian dinner for $ 5." I could not think of anything else to say so asked her if they were celebrating Holi...

(Pic = Holi 2008, New Delhi, India)

"Holi? What's that?" she said.
"Holi. HOLI! It's the Indian festival of colours," I replied looking at her and the rest of the dhoti-clad, choti-flaunting, yoga-with-cheap-dinner selling frauds group.
"Oh is it now. Sounds good. You should come for the yoga," she added, pulling out a third business card.
"You DON'T know about Holi?" I asked, refusing to take the third card now being waved in my face.
"Naw, we don't celebrate it," she responded, throwing her arms in the air and adding, "Sing with me Hare Rama, Hare Krishna..."
I just turned and walked away. Vaishnavites who don't know about Holi but know how to sell yoga.

That was my reaction yesterday, but I had to find out more. How could they not know? I did some research and found out that the day of Holi is also the birthdate of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, the founder-father of Gaudiya Vaishnavites. He is also seen as a reincarnation of Krishna. Apparently, Holi is a major day with the Vaishnavites. Today, I called the Melbourne Hare Krishna Temple; the phone was answered by a lady with the name of, Sarva-Mangala Devidasi. I asked her if they celebrated Holi, she said they didn't. I asked her if they weren't Vaishnavites. She said they were but that their sampradaya celebrated Holi as 'Gaura Purnima', more as Chaitanya Mahaprabhu's 'appearance day' than as the festival is popularly celebrated. Oh well. So I was wrong and the Gaudiya Vaishnavites don't celebrate Holi as I know it. Duly chastised. However, shouldn't the woman dishing out business cards have explained what they were doing instead of simply selling yoga?

Sigh. My Holi would have been absolutely colourless -- and I was secretly quite despondent -- except for a miracle. It was 7.30 pm, the sun was still up in the sky, there was a light drizzle and I was walking back home from the station. My head was down and my thoughts were in India... on Holi the previous years and imagining how friends back home would be all drunk on bhaang and dirty in all shades of the rainbow. I turned on to our street when I heard a familiar I-know-you mewl. It was Lucifer, the black cat who lives 500 metres from our house and always welcomes me.

So I bent down to pet him and talk to him, when he suddenly looked right into my brown eyes with his green-gold ones and looked up at the sky. I laughed because it looked as if Lucifer was trying to talk to me. I looked up. Right there, on my street, next to two railway lines, above our houses was the brightest, most perfect rainbow I had ever seen. All the colours. It was amazing.

PS: The pictures are small and crap because I forgot to change my phone-camera settings. Sorry, wish I could show you'll, it was really beautiful. My heavenly Holi, up in the skies.

Delicious matar-ings...

The other day a college mate in New York – we were ‘speaking’ after nearly eight years! – mentioned reading my post on sandwiches in Australia. I had mentioned the ghoogni in passing in that post. “I wanted you to know this,” she said and proceeded to tell me that reading the post reminded her how much she loved ghoogni. Read full post

The useless veggie!

I am desperately trying to get my daily schedule in some sort of order. The biggest problem is me since I get more easily distracted than a goldfish. I want to write my chapters, write a food blog, write here, keep the house clean, earn some money, do my gardening, paint my nails... I am doing something wrong, somewhere. How do you all manage your time, any tricks? Share?

Meanwhile, this recipe is the result of today's distraction. At least it means dinner is out of the way: "I was quite surprised to discover that eggplant is quite a staple in Australia. Folks even have grilled eggplant in their sandwiches, though I daresay am not exactly partial to begun in my sandwich. You can call it a mental block or cultural difference." Read full post...

Sizzling hot. Oof!

Scorching. Sweltering. Sizzling. Stifling.

That's exactly what the weather report here reads like for this week. Yesterday was my first experience of the heat of the Australian summer. Despite it being only 41 degrees -- I am from India, seen much worse, ahem -- the sun seems to sear through the skin. I could feel my scalp burning and my skin turning from the hue of milk chocolate to dark cooking chocolate in a mere five minutes. In Delhi, the heat radiates off everything... in Melbourne it does not radiate because everything starts melting way before that.

In 2008, I had pretty much managed to skip the Delhi summer. April-May 2008 had seen Partner and me travelling to the beautiful Leh-Ladakh (-->) and then to Kuala Lumpur for Partner's (<--) cousin's a wedding with a short, five-day stint in Melbourne. While KL had been pleasant, Melbourne had its winter then. Subsequently, once we moved here in July 2008, I had altogether managed to skip the Delhi summer. The last year also saw Melbourne having a freak summer where instead of it warming up in December, most of that month and January fluctuated between pleasant and wearing sweaters ('jumpers' here). Now apparently the state of Victoria is suffering a heat wave, the likes of which haven't been since 1908. At least 20 localities lost power supply, newspapers suggested that people without airconditioners move to shopping malls (er, with sleeping bags?!) and people walking on the roads seemed to be steaming, me included.

Funny that power cuts, heat waves, no water and no airconditioner was pretty much the way of life for me for a long while.

In June 2002, after three months of sleeping under the office table at the India Today Group Online office -- didn't have a house and was young and fool-hardy enough to think I could live like a nomad -- I had rented a one room hole in Lajpat Nagar. This hole was bang in the centre of Gupta Market, best known for salwar-kameez materials and mannequins. At night when I'd come back from work, the streets would be deserted. The only inhabitants were stray dogs hiding under cars and behind dustbins and hundreds and hundreds of naked mannequins -- stripped off their glittering finery for the night -- lining up the street that housed my hole. It was one of the most bizarre experiences. I would return from covering a fashion show or some party to be greeted by naked plastic men and women, staring dead ahead, oblivious of me or the dogs.

The hole was on the first floor. To get up to it you had to cross huge mounds of plastic wrapping, discarded cloth strips from the many local tailoring shops, dog poo hidden like land mines amongst the piles and paan (betel leaves) stains on every bit of vacant wall that wasn't already covered with posters of paan-chewing local politicians. Sometimes the paan was spat out on the politicians' faces, it really didn't make a difference though. Their sinister smiles and hollow promises seemed to overpower even the stains...

Adjacent to my hole were seven other holes, three on each side. Each of those holes had families of at least six living inside. All holes were basically one room. I didn't have anything other than a rucksack with my clothes, a Rs 300 moulding mattress and Papa's old Philips tape recorder. At any given time, you could hear at least three different channels from the neighbouring holes. It usually meant listening to a medley of Sa Re Ga Ma ( the antakshari show, Anu Kapoor used to anchor it back then), Hindi news channel with cheap ads Aaj Tak (remember PP Jewellers?) and some obscure soap opera at the same time. The only other sounds were those of husbands shouting for food, babies crying and old people coughing.

And I would lie there in the sweltering heat with only a ceiling fan. Rather a tired ceiling fan that was bored of circulating the stifling, non-existent breeze and refused to move at anything faster than the speed of 1. I earned a mere Rs 8000 then (without taxes) and was paying Rs 3,500 for rent. Before going to bed, I'd pour two mugs of water on me -- a borrowed bucket of water, there was none in the taps, landlord said it wasn't part of the deal -- and then lie under the tired fan. I could only sleep till my sweat-mingled-with-water dried off.

I didn't cook back then... had only saucepan and a plate and no money for anything else. Also the fact that the 'terrace' had bats hanging from the awning and the kitchen was on the terrace wasn't much encouragement. There was a charpai/ charpoy (literally 'four legs', a basic cot with criss-crossing hemp ropes) that I used as a walk-in almirah. Hah, it rested on its sides and my clothes hung on it... I was buying drinking water and the kitchen was full of empty bottles. When Ma came visiting and opened the kitchen door, 250 empty bottles of water had tumbled out. Ma had just sat down and started crying. I had still refused monetary help. The stupid resilience and even stupider pride of being 21-years-old...

Then and now. Friends had laughed at me when I had marvelled at the amazing shower heads in the Kuala Lumpur hotel room. But kya kare, I was amazed. (smiles) Either I am getting soft now or I'm getting old because I have borne much worse, without any or much lesser complaint.

Now I wonder if the basics of life -- considered a right here, how different from Delhi -- available at the push of a button provide enough impetus to start all over again. I have uprooted myself, but will I be able to re-establish myself?

A cupful of orgasms

(check out the pink dumbells!)

My thighs have been deliciously aching for the last two days. A delicious thigh ache is usually caused either by really raunchy sex the previous night or by a new exercise regime. In my case it’s the exercise that’s the culprit; been doing some serious cardio-crunches-and-what-not for the last two days.

From weighing 37kgs in May 2008, I am now a healthy 48kgs. Only that most of the ‘health’ is accumulating around my thighs and belly. Boobs too. I have had enough of not fitting into jeans I bought some months back or my bikini bra strap snapping off because I am too heavy to be, er, ‘encupped‘. Ok, I am lying. I don’t mind the bikini bra not fitting as long as it’s the cups I’ve outgrown and not because my back is too broad for the strap (it isn’t, am still a svelte 24 inches baby!).

Knowing that I am more of a self-help kind of person - not into joining fitness clubs etc - I have bought myself a DVD and have been sweating it out with the trainers on it. Partner has been killing himself laughing and at his most-irritating, keeps imitating the way the trainers sound on the DVD. But never-you-mind, I will have the last laugh once I am in the shape I want to be in - Partner says he quite likes the way I am, what would he know? His main concern is that I would ‘shrink’ in some strategic areas (you know…). Hrmph.

The exercising apart, the Christmas season-going-into-new-year has been full of heavy socialising. Since I hardly know people here, most socialising involves meeting up with Partner’s school and college (‘uni’ here) friends. All the hello-hello with people has lead to some interesting observations and conversations. A lot of the talking-noting centres around sex -- not just me, others talk of it too, grin -- and how things are different in India and Australia.

While ‘picking up’ -- having sex with people you don’t know before you sleep with them (often not even after that) -- is common in both India and Oz, there are some significant differences. For one, unlike India where even people who have threesomes every night will pretend they don’t do it; folks are more open about things here. They don’t get into ethical and moral dilemmas about random-sex-with-strangers (or about sex for that matter, an Indian speciality I say).

Having said that please don’t assume that Australians are cool about random sex. Just like India, majority of the population here is conservative and looks down upon pre-marital sex. Virginity is considered a virtue too; though increasingly difficult to come by!

Another significant difference vis-à-vis sex is the complete ignoring of condoms or condom ads.

Going by the ads on the tele, ‘shock therapy’ seems to be the most-preferred advertising tool. From drink-driving to road safety to health issues and workplace safety, advertisements use shock to relay their message. If it can be said with a smashed head, they’d do it.

The society is also health obsessed… from ‘green TV’ ads (stupid, stupid ad by ABC with TV sets sitting on a jungle floor…what was the point?) to numerous ads on the latest tablet in the market. Yet, there is not a single ad that I have seen that promotes condoms. Given the openness about sex, given that the drinking age is 18 and is celebrated, given that the youth is allowed far more licentiousness than in India -- the in-your-face-variety, not the we-do-but-don’t-accept thing -- one would expect condoms and SAFE SEX to be a priority. Going by the ads, it’s not.

I asked the people I have been meeting about this complete lack of condom ads. The response -- by this doctor chick -- was that since the percentage of AIDS/HIV has gone down, condoms are not a priority. Yet the doctor also mentioned that STIs and STDs -- especially gonorrhoea -- are on the rise. Another girl mentioned, hesitantly, that it perhaps has to do with Catholic beliefs. The “children are god’s gift” kind of beliefs.

While I respect religious beliefs that promote having children… what religion promotes STIs? Or children who will be left to fend for themselves because the father doesn’t want them? Or maybe because the mother wasn’t ready? I don’t understand… isn’t safe, responsible sex supposed to be one of the stipulations of a developed nation/society?

One big commonality between Australians and Indians is the way both people get tight-lipped and judgemental about… Pornography. The research subject for my first term paper was user-generated pornography. The kind that has ‘regular’ people -- as against porn stars -- shooting videos of themselves and putting it up on the Internet for free. I remember it was my friend Pirate who had gleefully shared that link with me…

From snide comments to sniggers and oh-she-talks-porn looks from certain high-and-mighty classmates; I was amused by the reaction that my choice of subject elicited. But chalo, the silver lining is that developed country or a developing one, some things bother all of us. Yet… erotic magazines are displayed alongside The Age on news stands, Channel 9 advertises sex phone lines, primetime television shows have ample tits to save spending on lad-mags (read porn) and adult centres and strip bars are on the same street as the biggest shopping mall… Confused or couldn’t-care-less?

My research on user-generated pornography ‘taught’ me quite a few things… Like busting the self-created myth that I cannot be shocked. DUDE! Some of the things had my eyeballs jump out of my sockets and roll about on my keyboard. Other things though were quite, er, illuminating.

Like adding new words to my vocabulary… ‘hebephilic’ and ‘teleiophilic’; they don’t refer to archaeology. Or that there are machines for sex. No, it doesn't mean a man who goes on, and on and on. Neither does it mean vibrators. More like, er, ‘sexborgs‘! Or (still) disbelieving that women can rape men. And realising that the female orgasm is NOT a myth. There are cupfuls to prove it’s true. Or how menopause and old age does not prevent raunchy sex. Really, it doesn’t… but you don’t want to check it out! Or really understanding what exactly a she-male means (and looks like!) and er, the operational aspects.

Or realising that I will never use the phrase, "I am strapping it on" or for that matter never be able to eat 'cream pie' with a straight face. Or more educational observations like the fact that India might consume a lot of porn, but it is waaaaay behind in production qualities. Or that there is a brand of feminism called "raunch feminism". And how the most hard-core stuff does not use condoms. Real life imitating fantasy? What do you think?

Did you know? 89 % of world pornography is produced by the US.

On that note...watch this, my favourite condom ad:

Just like that.

<-- Ideal day: baking gingerbread men and assorted cookies. They happily contribute to me piling the pounds as Partner is not too fond of sweets. I am eating too many, faaaar too many sweet things. It starts with two-and-a-half-teaspoons sugar in my coffee. In winter was drinking at least four cuppas a day...you do the math. AND to think diabetes is in my blood. Hmmm.


A perfect Sunday: at Torquay, riding down to the beach. We bought bicycles and have been riding around a bit. Melbourne has an interesting cycling culture and no, unlike India, where usually the 'underpriviledged' cycle to work etc, here it's a fitness thing. Most roads and localities have well-paved bicycle tracks and everyone rides with helmets. Implementing something like this in Delhi would SO help with the pollution. Two weeks back, cycled 30 kilometres from home to the St. Kilda beach and back. Have NOT exercised my legs that much in recent history! Felt bloody good. Yes, the guy with the book is Partner.

<--- An evening out: watching the Black Keys perform at the Palais theatre. Audi acoustics sucked, the Keys were bloody great. Melbourne is something of a music capital here and has frequent gigs by biggies. This was my first one with established artistes and saw Gomez and Black Keys perform. Missed out on Prodigy who performed for the Big Day Out music fest. There WILL be a next time...

Recent shopping: during a random drive, a garden gnome from a Heidelberg nursery and 'sticky' frogs; and a cactus pot that says, "I'm a prick." --->

<--- Recent excitement: watching potted green capsicum turn red in my 'garden'. And very soon, I swear I shall murder. Mynahs from India -- the birds we see and go two-for-joy etc -- are killing my saplings. Hate the shits.

Motherhood: growing my first cherry tomatoes!!! Woohoo! (can you see them? li'l green things) -->

<--- Melbourne: looks golden and majestic when the sun sets...this is a noon shot. Despite the fact that Victoria (the state Melbourne's in) is having something of a freak summer, i.e. it's cold instead of a blistering 40-plus; I am enjoying my time here.

That apart, I'm quite excited about Barak Obama signing in as the US president and would be up bright and early -- 6.30 am Australia time -- to watch him being sworn in. I have never had great faith (or any at all) in politicians but Obama... he inspires. And he makes me think: Will we ever have anyone remotely like him in India? Recently, read an interesting news bit on Ibnlive.com that corporate India -- Mittal and Ambani -- find Narendra Modi as the most viable candidate for PM. At least it's not Mayawati. Yet, I don't if that's something to rejoice about.

Politics aside and on the personal front, all girls I know from my school days have a baby. Or are pregnant. Or are planning babies. Or are getting married and will soon plan babies. All I know is I turn 30 in May. Sigh. Met up with Partner's cousin-wife-and-two-kids yesterday. Such gorgeous little girls! Had a brilliant hour playing with the girls in the park, catching them as they slithered down slides and didn't complain about the heat as I pushed 4-year-old Bridget on the swing. A very simple thing, but it's just a very happy feeling as you push a kid on the swing and the kid turns her head around, looks at you and gives you a grin of sheer pleasure. SIGH.


Attended a wedding on Saturday (17 Jan) and had a hard time not bawling as the bride and groom took their vows. When you see tv serials and movies that are based more and more on adultery, threesomes, single life and divorces... It's heartening to have people still want to commit to each other. I will have to invest in a waterproof mascara as there are three more weddings in the near future and I don't want to make an idiot of myself crying there.


AND. Grrrr. Went for a facial after six months -- in Delhi it was once a month -- and the bloody salon woman suggested I use anti-wrinkle, anti-ageing under-eye cream. :( Not to mention that sales girls in lingerie stores now suggest holding-up bras and waist-clinchers for "maturing" women. It's a cruel world I tell you...


Have a writers' workshop -- uni mates -- this afternoon but haven't written anything worthwhile to show them. Hopefully though, they should inspire me...
What's up with everyone else?

18 again with more wrinkles

2050
nursing home full of senior citizens
with eyebrow piercings
- from 'Moving Melbourne through art', read on the walls of a Connex train.

I ate so much mango last night that my stomach still hurts. These days, I can best be described as well-fed. If I am not eating, I am reading and sometimes, doing them together. In the last four months, I've gone through four authors and 36 books. Primarily science-fiction-fantasy and yet not the books/authors that would put me in the voracious-reader-list. I have been reading, eating, gardening, cooking and housekeeping too much to write.

Happy new year to all. "Another year gone by." That sentence can be both jubilant and weary. The last year was a bizarre trip for me. At times uncomfortable, at others exhilarating. A whole lot of new things, sorely missing some old ones.

Another year gone by. I turn 30 in May. It's like turning 18 all over again, more wrinkles though. I would be of legal age to officially have skin-firming facials. Or to have missed the bus with respect to what-have-you-done-with-your life. It's also when it bothers me to not have a precise answer to the question.

A new year, the same old me. Or is it? There are changes. For the better and for the worse. I wear bright red nailpolish. I don't mind if my thighs jiggle a bit. I sincerely bless the girls who help wit bra-fittings. I am also far more conscious of my belly. I am (getting) addicted to chocolates. I am truly enjoying cuddling and think I am getting better at... (grin) I am gardening earnestly.

In Delhi, it was buying saplings from nurseries and watching them grow. Now I am also growing from seeds. It's extremely satisfying. Most plants are new to me here and some are really pretty. Like this tiny-leafed succulent variety called stonecrop. Yet I was very happy to discover a 'money plant' (pothos, devil's ivy) in a Bunnings garden section.

While the new is exciting, the familiar is missed. After joking about haldi (turmeric) in all Indian food - from pizza to chowmein - now I am missing the lack of it. Like I realised this Christmas that I wish I had done some things differently. This was my first 'family' Christmas. I wish in the last 10 years living alone in Delhi, I had made more of an effort to spend Diwali or Durga pujo with my parents. In my attempts at proving that I was self-sufficient (didn't need anyone?), I simply isolated myself. Hmm. So we shall fix things.

While I am in Melbourne, if I have to recreate the things I took for granted, I shall. While I wait for Holi, I will learn how to make laddoos and find out about rangoli colours. Along with the other books read, I am also getting into cook books. Mallu (fish) curry with appams, Moroccan lamb with chapatis, moussaka with garlic bread and rice vermicelli with crispy-fried pork in sweet and sour curry have been on menu recently. I am loving it!

Books I have read in the last 60 days:

Sara Douglass (12 books including the Axis and Wayfarer Redemption trilogies, Troy Game four-book series and two of Darkglass Mountain);
Stephen Donaldson (7, Thomas Covenant Ist Trilogy, Thomas Covenant IInd Trilogy and Runes of Time);
Terry Brooks (16, Sword Of Shannara trilogy, Heritage of Shannara four-book series, Word and the Void trilogy, High Druid of Shanna and Genesis of Shanna trilogies) and A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini.

Looking forward to a year of regular posts!
PS: All pics are from my home, quality sucks a bit, it's from the phone.

Shut up and eat cake

I am small. Five feet no inches, 43 kgs. My hands are smaller still but I am good with them. I can type fast, I can give a (damn) good massage and I can use them in the kitchen. Strangely enough, whenever the going’s been tough, one or the other use of my hands has stood me good. In 2004, heartbroken and penniless and in 2008, finally loved and hopeful… Who’s scripting this?

To answer Maxine’s, “Where the hell have you been JB?” I’ve been completing university assignments, getting up at 4.40 in the morning, reporting for work at 7 am, then running for classes, coming back and cleaning at home, writing columns (yes plural, will introduce the other one once it’s published) AND cooking. I LOVE cooking and coming to Melbourne is doing good things to my culinary knowledge.

The little that I know, I’ve learnt in one of the three ways: Fiction books, instruction manuals or from people subconsciously. You observe, you learn. Like how I need to put one leg up with the mixing bowl on it when beating eggs for a cake. I picked that up from Kumud aunty. She used to be an army officer’s wife in our colony (1988) and could whip egg whites into stiff peaks (ensures the softest sponge cake) with a fork. Perhaps that also explains my antipathy towards using an electric beater. When it comes to cooking/baking, I am a do-it-manually snob. I will grate it with hand, beat it with fork and knead it with my knuckles than use a blender/mixer that would do the job in five minutes. But know what? I can do it, by hand, in seven minutes. Hrmph.

Partner and I and have constant kitchen conflicts due to our respective cooking styles. I will make the ‘gravy’ by mincing onions, pureeing tomatoes and simmering-while-stirring; he will use two teaspoons of Gravox (powdered gravy in a box). He will use dried mixed herbs from a packet, I will choose the leaves from my grown-in-a-pot-from-seed fresh herbs. I will beat the eggs, add the milk and whip it in the wok to make scrambled eggs; while he will pull his hair out because he would have done it in the microwave. “It tastes the same and I am faster,” is what Partner says. He is a I-can-cook-quick snob; I am an I-do-it-the-real-way snob. Both our snobberies, like all other snobbery, are acquired.

Another area where Partner and I butt heads (both of us are May-born bulls and it comes easily) is when it comes to using recipe books. Noticed how each time you want to try a dish, you will always have that one ingredient missing from your kitchen? Partner will not cook till he has every little item for a recipe -- even if it won’t be used again in the next 10 years for another dish -- while I am practical. I enjoy experimenting and finding substitutes. Of course there are things you just cannot do without. Like you cannot have tiramisu without mascarpone, but you can have a carrot cake without marzipan carrots and full-cream milk in blueberry muffins works just as well as buttermilk.

One of the primary influences in my experimental cooking have been Ma and a website. I chanced upon the website in 2004 and quite by accident. It was a time when my self-esteem was at the lowest. I HATED my body, hated being a woman, hated my heart, my naïveté and everything was going horribly, horribly wrong. Little I knew then that the turbulence would continue till early 2007... I was far removed from cakes and hated cooking. In fact I hated the kitchen. It symbolised my weakness, of my servility for a bit of love and approval.

For personal reasons, I had quit my job and decided to freelance from home. Coincidentally (since I’m freelancing now as well), back then too it was The Hindustan Times that had given me a break. They had a Saturday page called ‘Gen Now’ and I wrote 700-words feature stories for it. Hmm. Other than HT back then, the freelance plan backfired and I found myself without any job, money or sustenance. That’s also when I was reading one of the abridged four-books-in-one compilations by Reader’s Digest.

I’ve always enjoyed fiction more than non-fiction and if it were ever a choice between a simple, good story and the Award Winning Book On Earth, I’d pick the simple story one. So in that compilation, there was the abridged version of a book. It was the story of Ruth and how she loved baking cakes. How people loved eating the cakes she baked and how her baking was an outward manifestation of her need to look after her family. Her husband had been fired, her parents were living with her and they were in financial trouble. In the book, Ruth’s 16-year-old daughter encourages her to sell the cakes. Ruth’s ageing mother makes hand-made boxes, the daughter becomes her driver and marketing agent and they start a business. Throughout the novel, Ruth speaks of tangy lemon cakes, melt-in-your-mouth sponge cakes and comforting bundt cakes.

The novel made me miss my Ma and how she made her special Black Forest when we had important guests for dinner. Or the moist, soft Pineapple pastry for the ladies’ meetings. Or the Tutti-Frutti special for our tiffins lunch box. In all those cakes, I was her ‘beater’, the one who copied Kumud aunty and whipped the eggs into silken peaks with a fork. The novel made me miss Ma. Made me realise more how I had made a MESS of my life with one stupid mistake. So I cried and as I cried and reached the end of the novel, there was a recipe for a bundt cake. I didn’t know what a ‘bundt cake’ was and as I Googled, I reached a website. A happy website with delicious cake recipes, substitutes if you didn’t have the exact ingredients and more than anything else, stories about why a cake was baked in a certain way. It made me happy, it gave me something to do and it let me reconnect with memories I had forgotten. It also made baking sound easier.

So I started baking, the first time without my Ma. Those who came home liked the cakes. Someone asked if I could bake for their kid’s birthday party, they said they would pay me for it… I did. The birthday party cake was a hit. I had made a carrot-apple cake with walnuts and covered it with light chocolate icing. Two other mothers took my number and ordered two cakes. I was stunned. It was like the book! When they had called, they had asked for a rate card and a menu, I didn’t have either. But the idea stuck and just like the book, I made a menu and began packing my cakes in hand-made boxes (also learnt from the Internet).

People were ordering at least nine cakes a week and as my confidence grew, I ended up getting a media job as well. All in five months to the day I first read the book in June 2004. As ‘tribute’ to the book that inspired me -- though it would be called ‘trashy reading’ by voracious, knowledgeable readers -- I called my home ‘bakery’, Eat Cake. After author Jeanne Ray’s book, ‘Eat Cake: A Novel’. The website that helped me survive with recipes was Joy Of Baking. People in different parts of the globe, who don’t even know me, helped me… I hope to thank them someday.

And then they say that fiction is trash and bloggers/blogging are nonsense. What do they know?

PS: WHAT is it about Andrea Bocelli’s voice? I don’t understand a word of what he is singing, but he DOES something to my insides. His voice makes me want to run without touching the ground, it wants me to feel the wind go through each pore in my body, wants me to cry out loud but not make a sound, it makes me want to pray but not to any god, it wants me to get drenched in the rain and mix in with the mud, it wants me to… Oh. The song just ended. It’s strangely disappointing when he stops singing. I wish I understood. It’s not even PMS.

Talking doggy style again

When I am asked here if I miss India, it's a tough one to answer. Weeks are just flying by and with so much going on here, it's tough finding time to "miss" something that's not there. I guess you just get on with it. Yes, there are facets, things and people I think of, but I am not too sure if "missing" is the right term. Friday night I tagged along with my new girlfriend to check out hiphop artiste Flo Rida performing live at the Queensbridge Hotel, here in Melbourne. While the deejays were good and the people had turned out in the best of the right gear for R&B, I MISSED my Delhi clubs and just standing before the deejay console and dancing. I think also miss 'Indian' music, the deejays I liked watching, listening and dancing too. I am yet to find a place here that I can call my hang-out joint.

The weekend -- and the last one -- has been a family-filled one. Partner's family but the warmth sent my way has been one of the most positive aspects of my first trip outside my country. A lot of things run through my head as I sit amongst people who have warmly and open-heartedly welcomed me within their circle. Those thoughts need sorting out... Except perhaps for the recognition of the fact that I would love a pet. However, perhaps it's not a good idea right now. Partner's parents have 16 cats (yes, 16) and his cousins have a (mad) dog. My favourite cat is a complete slut (very lovingly said) called Molly and lord! Does she make me want to have a kitty of my own or what. After leaving Golu behind, I am not ready for another dog in my life.

Let's see. The coming week there's no uni as it's the spring break here. But there's work. Sigh.

The Hindustan Times (published, August 28, 2008)

Time for some dogumentaries
If you're depressed with
the despondency that’s
dished out in the name
of news, you’re barking
up the wrong tree.
Perhaps it’s time to check
out the dogosphere.

Between Google and Wikipedia (wikipedia.com), you can find answers to almost anything on the Internet. Or news about any part of the world. However, even as technology shrinks the globe onto our palm(tops), ignorance can prove to be bliss as searching for 'happy' news on the Internet ends up being quite depressing.

Surfing through morning news the other day, two adjacent headlines on ninemsn.com stuck out. One was a child-abuse story off Fox news (foxnews.com) about how five-year-olds were being slipped 'silly pills' and made to perform sexually provocative dances at a Texan swingers club. The other story, originally reported on Daily Express (express.co.uk), was of a dog in Argentina, who saved a new born baby that had been abandoned and dumped in a dustbin. The dog, China, picked up the baby and kept it warm through the night, along with her own pups. Gives the phrase ‘animal instinct’ a whole new spin.

When most news on and off the Internet -- the blogosphere included -- is either about makeup you need to buy, break-ups you couldn't avoid, environmental policies that no politician wants to sign and elections involving those very politicians, animals come to the rescue. Blogs on pets often provide much-needed relief when human affairs turn despondent. For those who don’t touch wood at the idea of cats, check out Lol Cats. From eating ‘cheezburgers’ to doing things that only cats can do, the site is a cat-lovers paradise.

For those who believe it’s a dogs world, there’s Dogs With Blogs that chronicles the adventures of Biggie Z (he‘s a one-year-old kuvasz). With a Pawlimpics 2008 award under his belt, Biggie Z ‘writes’, “No Nobel Peace Prize for me any time soon. Maybe if they gave a Nobel for Wreaking Havoc When Confined to a Condo in Brrr Mont in the Pouring Rain with 2 Little Shih-Tzu-Poos Who Bark at Me (and Won't Play) and 9 people I Want to Wrestle With, I might win.”

Three Woofs and a Woo documents the stories of three border collies, a photographer and a mysterious ‘Woo’. If you understand French, check out Faya’s blog, which thankfully has English translations as well. With photographs of the dogs’ antics and contributions from readers about their dogs, the blog is one amongst many that suggests that perhaps a dog’s life is a happier life.

Digest this!

I am so tired. Yet it's after a while that it feels that I've literally'earned' this fatigue. I'm studying and working now. Today, I woke up at 5 am, reported for work at 7 am and stood and made sandwiches -- and other assorted kitchen jobs till 1.30 pm.

After being a mainstream journalist for the last 9 years, now I am a sandwich hand. I make sandwiches and I learned as of today that cranberry sauce and turkey -- though an unusual combination -- make a damn interesting sandwich. I also realised that choice of sandwich pretty much describes the kind of person you might be. Like the lady who refuses to have anything but cheese-toast every single day of her 5-day workweek. She does not smile when requesting her order, she doesn't smile when you give her the toast and since it's a pretty basic toast, of course there is no question of her ever saying that it's nice. Markedly different is the guy who likes to try a different sandwich everyday, the more bizarre the better. He leans on the counter, chats with the girls working and takes a lot of interest in what's going into his bread. Despite working in a hardcore corporate environment, he is usually unshaved, has spiked hair and an ear-ring. Also, Indians standing in line stare at you the hardest; perhaps because it's not a Subway and they are not used to an Indian making sandwiches.

My entire culinary experience and taste bud exploration is going through a 360 degrees change here in Melbourne. Some things are hard to digest.

Like the fact that bread -- I don't mean roti, naan or parantha -- has always been paav-roti (quarter-bread literally) in Hindi and Bangla and something you eat for breakfast. However, here it's the staple diet. I had a hard time not saying "But there's no butter on it" when during one of the women's association meeting, girls happily chewed on some 'dry' bread. Initially, I revolted against eating 'bread' for every meal and sorely missed my rice. Even when I do eat rice here -- mostly when we eat out at a Chinese/Thai/Malaysian restaurant -- I am supposed to eat my rice in a bowl and with like a tablespoon of oyster sauce on it. Where is my jhol (curry/gravy) I say?! AND with chopsticks. It's also criminal how much of chicken and meat is wasted on bones because you are eating with a bloody fork.

Daal (which is pronounced and written 'dhaal' here!) is 'lentil soup' and not a main course. And not eaten on top of rice. Or with ghee. In fact ghee would become clarified fat and while people load their sandwiches with cheese -- and slug beer for breakfast -- ghee apparently would give them clogged arteries. Subzi or vegetables are usually eaten raw -- salads you see -- and don't go through the preparation we have in India. However, I must say, thanks to sandwiches, I am eating more 'green' than I've ever had. Also perhaps because in India the green usually becomes yellow or red, depending on haldi and mirchi in it.

It was ironic that bhindi (okra, ladyfinger) is one of the easiest veggies to cook -- chop finely, saute some onions, throw in the bhindi, DON'T add water, salt, half teaspoon turmeric or none, salt to taste and cook will it dries out, delicious! -- is not on the favoured veggie list for celebrated chef Gordon Ramsay. "I find okra extremely difficult to cook, it is gelatinous." Idiot. The range of bread though is quite astounding. I wonder why no one tries to sell Indian food with a health twist to it. 'Roti' is whole-meal bread, unlevened, has no oil or yeast in it. Paranthas can be rolled. Puri will blow their mind and can be an indulgence. Ghugni (a green pea Bengali dish) will blow their minds, here's salad you.... But. ALL that Indian restaurants sell here is tandoori.

Anywhoo. Sorry. ANYHOW. Brrr... The per force language transformation that's happening to my English here is frightening. All those hours spent debating about the correct pronounciation with Dad are being anywho-ed. That's another post.

Below is today's column for The Hindustan Times. The reference to Usha's much-loved Ageless Bonding blog is neither to take her on nor to ridicule her point of view. However, she touched a raw never and since I was working on a sport post, it fit in. It pisses me off. The fact that while every other major nation BUT India is winning golds in the Olympics, our newspapers shamelessly declare that we have 'managed' a gold after 28 years. The last was when I was born.

While I am proud of Abhinav Bindra's feat, perhaps we should ALSO be asking as to why we don't manage to win any golds at all. We are a billion-plus nation, we have enough money to HIRE other cricketers for an IPL and yet, ONE gold?! Unlike China, which is hosting the Olympics and winning gold, I am bloody nervous about the Commonwealth Games in 2010. We will perhaps be the only nation in the history of hosting games where we will foot the bill, other players, write columns about their wins and NOT win anything. We are already creating a scam around the games. What shit is this. Other than cricket, why the fuck do we suck in every other sport?!!!

The Hindustan Times, published August 21, 2008
It's only about winning, stupid!
With blogs on sporting
scandals outnumbering
those on sports, is
'the game' still about
patriotism and the
sporting spirit? Or is it
about something else?

Even as sport has become one of the most lucrative professions, with sporting events promising high TRP ratings, some sporting debates refuse to die down. With the Beijing Olympics dominating headlines -- and the Google search bar -- it's no surprise that the Games are the theme for a post or two in the blogosphere. But it's getting a bit boring.

For one, winning is still a dirty word as bloggers write about the spirit of participation and other such glorious philosophies. Do you think Shah Rukh Khan was interested in 'just participating' when he bought the Kolkata Indian Premier League team? For those missed the point, he was interested in winning. It's all fine to say that Olympics should be a showcase of sporting excellence. But take away the medals and the four-yearly games wouldn't create as much buzz (even with the 'China factor' this year).

A second favourite topic for bloggers seems to be the entire sport-means-national-pride equation. Questioning why the Olympics should be "about representing one's nation", blogger Usha Vaidyanathan of Ageless Bonding asks, "Is it right to criticize her for putting her passion to play before considerations of patriotism?" The 'her' Vaidyanathan mentions is American basketball player Becky Hammond who opted for a Russian citizelnship to be able to 'participate' in the Olympics. To answer the blogger's question, yes, it is reprehensible. Would her blog read the same if in the next World Cup, Sachin Tendulkar was to play as part of the Australian cricket team?

Quoting George Orwell's Sporting Spirit article made perfect sense at one time. In 1945. Not anymore when there are more blogs - not including news websites and sports channels -- on sporting scandals than sport itself.

If Bob Reno's Badjocks has a scoreboard that lists sportsmen (and women) 'tasered' by cops, high school coach sex scandals and golf carts in water, Buddy Maguire on F&*%$d sports comments on the daily dose of sport scandal. Then there's Off Wing Opinion's Eric McErlain who takes a dig on anything and everything sporty. Those are just three of the few blogs on sport and all point to the fact that the spirit of sport has perhaps changed.

And in the spirit of times, perhaps it's high time for Indians to stop lauding participation. Think nationalism and put more merit on winning -- lest we have to wait another 28 years to see some gold.

C for church. C for choice.

A for abortion.
Cocaine is illegal in umpteen nations of the world but the coca plant grows in the wild in other South America. Much like marijuana (Cannabis sativa subspecies, indica), which is regularly burnt off in big cities but grows wildly (it’s weed!) in the picturesque, small hillstation Manali. And why just Manali, I was pleasantly surprised (er, shocked that is) to find it growing in happy bushels in a very respectable colony in Ludhiana. Meanwhile Amsterdam has cafes selling ‘joints’. As you change nations and boundaries, you realise that facets taken for granted in one country/place are alien to another. Even illegal. And then some facets don’t change.

Like abortion. Or the presumption that brave women have babies and bitches kill theirs. Or sluts.

For one, whether it’s India where abortions are legal and dont have religious connotations attached or whether it’s Australia where it’s almost semi-illegal and would displease the Church (for Catholics), there is no sympathy/ empathy for a girl who chooses not to have a baby.

If a woman is pregnant and lord forbid, she has a miscarriage or loses the baby, her support system will be around her. It was a mother who lost her baby. She is allowed to mourn the loss. But if a girl chooses to terminate the pregnancy, the reactions change. No one considers that she could perhaps mourn the loss too. After all, she chose to kill her baby, didn’t she? She is the bitch who could “lie back and enjoy being fucked” (said by someone close when debating the abortion-issue) but did not have the moral strength to give birth to the product of her carnal sins.

She is the woman who for her selfish reasons did not have the baby. She should either not have had sex or should have ensured she did not get pregnant. What if she does get pregnant despite all precautions? What if she is raped?

“Unborn babies have finger nails,” said the girl holding a banner with the picture of a foetus still in the womb. It’s a scene from the movie Juno (2007). Despite the theme of teenage pregnancy, the movie is funny. Juno is funny. Was the joke on the audience though?

On instant recall, of the three Hindi (popularly known as Bollywood) movies that touch upon the subject of pre-marriage pregnancy, the formula has been more or less the same.

In 1969, there was Aradhana (literally means prayer, Sharmila Tagore, Rajesh Khanna), where the heroine gets pregnant with her lover’s baby and he dies in a plane crash. The result? She is ostracised, thrown out of her house. BUT she sacrifices her life, chooses to become a housemaid and have the baby. The audience empathised and the movie was a major hit.

In 2000, we had Kya Kehna (what’s there to say, not literal), where actress Preity Zinta’s character gets pregnant and the boyfriend backs out. She too chooses to have the baby even though her father stops talking to her and all that. The movie was lauded for taking a step towards the coming-of-age of the Indian screen woman. She does not cry, she roars! She was seen as a positive step for single mothers and the movie ends with the character’s best friend marrying her. La di dah!

Circa 2005, there was Salaam Namaste (Preity Zinta, Saif Ali) shot entirely in Australia. It was supposedly avant-garde in talking about live-in relationships and pre-marital pregnancy. The girl gets pregnant, the boy gets cold feet about having the baby, the girl bravely goes ahead with the pregnancy, boys realises mistake and comes back and they live happily ever after.

In the 30 years or so between the three movies, the message has been the same. If you are not married and you get pregnant, a brave, morally couragious woman WILL have the baby. Even if she becomes a house maid, even if her family ostracises her and even if she has to do it alone. A woman is always a mother. All portrayals of women who dont want children is negative. Whether it’s Eva Longoria’s character in Desperate Housewives or Priyanka Chopra’s in Aitraaz (a 2004, Hindi remake of Fatal Attraction).

Brave has baby, bitch kills baby. Or doesn’t want it.

Why is the emphasis always on s/he who is not born? If the pregnant woman is 16, why should she not think of herself? Or even if she is 26 and does not have the means to give that unborn child all s/he deserves – good food, a proper home, an education, adequate time, a father perhaps – is it more prudent to make something out of herself first or to have a baby in penury? Or even NOT have the baby because she is not ready?
I DON’T know the answers. I want to know.