Who wants to kiss the frog?

The following picture might not be suitable for everyone; viewer discretion is advised. Since you've been warned, heart attacks and spewing cannot be blamed on this website.

Also, copyrights exist. If this photograph is found on your website -- without a link to my website -- you're gonna be in trouble. :)






Will you eat that? That's just one of the things I tried and nearly tried on our trip to Laos- Vietnam-Cambodia. Click on album link to see more.

For the record, those frogs ie. once alive frogs, were headless and skinless but were STILL JUMPING in the bowl. They were alive... Does it enhance their taste?

Also if any of you -- especially the meat-eaters -- go "Oh how cruel" when you see/saw the frog picture, please remember that goat, sheep, fish, cows, pigs etc ALL must feel the pain.

For those who eat lamb/goat/beef but frown at others who eat dogs, cats and horses, I have a question: Do you think it's hypocritical that we choose to pet some animals while we eat the others? Or look down upon those who might eat everything?

Stuffing my face from Laos-Vietnam-Cambodia

Day 6: Gay bar, still in Luang Prabang drunk.

Found this post hiding in the written-but-not-published section. Brought back (weird) memories so publishing it now... Written on 22nd May, 2009, Luang Prabang, Laos. Also, I'm not editing it to retain the flavour. ;)


Hello hello
the one thing i love about this blog is that i can be myself. phhhhrst to those who think that blogs are self-indulgent. Even if they are, so bloody what?

Today can be labelled as Rip Off Day...went to Tadse waterfall which had no water and no fall and we payed USD $ 3 for it. Yes, its meagre but someone is earning it and being ripped off is not a good feeling.

Back from a foot-leg and head-shoulder massage. OOOOOH they are bloody good. PArtner makes faces that i have never seen before. Bought a Terry Pratchet book. Itbasu should like it, though i wouldna said so if i weren't drunk. As i have mentioned before, it takes very little to get me drunk. Today --- after massage -- it was but one Long Island Ice tea. bloody good drink i say. its my first in 3 days. The Laos beer is called 'Beerlao' and i cannot have it because i just dont like beer. Pardon typos and weird English because right now i am thinking in English, Hindi and a smattering of Laos...

So bloody waterfall was dry and got bitten by 14 mosquitoes...i know because I counted. Then we slept off because I awoke at 5 am to shoot monks. Shoot as in camera. :D The monks are given little handfuls of sticky rice. Most menus here write it as "Stricky rice", much like Indian menus that have "stop parantha", which means stuffed paranthas. Phonetics is a funny business.

So i shot monks and spoke to a 1-year-old Canadian journalist. As in she's been a reporter for a year. She's taking a break from her work and her boyfriend. They've broken off for the period she's travelling. I felt jaded. She called me jaded. Whatever.

BY the way, the massage girls said Indian girls are beautiful, while asking me if I wanted a pedicure. So i don't think it was for me. It was for the dollars. Blah, whatever, I am 52 kgs. :( I just shouted because a huge ugly moth went down my cleavage. Everyone else gave me a look. To check out Partner, we are in a gay bar. It's the only one that's open. And it's right on the street so. Thankgod Partner is a boobs-man and not a butts' man...

Doklet- Nha Trang, Vietnam

Just look at the place... need I write more? We stayed at the White Sand Resort, Doklet (pronounced 'jok-let'). And just did not want to leave.
I am grateful that someone invented the camera. Sunrise like this is hard to imagine. Or maybe because my imagination sucks. Is there a name for the colour of the sky?!




That's my thong/slipper. The crab is not a pet, though it was bloody curious.

Waiting: Siem Reap to Bangkok

1. Waiting at the airport to get to the penultimate leg of our journey. Ideally, we should have been sitting on an island beach. Except that Indian passport cannot get you across road borders from Cambodia into Thailand. So we reached the border and had to come back to the hotel.

2. I think, think because I have not checked my big bag yet...that I might have lost my notebook. That is depressing enough to not want to write anymore. :(

This picture was taken on the first boat trip in Luang Prabang. We had an overnight stopover at a village called Pakh Beng and what a storm it was! Olympus 900 camera, hi shutter speed and 27 shots in one row yielded this. I'm hoping it would clear out more with some photoshop. Whaddyathink?

2. Boat trip: The next day, thanks to the previous night's storm and loads of food and drinking, this is what the people on the boat looked like...

Vignettes

1. Fisherman on the Mekong: Travelling from Luang Prabang to Muong Ngoy on slow boat.


















2. Halong Bay, Vietnam: An overnight stay on the 'Margareutte Junk' in beautiful --- but overcrowded -- Halong Bay.

Day 12: Hanoi, Vietnam

So we are here. And it's been like a merry-go-round of emotions, sometimes just go-round and not merry at all. The reason is one word, rather country, Vietnam. It's full of contradictions.

While Laos and particularly Luang Prabang and Muong Ngoy (heaven on earth) had been beautiful, relaxing and very pleasing; from the moment we entered Dien Bien Phu... It was like entering Delhi, with different faces. Touts grabbing at your arm, poking your shoulder for attention and shouting at you (!) if you didn't pay them attention. It got worse when we took the bus from Dien Bien to Son La.

The journey from Dien Bien to Hanoi was either a plane tw0 days later or a 12-hour bus ride. We thought we were being smart when we decided on a break-journey-bus-ride. It included a stop-over in trucker-city, Son La. What a nightmare. The Lonely Planet had warned it's a town full of brothels. We ended up in one, it was near the bus stop. Why did we go there? Oh because we were short on cash by the time we reached Son La, I was getting paranoid and well, I was getting paranoid. Also, the whole shouting-poking-touching was getting to me. In Delhi, I would have solved it by punching them in the face... But you can't do that in another country. And I have never been good with being patient or polite. Especially not when someone is siddling close to me and shouting. Sigh.

But I am learning. Last night at the shady Son La guest house was not pleasant at all. The poster of a girl with one boob bared should have warned us; we were tired though. Two hours later, the sweet-but-tired looking girl sitting at the reception changed into this garish caricature of a woman with loads of makeup and a lost expression. Another women, equally garish appeared to be ordering the other girl around. Second woman was the madam. As we walked up to our room, there was a TV blaring out of another rooml; stupid me happened to look in through the window... there was a guy lying nude with women's clothes strewn on the bed. Another hour later as Partner and I tried to sleep, we heard a woman wailing from another room. It continued for 20 minutes. Then some harsh voices, couple of men, some more crying and scary, scary silence. Two hours later -- 2 am now -- I was woken up by the sound of men laughing and hooting. Partner was awake, with one hand stroking my forehead to calm me down. Thankfully it was nothing sinister, just boys watching soccer.

Anyway. After all and a rather bumpy 6-hour ride on the bus, we arrived at Hanoi. I have been surprised... but I gotta run now. Let's just say that after the initial scare and absolute disaster that could have been Vietnam, I am looking forward to it. More later. :)

Day 10: Dien Bien Phu, Vietnam

It was a bus that got us from Muong Ngoy (Luang Prabang province, Laos) to Dien Bien Phu (Dien Bien province, Vietnam). Sweaty, tired and looking forward to a feed, it took five-minutes off the bus to realise that Vietnam is very different from Laos in attitude.

Aggression is the game here. That said, nothing or no one can beat the Delhi/Agra guides in aggression though. Tomorrow, we take off -- another bus or a cab perhaps -- to Hanoi. I am really excited about that city. Awesome food, steeped in history and great shopping. :D

Public transport in Vietnam is bloody interesting... unlike Laos and Thailand, which use 'Tuk-tuks' -- their version of the Delhi three-wheeler/autorickshaw -- Vietnam has a culture of bike-hopping. As in the 'taxis' are motorcycles! :)

For some weird reason that I am yet to fathom but will get to the bottom of...the women here are smiling a lot at me. And I mean, a lot. Those who've been reading this blog would know that being an occupational cynic, I respond to random sweet smiles with immediately raised levels of suspicion. So far, suspicions -- and Lonely Planet warnings -- have been for no reason. Seems the women like me. (Hmm) Let's see where it leads though...

I've learnt thankyou, welcome, hello and goodbye in three different languages. I can also count 1-10 in Lao... now I have to start the whole process with Vietnamese. Currently I am sitting at an internet cafe and it's like no other internet cafe I've seen.

There are rows of boys -- in tee shirts or school uniforms -- sitting behind me, on networked computers, playing PC games. Four are playing Age of Empires or some such strategy game against each other while five others are playing soccer. The street we are on has three such internet centres...

The internet places in Laos were expensive compared to Vietnam. In fact many things are different between the two countries. The highway for instance. The Laos highway to the border was all dusty, muddy roads and 50 metres into the Vietnam border, the roads are well made.

I could go on, but I am tired and hungry and I've spotted a massage parlour close to our hotel. So while Partner will go and check out the Dien Bien Phu military museum, I shall hopefully get yet another massage and perhaps a pedicure.

We are trying to squeeze in Cambodia as well and I am very keen on seeing some musuems there as well as in Hanoi. Tonight though, I need body servicing. Catch y'all soon.

Day 5: Off the boat, Luang Prabang

So we are in Laos now, in the state of Luang Prabang. It's bloody awesome.

Since we left Melbourne, I've had a plane ride, an 8-hour bus ride (free biscuits, Delhi Transport Corp. should take tips) and a two -day boat ride. Read that? BOAT ride. I sat on the doorway with one leg in the Mekong (Mee-Kwang) river, the wind blowing my hair, lush greenery all around. It has been great fun.

I shall continue the Chiang Mai massage story later, dont have enough time to write in detail. Got to call my parents. Dad's email reads, "Intimate location. Call mom." He treats email like a telegram. :D

Also had another round of massage last night. Basically PArtner and I got beaten up. :D You should have seen his face. The girls and me were cracking up. I also LOVE fishermen pants... MANY pictures, but late.r

Hope y'all are well. Gotta run....visiting a French explorer's grave, temples and more massages for today. Trying to get PArtner to hire a motorbike that he will let me ride as well. He agrees to the hiring but not to the riding. Bloody lovable chauvinist.

Haha, most people here look at us speculatively...they think I am a "for hire" chick he's picked up from Thailand or somewhere. Of course I play my part. On the boat, also managed to fool a German into believing I didn't speak English and was deaf and dumb. :D

Ok later.... mwah.

Day 1: Efficacy of adjacentness!

Notes from: Kuala Lumpur International Airport, 7.50am

Don't know if I'll get another chance like this, but since the opportunity has presented itself; am using it to the hilt.

First stop, KLIA, in transit. Exactly a year and two days later, we are back in KL, or at least at the airport. This time however, we are flying the cheapest airlines possible. It's showing as Partner and I, both have stiff necks and sore legs. We could have had upset tummies too, only they did not feed us much on the plane. There's only that much you get on economy tickets.

Also, unlike the last time when I saw the swanky side of this airport, this time it's the slightly seedy side. It's still very organised and disciplined -- compared to the experience at Delhi airport when I left India in July 2008 -- however, the jazz is missing. Lsat time we were in Terminal 1, this time it's the for-local-travellers Terminal 2. Much downgraded and everything doesn't sparkle as much. But thik hai, I can post!

Currently, I am sitting outside the smoking room, adjacent to the toilets, which is where Partner is. I saw it is very good placement: Every smoker after a 10-hour flight will want a smoke and a shit. And, when you really wanna go, you really don't want to hunt for a toilet.

Two things are remarkably different from the last time we travelled.
1. Global economic crisis: Therefore, now the Malay government only allows to take 1000 ringitt outside the country. But surely, if there was a crash and people wanted to pull out all their monies, they wouldn't be taking all of it out as cash, no?
2. H1N1 endemic: Medical forms to fill and airport officials wearing face masks.

Two huge, global developments in 365 days...what are we going to encounter next?
The way forward is a flight to Chiang Mai, Thailand. After that road trip. Hopefully, should be able to update..if not..let's see!!!

Off we go...

1. Passports. check
2. tickets. check
3. undies. check.
4. deo. check.
5. crossword book. check.
6. camera. check.
(7. blog update. check)

So am off. Tomorrow, 7.30am, in Kuala Lumpur. Three hours later, flying to Chang Mai. Excited.

Will hopefully update. As is with a lot of Asian countries, ATMs are hard to find, internet cafes are not. Unlike in Australia, where it's the opposite.

So then...shall update soon enough. :D Stay good and if you decide to stay bad, dont get caught.

WOOOOOOHOOOOOO!!

PS: Billy and plants (they're my babies too) are at the grandparents' (back to the farm). Billy loves it, I hope he remembers me two months later...

The fire within

1998-1999. I had recently moved to Delhi with my parents. So many things were new. Opinions were new, I discovered I had them, I was allowed to state them and no one said, "You can't say that because I am your father."

The biggest shock though was calling "seniors" by their names... In the army, everyone is aunty or uncle, even those just two years older to you. In the 'outside' world, you were judged by what you did, the stories you cracked, not by who's daughter you were.

The outside world was also not as protective as dad (or the army). I wasn't 'baby' anymore, no one was there to collect me from school. Older men weren't scared of my dad to approach me. Older women weren't maternal figures anymore, they had claws. I developed mine. I learnt to use the public transport system, to haggle with autorickshaw drivers, to not trust older men, be wary of older women. I longed to validate my identity, my existence.

I wanted roots. My roots. Delhi rooted me. Hah, literally. (grin) Jobs, houses, friends, lovers, attitudes formed, morphed, lost...gained. Heartbreaks, promotions, scandals (oh yeah), pets!, vices, gods... Everything was new, everything was different, everything was to be learnt, discovered. Ten years went by.

2008-2009. I have recently moved to Australia. So many things are new. Opinions are new, I have had them, I am changing some of them. I'm learning to respect other opinions as well. Of course, sometimes I forget. It's funny how from discovering you have opinions, we grow so possessive about them to let go...

The biggest shock was calling someone else's parents by their names. Toughest was calling Partner's parents by their names. Strange was when at times Partner would refer to his parents by their name!

The world outside India (and the media) is not the same. I am judged by how I adjust, what I learn and un-learn, by what I bring to the plate... Not by the stories I've done, the bylines I collected or who's girlfriend/wife I am. Both my press card and my Indian driving license mean nothing. My passport and the 'India' on it is my identity; legally and in many other ways. So far that is...

Oh yes, I also eat cow and am not in hell.

After 10 years of working for the best media houses, I've made sandwiches for people and cleaned tables. My resume has so far been worthless; even for getting a job at a bookstore. :) Friends, associates, attitudes, vices, interests are forming, morphing... No promotions or scandals (yet). Lover remains the same. :)

I moved so much in India, then moved out of India and now... I am stepping over boundaries, geographically, mentally, hell even physically. Like piling on kilos (hrmph).

It's like a dream. Things and places I read about in Readers' Digest and National Geographic, saw movies about, read in fiction novels... Those things, places, people are real. Real enough to touch. feel and taste (er, not the people).

I am happy and I am humbled....AND we are flying to three awesome, awesome places on Sunday evening. See if you can guess them?

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)

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...

Blood, beats and the rhythm of rage

Some coincidences in life are funny.

On Monday night, while watching Media Watch, host Jonathan Holmes made me re-think my reaction to SRS (henceforth You-Know-Who). He was blasting off an Australian journalist for her ‘opinion’ column where she suggests beating up members of a political party because she didn’t agree with their opinions. Holmes’ exact quote, “That’s not opinion…that’s hate mongering.” It was pretty much what I had written in the gadha post. It made me re-think my reaction. Even though we are justified in our anger towards You-Know-Who, violence-against-violence is NOT the answer. What then is the answer to fear, frustration, anger and a sense of persecution?

The answer came through a series of coincidences…

Partner was out for an official dinner last night – read, bingeing with the blokes – and I was sitting at home with a massive headache. After losing the throne of Therebor and being beaten by the hordes of Mordor for the eighth time (Xbox 360, The Battle for Middle Earth II), I took my hurt ego and hurting fingers to watching some TV. Now Special Broadcasting Service (SBS) is one of the best channels here. It shows really good documentaries and it’s the only channel that gives equal representation to the multicultural Australia… Australians, Indians, Koreans, Indigenous; it has ‘mixed’ reporters/news readers. So last evening, I came across a documentary on Rio de Janeiro; rather the favelas – shanty towns aka slums – of Rio. It was the drums and music along with the images of dancing, bedraggled children that made me sit up.

It was like looking at Mumbai’s Dharavi again… plastic and human refuse, thatched huts that look like an ugly, mismatched mosaic in aerial shots, dogs and children generally lying around, poverty… and corrupt, corrupt police. While Rio creates images of exotic holidays for most – ignorant me included – there is a prevalent drug culture there. A drug-gang culture. To combat the drug-gangs, Rio has the military police, which can even put Delhi/Mumbai police to shame with its corruption and ruthlessness. If we hear about fake ‘encounter killings’ in Mumbai, the Polícia Militar (literally, military police) – under the garb of flushing out drug-gangsters – is also known to shoot innocent people at “point blank range”… often wrongfully. Or perhaps intentionally, no one can stop them.

The documentary was called ‘Favela Rising’ and was about the Grupo Cultural AfroReggae. Who are AfroReggae?

“…a Brazilian cultural group from Rio de Janeiro. Forged out of the police massacre of 21 people in their local community in 1993, they have gone on to establish an international profile for their pioneering work in taking young people out of the drug/gang culture of Rio de Janeiro’s favelas (shantytowns).”

It’s a cultural group that takes on the police and the drug gangs through… Music. Their songs talk of politics, murder, police, drugs and they dance their desire for life. AfroReggae strongly believes that “hatred breeds violence”. It was stuff out of movies, only this was not fiction: The sheer will power of one man – Anderson Sá, former drug dealer and the man who started AfroReggae in 1995 in the favela, Vigário Geral – to move people, to make a difference. As Anderson’s fiancé says in the documentary, “He is so determined to save the world, he does not think about himself.”

Because, like us, Anderson was and is, pissed off.

21 people assassinated by the police
Our people killed by luck of draw
Hatred breeds violence, I’ve had enough
Yet my pride still resides in Vigario
I love my community
But I’m pissed off.

From the song, I’m Pissed Off, AfroReggae

The people in the favela don’t blame anyone. As one old man said, “We don’t blame the government anymore. We realise that the society, people, the police, religion, us….we all have to do something if we want things to change.” Much like blaming LK Advani, Sonia Gandhi, the gaping economic chasm, Hindiusm and Islam or the billion-plus population of India will not help.

It’s like taking a crap: if you don’t wash your bum, no one else will wash it for you. Or wipe it (Australia, toilet papers here!)

Whether it is media-mongering thugs like You-Know-Who or roadside eve teasers. Blank Noise Project does it’s own peaceful thing for handling eve-teasers… Bangalore-based rock band Thermal And A Quarter (TAAQ) are doing their bit for tackling You-Know-Who and other similar death eaters. The newsletter from TAAQ was the other coincidence. I was sitting and watching videos of AfroReggae on YouTube when G-talk announced a new mail.

“…it’s time to unlock our chords, vocal and all. For nearly a month, Bangalore has been rocked by a big protest against the self-appointed moral police. While mostly everybody was throwing hate back at the hate-mongers, we came up with our strongest response: One Small Love. This unusual protest song is about making a difference through random acts of love – to unexpected people, in unexpected places, in unexpected ways…”
You can hear One Small Love here and can download it here. Check out AfroReggae’s MySpace page as well…it doesn’t matter if you don’t understand the language. Dance along.

CNN-IBN journalist DP Satish wrote on his blog that the best way to deal with You-Know-Who is to not give them publicity. While it is a good idea to not give them any hype, it will be silly to not discuss the issue. We will not make such issues or such people go away by not discussing them. The idea is to KNOW, so that we know how to react. While the media and bloggers did provide You-Know-Who with a global platform, they also informed people. Perhaps the next time those at the receiving end will be better prepared. Perhaps instead of just one man speaking out against You-Know-Who and other death eaters, more will stand up and refuse to let them have their way.

So many people making themselves heard and reacting is a good sign. Perhaps eventually, we will not need help wiping/washing our bums. And if what it takes is singing and dancing to the rhythm of rage, so be it.

Disclaimer: This blog/post does not in any way seek to infringe any copyright of JK Rowling or the Harry Potter trademark. Just in case her lawyers decide to sue the blog owner, the use of You-Know-Who and ‘death eaters’ is duly attributed to JK Rowling. Thank-you for a phrase that describes evil so well, even though there is nothing magical about these evils. As a gesture of good will, the blog owner will soon be buying Tales of Beedle the Bard as well.

PS 1: Thank-you for the comments on the previous post....despite the numbers who end up reading this blog, not many react or interact. That is fine! Even if you choose not to comment, it would be nice if you pass on the One Small Love link to friends and people. Tks!

PS 2 : Check this out as well….LOVE the music.
See the AfroReggae in action, click on the video.

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?

The Pope, politics and potty!

In another hour or so I'll be heading for my first class. Let's see how that goes, kind of nervous. Even before classes, I found myself signing up for two campaigns. One supporting a change in abortion laws in Victoria (the state Melbourne is in) and another supporting the cause of giving transport (train/tram) concessions to international students and postgraduate students. Hmm. No, I hadn't planned to join in campaigns but I did. Hopefully there will be a workload from uni and hopefully it should not be boring. I am BLOODY bored and itching to get on with things.

While on one hand the media is/was abuzz with Pope Benedict's visit on the World Youth Day (misnomer though, should have been World Catholic Youth Day, since it seems the rest of the world's youth will really have no hand in world peace or such similar nice things), the other three big news are about Indian-origin doctor Jayant Patel being extradited from the US on charges of negligence and manslaughter while he was working at te Bundaberg hospital in Queensland, a senior foreign correspondent for commercial Aussie TV channel ABC being arrested in Singapore for trafficking 'ice' and Aussie PM Kevin Rudd being torn apart in the media because he said the C word. No, NOT 'clit' (bwahaha) but CARBON, rather carbon emissions. It's funny how earlier the media here loved to bash their PM-for-12-years John Howard and now has a gala time trying to make Rudd trip and fall. Funny how the media here is EXACTLY the same as the media back home. They even say wrong English on TV, "Dr Patel FLIED out of US this morning." Pray, what the eff is FLIED? That on national TV on a show called Sunrise. Perhaps the anchor needed some waking up.

However, unlike the Indian media, media criticism here is much rampant and much more scathing. While our NDTV does a good show in the form on 'Gustakhi Maaf' (lierally means 'pardon me', the puppet-based show anyone?) that critiques (more often ridicules) the politicians, we don't have ANYTHING that looks at the media as such. There's a show here called 'Media Watch' that does a darned good job of looking at what the media - print, online and TV -- is upto. From which journo was heard flirting on air, to putting his/her foot in the mouth, to what report was plagiarised, lacked facts or was botched and even taking down magazines for stupid captions -- they did on lag mag FHM, which had a caption for a camera saying something on the lines of 'Gave all paedophiles/pervs a hard-on when passing by the school.' IMAGINE having a show or even a column like that in India. What do you think will happen? 1. journalist will lose his/her job for suggesting such a column 2. Times of India will most probably start suing everyone involved. Anyone remember what happened to the Mediah blog?

While our desi papers and channels have a fair share of Australia-related news, the three news items I've read here that concerned India were 1. About Dhoni "saving himself" for the 20/20s or one-dayers and not playing in the Test. Someone tell Dhoni his hymen isn't involved. (2.) another about the nuclear deal going bust and India looking at imminent elections and how three politicians with criminal records will be released from jail to participate in the same and how India is one of the world's MOST corrupt nations (think we are number 7, have to check) and (3) Indian-origin doctor Patel news. I logged-in to ibnlive.com this morning and the first interesting news that was flashing was how Indians beat the world in defecating in open places.

Wonder though if we should really feel bad about that since the British top the list when it comes to potty-bums -- defecating and not "washing" themselves. What's worse: Getting it out of the system in the open or letting some loving remains stick to you? Take your pick, leave a comment or mail me. We're talking shit again. ;)

Below is the column I wrote for HT last Thursday, which of course I forgot to put up. Mea culpa.


The Hindustan Times, 17th July 2008
The blogger’s world is
abuzz with stay-at-home
single dads (and
beleagured moms)
who are sharing more
than just pictures of
their kids in the buff

Some parents have a strange habit of clicking pictures of their babies in the buff. With the Internet and blogging, some parents are also putting up those pictures for all and sundry to see. Either there should be legislation against allowing parents to click naked pictures of their kids or some sort of age of consent where kids have a say if they want the world to see those pictures. Parents need to be told that 2-year-old Ratan's picture showing his little wee-wee is really not funny when said Ratan, now 32, brings home the girl he wants to marry.

If on one hand Angelina Jolie's newly popped-out twins are sending the paparazzi in a tizzy to get that first shot (pray why, aren't all newborns red and wrinkled?), elsewhere dad and Australian newspaper The Age's art critic Robert Nelson, is in the midst of a media blitzkrieg for publishing naked pictures of his six-year-old daughter Olympia in the magazine's (Art Monthly) latest issue. While first he denied the pictures are sexual, an essay written on his wife Polixeni Papapetrou's blog seemed to say otherwise.

Perhaps Nelson needs to learn about parenting from mommy-daddy bloggers – parents who blog – who despite sharing regular insights on everything from baby poo, nappy rashes and when-to-wean-the-baby, don't put out naked pictures of their infants. While mommy bloggers come in all ages – from the to-be mommies, newly-mommies to wish-I-wasn't-mommy-because-the-tots-turned-to-teens – the daddy bloggers seem to be singularly of the same 'type'. Most are new dads, most are stay-at-home and most try to be funny. Some succeed.

Some of the daddies rue the time they were single, some of the dads are single and trying to juggle babies and booties and some dads are plain preachy. Writer, blogger, and divorced single dad David Mott invites voyeurs to his blog and offers stories, tips, and expert advice "in an age of online dating, friends with benefits, hookups and booty calls" on Dad's House. If he recommends a beach vacation as the best family outing, he also supports tantrix sex. "Cooking is sexy. Reading is sexy. Tantric sex is sexy. It's the fast-food guzzling, sports blathering, selfish lover sorts of men who are unmanly," says David supporting the cause of men-who-like-gourmet.

Reading through some daddy blogs breaks the myth that it's only women who 'think' babies all the time, men do too! However, unlike most mommy blogs, the daddy bloggers use more humour. Consider the issue of baby names for instance. Greg on Daddy Types suggests using drug names for baby names for originality. "Aren't Paxil, Ambien, and Cialis kind of cute names? Tramadol, Klonopin and Zyrtec, not so much."

Somalia, Sholay and Islam ...

or, let's go to MelBUN!

Clichés have an irritating habit of being bloody true. Beyond laughing at other accents – including the Indian non-accent – and enjoying Peter Russel who disdainfully rips apart almost all tongues, I really had not realized the true import of the phrase “lost in translation”. Till last afternoon when due to my own stupidity, I roamed around for 15 minutes in a cab when I was just a block from our house in Melbourne (we are in an area called Flemington).

I am NEVER going to ridicule people who go abroad and give up their native accents. Hours have I spent laughing at people who go the US or another Western country and develop a nasal twang. Or for that matter at Partner who was rapidly losing his Australian accent and would sound Indian, almost. I have an awesomely pronounced Indian accent and though I speak good English – and Aussies speak ‘Australian’ NOT English – my interactions and conversations with people have been bloody interesting. For one, despite knowing English I can convey MORE through sign language than I can through words!!!

I am being forced to attach an ‘i’ to my vowels and though I think I am doing a horrible job at saying words the Aussie way, people here seem to understand almost anything better than desi accents. Hrmph. Since I cannot keep up with this longer and even the last four days have been enough to make me forget HOW a word is pronounced, think I will have to change the accents of the people around. Let’s see. People don’t understand when I say I’m living in MelBOURNE… unless I say it’s ‘MelBUN’. Why not spell like that as well?

So I got into this cab yesterday and asked the dude to take me to ‘Sturt’ street. He took me to Stop street or something like that and we were both lost. Since I was VERY nervous, I chattered a mile-a-minute and despite pronouncing everything in a way he couldn’t understand, we got talking. He was from Somalia, works 10 hours and has four children. The oldest is 8 and the youngest is a year-and-a-half. “We are creating an African village here,” he said laughing. If his candidness at that was refreshing – couldn't help but think of Narender Modi’s, “Hum paanch, hamare pachchis?” (We five, our 25, alluding to Islam allowing four fives and five kids off each wife) – what was to follow knocked my socks off. When I told him I was from India, he beamed in the rear view mirror and said, “I used to watch a lot of Indian movies in Somalia. I love the one where they toss a coin to decide everything. Sholaiye it was called. Jugnu was a good movie too.” So what if Melbournians don’t understand my accent, Bollywood is conquering the world!

Laughing at yourself is an art, it shows humility and shows you are neither scared nor ashamed to be yourself. It’s something I can do only when I am very comfortable with the people around. Hmm. There are some who just can’t see the lighter side of life and take everything too seriously. Like the Pakistani boy who sat next to me on the Bangkok-to-Melbourne leg of my flight. “Do you know Quaid-e-Azam?” he asked. I didn't and he mocked me saying he knew Gandhi and was shocked that I didn’t know “Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah.” Well I ‘knew’ Jinnah but my general knowledge being sucky, didn’t know he was called Quaid-e-Azam (great leader). My history books (sadly) didn't teach me to look at him that way. THEN the kid asked if I liked poetry. I refused again since I really don’t understand poetry and was playing sudoku and didn’t want to be disturbed. THEN he asked if I knew Prophet Muhammad. I said yes I did and the dude launched into some Urdu shaayeri. By now I had had enough conversation and asked him why he was insisting on TEACHING me about Muhammad. “As a Muslim it’s my duty to spread the message of Islam.” To those who might not be interested? Why?

That incident apart, it’s been an interesting four days. It’s amusing at times, at times worrying, the way India is perceived. At times, there’s nothing to do but accept that we are ‘like this only’. As we argued over Partner wearing the seat belt, Partner’s 16-year-old piped in, “Do you have seat belts in India?” To my ‘of course yes’, he was rather surprised and said, “But why? People sit on top of trains there!” Well, I told him that India is trying to patent seat-belts for on-top-of-the-train rides and he nearly believed it. *grin* But then maybe we should, seat belts and double decker trains. India 2050. What say?

PS: It’s like old days right now, notes in diary and then typing them out later; will be more regular once I have my own computer. How’s everyone?

Ok tata, bye bye!

Oi people,

As of tonight, am flying out to join Partner in Melbourne. It's a year and a half of studying and writing and missing Delhi and those I met here... and learning a new way of life. DAMN. I won't lie, I am excited, nervous, terrified and cannot eat anything right now. Bile tastes real yucky I tell you.

Hopefully Melbourne and me will adapt to each other and no one will feed me to the crocodiles. Given my size and lack of meat, don't think the crocs will enjoy me either. Have no idea about jelly fish though and prefer to see them from this side of a glass wall under artificial life. I SUCK at sport and need to learn swimming. I can only doggy paddle now and the lack of a tail makes that difficult as well. As for 'net ball', playing it with specs on is kinda tough and without the glasses I am blind.

Then again, people have told me they enjoy my food BUT I don't think Aussie dishes use haldi (turmeric) or garam masala. So tad nervous about how does one know when a steak is rare and when its medium-rare when cooking at home. And the moment I think of how happily a kangaroo hops BEFORE it lands on the dinner table reduces me to tears. But then, if i am quite happy watching a chicken die and eating it, i hope i can harden my heart about the roos as well. HRMPH. Shall learn.

Recently when packing, my dad called my clothes 'chindhi', which means 'rags' in Hindi. Now that has made me nervous too since well, I wear small things and well, if I dont like the size I tend to run scissors through it. So well, a lot of my clothes have irregular hemlines because I have chopped them off. And some of my favourites are stuff that have Golu -teeth marks on them... And chicks in Melbourne dress real well... Man!

My best friend called - and she's studied and lived overseas a lot -- and told me to take it easy. So well, no more frantic typing for lack of anything better to do. Shall keep repeating the following to self:

1. What I don't know I can learn.
2. What I cant wear, I shall carry off like the latest fashion statement.
3. NEVER to embarrass my Partner. (will need practice)
4. Learn to keep my mouth shut or speak softly if at all I get the itch to say it as-is.
5. TRUST people. HMMM.

OH... PLEASE mail me your phone numbers and email ids as my current Delhi phone will be out and I am most likely to lose the SIM to retract numbers from it. Eve Emancipation the blog, will continue...let's see if it changes or how. And perhaps Mishraji will visit Melbourne...

To all I have met along the way -- sorry if I said and did things you didn't deserve and if you DID deserve those, let's hope we can start afresh some other time. If you're not interested, let me know, will save me trouble. (Woman, you just said 'learn to keep my mouth shut!)

Aaaaaaaaaa, am blabbering. Am off for second cup of coffee and DO something about this drasted RAT that's running around my friend's house and has jumped OVER my legs twice. Shit rodent.

Ok tata bye bye!!!

Been there, done that, for all to see

Apologies for the vanishing act. Was moving cities and am not in Delhi anymore. Where to and what now, will surely update when the time is opportune. A lot has passed, moving from a city that was home for a decade but never really took me as one of her own, making friends with people who were like passing ships through my life -- stop, dock, refuel and move -- to those I started out fighting and then became friends with, my entire career and the start of an 'independent' life where I learnt a lot and made more mistakes (new ones each time too!)... Changing so many houses, losing hope in humanity and regaining it through a certain dimpled smile and looking forward to something so new, so different, so challenging that I think I am still in shock. Golu Dawg did NOT die, he has been put up for adoption. So much more but in time...


Hindustan Times, June 26,2008
Been there, done that, for all to see

There are three distinct changes in travel today: One, you don’t ‘go to grandma’s’ for all holidays, you don’t have to buy extra film roll anymore and you can upload a picture from your mobile to your blog and show-off instantaneously. Today, as much as travel is about seeing the world, it’s also about showing the world.

With every new travel photograph uploaded on social networking sites and more pins on their “where I’ve travelled’ maps, holidaying is now about where you’ve been and how many know about it. For the choice of destination, experts to backpackers, everyone has an experience to sell. If a tour operator like Intrepid Travel promises off-the-beaten-track tours, Bug Bitten offers been-there-done-that travellers’ recommendations on where to go. With more people blogging their experiences, you realize that flight turbulence scares everyone, no one is happy with the service and despite technology, the seats in planes and trains are still uncomfortable. Greg Messon of Greg Messon’s Esoteric Earth writes simply, with much (often lengthy) detail and often echoes other people’s thoughts when he blogs, “I never quite got comfortable in my seat, so sleep never came, however I was at least able to watch 3 movies on my personal entertainment unit…” Or when Chris blogs on The Art of Non-Conformity saying, “It takes a long time to get to Jerusalem from Seattle, especially if you’re planning your trip around the lowest ticket price…”

Through pictures, text and videos, travel blogging is one of the hottest blog topics.And people are finding creative ways of story telling.

One of most popular forwards was the video of Matt Harding, the software engineer who quit his job and traveled the world, dancing before various places and monuments. Freelance illustrator and graphic designer Mike does it through sketches on Blogshank.

From the usual I-did-this-went-there blogs to Cranky Flier who follows every airline development fanatically and the blog Hope and Healing that chronicles the lives of two physicians who’ve been working in Liberia, travel is getting a new dimension. It also makes for open criticism. Tony France rues the end of class in luxury planes, “With their reputation for engineering, I can well believe that, back in the day, Lufthansa had better seats but it was a no-brainer that Air France had better food!”

This column appears every Thursday in The Hindustan Times

Lecka cocka, bullfrogs and missing buckets

Day 1, May 9, 2008: Kuala Lumpur

It was an overnight flight on Malaysia Airlines and early morning on May 9th, we reached the Kuala Lumpur International Airport (KLIA). The flight was pretty uneventful except that my hair was irritatingly FULL of static and standing at all ends. Also, while I have not flown other international airlines – but have seen and met enough hostesses – I found the hostesses on Malaysian airlines to be very rude and have a peculiar ‘we know better’ attitude. Initially I thought it was my “black armband” as Partner calls it, but over the trip it proved to be more a case with Malaysian Airlines. More on that later…

<--- Kuala Lumpur International Airport
Since we were flying into KL in the morning I could have a birds’ eye view (or plane’s window view) at Malaysia. My first impression was of the country being very, very green. Actually manicured green since all the trees seemed to have the same height. Before it could register, Partner helpfully pointed out that the trees were palm tree plantations for palm oil, one of the biggest sources of income for Malaysia with India being one of the major importer’s. As we got off at KLIA, I was a bit surprised to realize that there were no ‘buses’ waiting to herd-in the passengers, instead you walk out to the terminal, get into a swanky train that then takes you into the main terminal. That was just the beginning; Kuala Lumpur is ALL about efficiency.

The in-flight ad for KLIA says, “It’s impossible to lose your way at the airport,” and they were right. That’s something that super impressed me about both KL and Melbourne – the signage on the streets and the detailing in the road maps – as long as you can read English, even a first-timer to the cities will manage her way around. The same cannot be said about Delhi though: Imagine asking a new-in-town person to find Jhandu Singh Marg*, or locate the right house number in Greater Kailash 1. Once out of immigration, I was further pleasantly surprised that there was no rushing, stomping or fighting over taxis. It’s smooth and was smoother still for us since we had the hotel limousine service waiting for us.

<--- Renaissance Hotel that stands in the KL Golden Triangle
During the ride from the airport to the hotel, we got a complete lowdown about Malaysian economy, politics and a rush-through of places to visit from our cab driver, Malay with origins in Tamil Nadu. Both Partner and I were super impressed with his knowledge of the situation in Malaysia and his individual perspective. Also, unlike Delhi, cabbies in KL don’t keep looking into their rearview to see what’s happening in the back seat. Education, awareness and an opinion were something in common to all the south-Indian-Malay cabbies we rode with in KL. We stayed at Renaissance hotel that was neighbour to the Petronas Twin Towers and Partner took the piss out of me since for a first international holiday, I was having a shamelessly luxurious one. And he should know, his first visit to India was way back in 2000, as a backpacker and here I was staying at a posh five star and then moving to an exclusive, manicured resort for the next four. Funnier still is how fast a human being can adjust to luxury… like showers.

Pic courtesy: http://anneromano.com/images/india_bucket.gif
Some of you might laugh at this – and I do sound like a yokel, but not going to lie – but after having lived in rented accommodations for the last 10 years (17 house shifts) and before that in Army accommodations that aren’t really examples of architecture or amenities – what REALLY struck me were, er, the showers in the bathrooms. Haha, it’s so funny, our perception of how things should be and the kind of things we take for granted. Like in our first winter together, Partner was shocked to find me washing dishes in cold water. “Don’t you have hot water for the dishes?” he had asked incredulously. I had looked at him even more incredulously and pointed out that we didn’t even have a geyser in the bathroom and used an emersion rod for heating water and it was a bit too much to expect hot water for bloody dishes.

ALL my experiences with showers in India have included either houses not having showers at all, or the shower not working, or the shower head skewed at a weird angle where it spews water everywhere but on you, or the knobs rusted with disuse, or the water pressure being too low for the shower to work at all. Or if at all the shower works, most of the holes in the showerhead would be blocked and of course, the faucet head will ALWAYS leak, as a rule. I don’t think we realize, but the balti (bucket) has become SUCH an integral part of the Indian way of life ( also because we are not as toilet-paper friendly). If once I had laughed at Partner because he had been perplexed at the entire procedure of heating-water-bathing-from-bucket, he got his chance when he sweetly laughed at my excitement over “such nice showers”. Ha, ha, no amount of reading or watching movies can prepare you for some things, even if they are just showers. (It’s nice to have a comfort with another to not feel like an ignorant dunce all the time)


<--- KL monorail service makes travel far easier but there is debate on whether it conserves fuel or not
A little rest later we headed out for our first taste of Kuala Lumpur. My first impression of the traffic in Kuala Lumpur can be summarized in two sentences: “I want one of those bikes!” and “What are such young kids doing driving around in such posh cars?” Cabs, few buses for intercity travel, 135 cc bikes, cars, local trains and the ‘monorail’ constitute the transport in KL. Since Renaissance was located bang next to one of the monorail stations, moving around KL was a lark. As I wrote earlier, the maps make things pretty simple and the cab drivers are knowledgeable. From Renaissance we got off at Bukit Bintang, which would be the main shopping area in KL. From small stores with good bargains – we caught 50 per cent clearance sales in almost all stores – to showrooms for the biggest retail chains, KL is like any other major city the world. However, Partner said that the city lacked in “soul,” it was much later that I would be able to make my own judgment of that… For the first few shops, after a long while I was DELIGHTED to find clothes my size. We roamed around for an hour or two in the market and headed back to the hotel since we were to catch up with the family there. Post lunch it was pool time and the beginning of my love affair with the pina colada.

After lunch and burning that lunch in the pool -- constitutes me flapping around -- we all headed to the main market area for some dinner. That’s when I realized that KL comes to life at night. While in the morning people had been out on the streets, it seemed as if the entire city had descended on the roads at night. With lights all around, shops and young people dressed to their heels, it was with surprise that I realized it was 12 am. While the nighttime crowd was mainly young people or families out for a meal, it took only a glance to know that the girls dressed well. If the Chinese girls wore designer outfits, the girls in hijab did up their eyes in the most beautiful way. However, I hardly saw any Indians out…

We were a group of 12 and our dinner was an assortment of fish, bullfrog legs and Malaysian curries. Since I had been practicing using a chopstick in India – simply because Partner could use choppies and I of course was insulted that I didn’t know and therefore HAD to learn, heh – I insisted on having all my meals with chopsticks. For first time chopstick users I would suggest keeping a spoon (even if you have to hide one in your purse) as things slithering off your plate and landing on the floor is not very graceful. Oh yes, bullfrog legs are kinda crispy-chewy... and not something that I would be trying again, no matter what the French say. After dinner some of us headed towards China Town (open 6-11 pm and supposedly has awesome bargains but everything is fake) and four of us – Partner, me and his aunt P and uncle M – went out to check out some nightspots.

Our first stop was this restaurant/bar called ‘Lecka Lecka’, which thanks to my being blind – I am shortsighted and had sat on my specs the night before the trip – I read the sign as “Lecka Cocka” (the logo, look at the bloody logo!). Amused, I also pointed it out to Partner’s aunt, like five seconds before I bit my tongue and realized that that’s NOT something you point out to someone’s relative five hours into meeting them. (scowl) Next time I shall learn to keep my amusing observations to myself. After my initial reluctance at stepping into the place, which was alleviated once I read the sign properly, it turned out to be quite nice. In both Melbourne and KL, I realized that street side cafes are huge business and special care is taken to make the outdoor seating as attractive as the indoor. I couldn’t help but think how a little paint job, some lights and inviting outdoor seating could change the face of Connaught Place in Delhi. For instance, United Coffee House has such a forgotten British charm to it, clean out the exterior, put some umbrellas and chairs and we might just have a truly international shopping experience in CP.


As we smoked our hookah/sheesha at Lecka-Lecka, which was playing some Latino tracks, we all got into the mood to salsa. The fact that neither of us knew how to salsa was not considered and we thought it wasn’t important… We were to be proven wrong. The first salsa place was ‘Q Ba’ where there was a rocking live band belting out tunes with such gusto that we all were dancing even as we approached the bar… However, before we could order a drink we were asked to leave the place as M was in shorts and the place only allowed formal clothes. The seriousness of salsa! While I appreciate keeping the ‘integrity’ of a dance alive, snobbery because some others might know the moves and yet want to revel in it, is not so right… For me dance is about letting go and having fun. Anyway, disappointed we decided to find another joint and after some enquiries, headed off to the Federal Hotel and its bar called ‘Havana’. It was no match for ‘Q Ba’, which was quite obviously a happening place, but it had its share of salsa followers shaking it on the dance floor.

Again, I noticed the lack of Indians both at Q Ba and Havana. KL is supposed to be a multicultural city with many Indian immigrants and locals and yet all day, I had hardly seen any Indians. Senior people I could understand, but didn’t the young Indians go partying? I HAD to ask and cornered the salsa instructor at Havana; he turned out to be Punjabi! My suspicions were right, according to the dude (unfortunately have forgotten his name), most Indians in KL are VERY conservative and do not approve of their kids learning salsa or such. If at all the Indians there party, they apparently usually head for ‘Bollywood’ bars!

Indians abroad being more conservative than those back home is something many people who travel have told me. To me, it seems that it’s either a case of wanting to hold on tight to what you have left behind or a fear of learning new things. Like going to a new restaurant and ending up ordering Indian food all the time. Or it could also be a case of not valuing what we have till we step out of our comfort zones. Hmm… I think I need to travel more to figure that one out. Ha, ha.

After the sojourn on KL streets, it was back to the hotel and sinking into a very tired but happy sleep. My holiday had just started…

PS: Jhandu Singh Marg is the left turn (if you’re coming from South Extension side) before the Hyatt Regency left turn.

PS2: While there weren’t any salsa-ing Indians that I met, it made me very proud that our very own Kaytee Namgyal is VERY well known in the salsa circuits. And to think that I had written about him in the obscure Around Town (published by Ogaan that also publishes Elle, the magazine is now dead) makes me feel real nice. Shows how people with true talent will always prosper…as long as they pursue it with all their energy.

PS3: The other posts wont be this long!!!!