Happy Pujo!!!

And on this Durga pujo I realise that Mohammad was always meant to go to the mountain. Always, even if it meant on youtube.com. Almost three years after an emotionally distraught denouncement of Durga, this Mohammad came crawling back... or trawling back. It was a friend's status update on Facebook, "That time of the year, waiting for the sound of the dhak," that got me by the gut and twisted so hard, I had to hear the dhak for myself.

I've never had the padha (colony/street) experience when growing up. Never been part of a 'cultural committee' that puts together the Durga pujo, of kids who participate in the evenings' entertainment, of young girls who help their mothers prepare stuff. I've always been the 'only visiting' variety. I've pandal-hopped with my parents, bowed and prayed before various idols and gone home. I've also never been in Calcutta/Kolkata for a pujo.

The most spectacular pujo and Ma-er mukh* I remember is from a pandal in west Delhi's Nivedita Colony. I was perhaps 12 years old and she was beautiful. We also had the most amazing kosha mangsho. What had captivated me though was the dhunuchi dancers and the trance inducing beats of the dhak they danced to. The girls were older, perhaps 18, amazingly graceful in their wide-padh sarees and they danced with so much rhythm, so much beauty... I wanted to join them. We didn't watch to see the whole thing because... for various reasons.

Ever since -- at different ages -- I've had a favourite dream sequence of doing a kickass dhunuchi dance, in a lost temple by myself with the most-beautiful Durga idol, huge torches on the walls and the biggest, loudest dhaks ever. I am in a white-sari-with-lal-border, a huge bindi, lots of kajal, hair open, sheathed in perspiration and I don't have a care in the world or awareness of anyone or anything else. And no one can stop me, laugh at me, ask me to go back home and I have no inhibitions about how I look or how my body moves. I'm aware only of the dhak that leads me. And I dance and jump and twirl and leap and collapse in a heap. I'm forgiven. Very filmi but I am very filmi and I love it and I love the dream and each time I hear the dhak, I know I'm going to dream again. (grin)

(Click for details about pujo in Melbourne --->)
The Nivedita Colony pujo is the last 'proper' pujo I remember. The next was in Kalimpong, me 14 in 'love' with a Bengali boy of the same age. And we all met at the pandal, he met my parents too and I hoped in my heart that he would be the man I marry. Ha ha, so silly, so innocent. Of course soon after I found out he was chasing a girl two years older, very beautiful, very fair etc. I don't recollect being heartbroken, I was definitely furious.

The subsequent Durga pujos are fuzzy, the ones in Amritsar involved going to the Army-arranged pujo, nothing spectacular, but the bhog as usual was delicious. Then I was in Delhi, the first year without my parents, in 'love' again, 21-years-old, standing before Ma's idol in Chittaranjan Park with much-older boyfriend, me a two-year-old journalist, dreaming of making a difference and happy I had a man and a career. The boyfriend had his wallet pickpocketed. And of course the relationship ended with much learning and serious heartbreak.

Repeat that story -- without the pickpocketing -- over five more years till 2006. The earth moved, I had many experiences I'd never intended having and my personal resume read of things that had earlier been on the list of bad things that could happen to me. Strangely -- and almost scripted -- the culmination was around Pujo time. So I told myself (and Durga), I wouldn't see her face again. Ever. I didn't go for pushpanjali. Didn't return phonecalls or 'happy pujo' wishes and avoided Durga. I tried sneaking a peek at her in newspapers yet eerily enough and despite the usual coverage in the media, I couldn't see her face that year. Not even a picture.

2007, due to stranger circumstances I was back at the Chit Park pandal. And I ran away. And life changed drastically and put me in Melbourne before the next year's pujo. I cried a lot last year. Didn't do anything on pujo, sat at home, blogged (of course) and cursed my stupidity at various levels. It was same with every other Indian festival in 2008. But I did promise not to repeat it in 2009. I might have left India but I don't want to leave India behind me.

I am not ashamed of my country. I am not confused about who I am and I know what I want. If those experiences will not just 'happen' to me, I shall seek them out. So this year, I should be at Oakleigh Street on October 4th. And maybe, I'll have a little dance with the dhak.

Happy Pujo all of you, particularly the ones outside India. Warm hugs and good wishes. And see this video, it is so, so beautiful. Many thanks to the creators.
*Ma-er mukh: Mother's face, reference to the face of Durga
PS: For the over-enlightened, non-Indians who'd wonder why Indians pray to gods with many arms, it's the same reason why say, Catholics pray to someone who turned water into wine.

"Things I have to do"

Recently we saw Pixar's latest animated feature, Up. It was the second time I was watching a movie in 3D, the first being Spy Kids-Game Over. As a 3D and movie-watching experience, Up beat Game Over hands down.

Better effects, much better storyline, absolutely adorable characters and complete involvement for me as the audience. I really loved Up. It's a bit strange since when I had first seen the trailer -- before the screening of Quentin Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds -- my reaction had been "Duh, who wants to see a movie about a 70-year-old widower?" I am really glad that I was proven absolutely wrong.

I've always had a soft-spot for animated movies and those that are dubbed kiddie-flicks. What I enjoy about these movies is the lack of pretense. They all want to entertain you... Yes, there are messages in the movie, but I appreciate it that the messages are woven into the stories much better than those in 'adult' movies. Up is a total entertainer, whether you watch it alone, with your partner or with the entire family. It had me bawling -- but I bawl easily in movies -- in the first 10 minutes and then completely took me along for a laugh ride soon after. Even Partner, who is not always up for 'kiddie' movies (he refused go for Coraline), was smiling through Up and came out of the theatre happy as well. Other than the antics of the characters, the sheer brilliance of the 3D effects and the all the action in the movie, I related to some bits of Up in a really, personal way.

A week or so back I wrote a post on how I'm feeling that there's something big about to happen but I have no idea what... I've been stewing over it for a fair while now. When I stew, I get grumpy with people, feel unmotivated and I'm generally unpleasant. In other words, I'm not the best of company. Browsing through websites yesterday, I came across Up again. The message hit home.

Up talks about having a big adventure in life. Rather how we all wait for that something big to strike, to exhilirate and thrill us and to change our lives. I know I'm waiting. Waiting for a number of things to happen before I can say, "Yes, I'm happy now." And while I wait... I stew and I ignore all the little things around me.

Will I be truly happy only if I get a book published? I think I do a good job of keeping my house beautiful, I'm good with plants, getting better with cooking... But I often forget to be happy about those things because I am waiting for THE break. Will I be truly happy if I get married? And yet, I often forget to appreciate that I have a truly loving relationship, in fact, almost what I'd visusalised a "happy" relationship to be.

Will I be truly happy if I get a job? Of course that would mean earning money of my own... but to do what? Rather, what is it that I can't do now? A job would perhaps mean a sense of personal ratification, of putting a 'value' to my self worth in dollars. But am I not worth anything if I don't have a job or can't get one? Hmm. Ok, honestly, before making a big statement on that one, perhaps I need to sort out issues of self-worth within my head. :)

The point being -- and the message in Up -- is that we get so caught up in defining the big things that define happiness that we completely overlook the smaller things. We don't even notice them. I don't want to do that. I want to be constantly happy. Whether it means a sense of satisfaction when I sow the seeds and the first portulaca saplings burst out of my pots. Or swimming in the heavenly aroma of baked muffins that have turned out well. Or basking in the peace that spreads on Partner's face when he comes back to a comfortable, clean home. Or even enjoying the few, but treasured comments/conversation that I have on this blog.

I don't want to die regretting the things that I didn't do or didn't happen. I want to remember and cherish and enjoy the things -- however small -- that I have.

There are days I will forget and bemoan the lack of the big stuff, there are days I'm sure you will too. But here's hoping we both remember. That while we wait for the big stuff, we remember to look at the small ones and be happy about them. It will be emancipation in a way...

PS: Please do watch Up. You will not be disappointed.

I'm feeling it

Ever get the feeling something BIG is about to happen...but you have no bloody idea what?

That sense of suspense is running so thick through my blood, it's coagulating now. What? When? Good, bad or brilliant? Bad but manageable? Argh.

Good things that could happen:
1. Land a job in my line of work
2. Land a book deal, with heaps of advance, maybe two because they love me so much
3. Get sponsorship to open a cafe/restaurant/take-away
4. Get a baby... like without doing anything, like gift wrapped (er)
5. Get a puppy as a gift...and someone to walk it
6. Wake up tomorrow and suddenly know how to drive
7. Look 10 years younger, like that, without makeup
8. Get hired by Lonely Planet...along with advance and book deal, it will be called 'If Julia can, Jhoomur Bloody Well Can'
9. Partner proposes, while we are toasting the great new job and the advance on the book deal and we are standing before the Pyramids...tomorrow! And there's a dog at the foot of the Pyramid...with a gift wrapped baby on its back! With proper adoption papers! And the deal with adopting the baby involves having to run this restaurant. !!
10. All of the above

Bad thing that can happen:
None of the above. Sigh.
Pic = scrapetv

Your press card is invalid.

I've been bloody irregular. I am sorry. Or perhaps I am not. Why should I be? No one pays me to write. No one gives a damn either. Or maybe they do.

It's not that there aren't things/topics to write on. There are. But does my opinion matter? Do my thoughts count? Who the eff am I anyway? Or who do I think I am?

There was a time I was bloody particular about my name. Now the name -- it's phonetic challenge and 'exotic' value -- have become a bane. 'Jhoomur' once, was known. Now I include 'JB' in my resume as well. Just in case 'they' -- whoever they might be -- cannot pronounce my name... Or throw my resume in the bin because of, "What the eff's a jhoomur?"

There's a phrase here, "She's a goer." It means someone who strives, who doesn't let up, a 'go-getter'. Some smart people have also said that when the going gets tough, the tough get going. It sounds bloody cool. But when the tough get going too hard, they end up with tired feet. A broken spirit. Humiliation and an identity crisis.

I blame it on the media. A press card -- that small rectangle with your name, designation and declaration of affiliation with a media house are big things. They begin defining who you are. They defined me for 10 years. Now it's what the eff's a jhoomur. From being interviewed to not getting interviews and not even being eligible for making sandwiches. And people think immigrants just walk in and take native jobs?! How? Where? Can they teach me?

And to think that I chose to leave it all... Personally, I couldn't be happier. But the moment I begin considering the 'personal' in context of just Me -- removed from other people, love, etc -- it begins to irk. Gnaw. Eviscerate.

Ironically, when I've blazed professionally, my personal life has been in the pits (even deeper under). Yet now that the personal angle is happy, I crave that rectangle that was me. My hard work, what I had nurtured... From being 'someone', to being a mere 'huh'.

Now I am beginning to get scared. The tough get going... But what if I am not tough?
Pic courtesy: Sojones

Where are you?

"Either you are thinking about what happened in the past or worrying about what will happen in the future. You forget to consider the present. That's the only trouble with you."

That's what Partner said to me two days back... Hate it though I may, he is right.

I don't regret my past, but I do think if I could have taken some decisions differently, done things another way. Perhaps the biggest past factor with me is thinking about people. I don't exactly nurse a grudge, but I find it hard to forget. I might think I have forgiven, but then at unexpected moments I realise I don't know how to forgive. It all comes back.

The future thrills me and scares me to death. I fear losing what I have, but even more than that, I fear that I might stop appreciating what I have. I've run from jobs, relationships, people... What if I do it again? Partner calls it my "second guessing streak". He says I think negative thoughts and either worry myself trying to prevent it or worse, get fatalistic and make it happen.

I can perhaps stop thinking about the past. But the future...? It confuses me, when people say "live in the present, don't think about the future". Will not our actions today affect our tomorrow?

Do you live in the past, present or the future? Try this quiz as well.

Pic = ScienceBlogs

"And your mother too"

<--- How to ensure a good weekend when Partner is away... 1. Try new SFF (science-fiction-fantasy) author... However, it's grandly irritating that these days authors don't finish a story in a trilogy. Isobelle Carmody's Obernewtyn series runs into seven bloody books. (And am now starting on those...) 7 X 25.5= do the math.

Given that Sara Douglass' third book in the Darkglass Mountain series -- The Infinity Gate -- is supposed to hit book-shelves on/around May 26th this year; it's a long wait. I cannot even curse Sara to hurry up because the dear storyteller is underoing chemotherapy. I love her writing. If at all I have spent money reading Terry Brooks, Fiona McIntosh, Stefan Brijs, Stephen Donaldson (groan) and Stephenie Meyer (bigger groan), it's because I am waiting for Infinity Gate... Oh Ms. Douglass, do get well soon. Someday perhaps, I shall either interview you or sit and discuss plot-lines. (Weekend also involves day-dreaming)

2. See the movies I've really been meaning to see: That would NOT include full-of-full-frontals French movie Romance or that loser-werewolf crap called Skinwalkers. I mean, what self-respecting werewolf remains wearing jeans and a leather jacket when s/he phases? 'Phasing' is when a human shifts shape into werewolf and back. More insulting, was when three of the bad-werewolves -- those who still kill human beings -- are busy feeding; the female werewolf and leader werewolf are busy screwing. WTF?! Aren't they hungry or what?! If it was that bloody easy to control werewolves, Remus Lupin would never have died. And DON'T ask me WHO Remus Lupin is. Scoff.

Thank-you to all those who recommended City of God. I LOVED the movie, loved it, loved it, loved it. And highly recommend it to the miniscule who haven't seen it yet. Isko kehte hain piktar! And again, Rio and Mumbai...the similarities shook me. But that some other time...

As for Romance, it was scandal for nothing. The scandal was because the movie had real sex scenes; as in the characters actually do it instead of just simulating sex sequences. Apparently the movie was banned in Australia because the film board here could not find the right rating. Seriously, it should be banned, it's SO badly made. As one reviewer on Rotten Tomatoes says, "Porn was never so sleepy." If it was a blog though, it would run away with traffic. One scene stood out -- only one -- when the girl screws this street-bum and as he is finishing he screams, "Whore! Slut! I did you good!" and she starts howling and screams back, "I am not ashamed." That was the whole point of the movie and in my humble opinion, only that scene managed it.

3. Drink lots of wine, coffee and cola. Have donuts and Lindt's Lindor dark chocolate truffles for accompaniment.
4. Sleep.
5. Blog.
6. Clean house.
7. Maybe cook something...
8. Maybe put it up on my food blog.
9. Try not to mope.
10. Count hours till Partner comes back...

PS: Partner has gone for a buck's weekend...that would be a bachelor-party-weekend. There will be nearly-30 men drinking, playing golf, swimming, drinking, cracking dirty farts and dirty jokes, playing some more golf, drinking... you get the picture? Why don't girls do anything like this? The girl's version is called a hens' party. But isn't 'doe' the female to buck?? Why hen?!! And hell...if I ever get married here... who will come for my hens? I have no hens. :(
I miss my friends.

The object of my (des) ire

"Do you ever get tired of thinking?" read the comment. No.

It's involuntary, like breathing. Inhale thought, let it mix in the blood stream, pump through the arteries, convolute in the veins and exhale out. In notebooks, on napkins, on the margins of whichever page of whatever book the eyes are on, behind book covers; sometimes here.

Some thougths are triggered by a song, a scene, a scheme. Some are like the past, with a subconcious claim over my dreams. The purest of those thoughts, those dreams are fuzzy... I don't know how to consciously create them. Like you can consciously create a day-dream where everything is geared to make you come out the winner. To make you happy. Day-dreaming and cynicism are mutually exclusive.

The clearest thoughts/dreams involve pain. Hurting others. A departure from reality, where always, I am the one left curled up, tired to cry, hoarse to scream. With such a tremendous pressure on the chest, it feels the heart will disintegrate and pour out of my mouth in a bloody vomit. Each droplet out like acid splattering on another's face. Burning through their skin, eating into their brain. Demanding reasons, retribution, revenge. Justice.

But justice is overrated, poetic justice befuddled. And revenge is like your own personal rancid rainbow -- of reeking reds and gory greens -- that you can run to, but never touch. So you run from it. You think you are "letting go". But the scarlet-tinged, fluoro colours are always, always there in your peripheral vision. Mocking. "You idiot! Others are reaping the rewards of your hurt. Of your heart. Ha, ha."

I don't get tired of thinking. But I tire of repetitive thoughts with no results. Of a clingy past that I cannot shake off. Because I cannot seem to stop remembering. How do I let go? ... Or how do I hurt? Because sometimes, so many times, I really don't want to hurt. I WANT to give it back.

And if that makes me a bad person, guess I am like everybody else.

Saw pseudo-vampire flick Twilight last evening. Pseudo because they have no fangs, just strong teeth. More a horse than vampire I say. Hrmph. Have read all four books by Stephenie Meyer. It's a teen romance masquerading as a vampire flick/book. So S.L.O.W. Kristen Stewart looks constantly constipated, Robert Pattison looks anemic (well, he's a 'vegetarian' vampire, snigger) and there's zero chemistry between the two. The books are a cruel joke. My translation: A perfect man is only possible if he's a vampire, i.e. a work of fiction. Hah. Read the books if you have to, give the movie a miss. Partner either groaned or yawned through it all. But at least we are even; four history documentaries against one chick-flick.

Came back home and saw Korean director Chan-wook Park's Sympathy for Lady Vengeance. Loved the movie. Completely empathised with Geum-ja Lee... what if vengeance does not liberate? What if it doesn't shake off the past? DO see the movie. It's black.

PS: This doesn't make any sense does it? Good. It's still my blog you know.

Curious co-relation between the two movies? Tofu. 'Edward Cullen' says surviving on animal blood is like living on tofu, does the job but never satisfies you. Lady Vengeance has tofu too... it signifies purity of soul. But never satisfies?

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?

When your mouth smells like cat piss...

... you should try and not breathe into the pillow. The odours off your own mouth can be really noxious.

The previous post was written under the influence of machine-gun-tequila shots. That is the variety when the shot glass is really big and you don't even stop to suck lime in between the shots and have all four one after the other...

The result is that you go from perfectly sober (was about to 'perfectly sane', but it was far from that last night!) to whoa-keyboard-keys-are-jumping-out-at-me in a matter of seven minutes. And in THAT state we went out...

There must have been something about my body language last night because suddenly eyes were noticing me... I was not 'behaving' drunk but I definitely had my I'll-burn-you-baby hat on. The waiters at the Vietnamese joint were smiling more...despite me having taken a couple of bites out of someone else's order. The bouncers at the club while ignoring the other chicks were quite 'flirtily protective' and of course my tattoo has always been used as an opening line by guys. Not just that, when smoking outside the pub, I had random conversations with slightly-better-of-the-lot guys and was dastardly rude to the muppets who were like "So you've been here long?" And I'd said, "No only at special times..this is a special time..." To which he asked, "What time is that?" And I smugly responded, "Time for you to shut up."

It was a very stupid comeback, but it worked. Because while that guy had been snubbed, there were a couple of cute ones on the side who liked it and laughed. Men can be such predators. When they see a lay, they are only too happy to mock one of their own kind. But it's okay. Women can be worse. We are only too happy to grab on and play anyone against anyone as long as our ego is pleased.

Ach. By the end of the night, there was a huge fight. I think I was flirting last night. "It's all in your eyes and shoulders," is what Partner says. Well, what can I say?? Perhaps I did flirt...

Flirting for me has never been a way of getting attention... it's been more of a way of tuning others and watching them perform exactly the way I want them to. I needed that feeling last night. In these six-seven months, I think somewhere has been a burgeoning feeling of losing control. So I ended up... Hmm.

Yes, I am in a relationship...but I think guys and girls both flirt to get some sort of I-still-have-it-in-me validation. So I've been home all this while; cooking, washing, gardening, reading cook books (for fuck's sake) and I was even about to be invited to a Tupperware party (shit). And all the kids at the restaurant I was working at are young -- 19-24 -- and there I was, 30. Thinking babies.

I went out with them one night and there was nothing in common -- They were so, free! -- and I was like a chaperone with them. ME! CHAPERONE! That's when I knew I was losing it.

Oh lord. Bas. Let's just say I really need a coffee right now. Last night was a close shave. Had I been single, I knew I would have had whoever eating out of my hands... or what/wherever else. Partner noticed too. We had a mega fight. :( Thankfully both were drunk enough to pass out after a bit. Now I'm about to eat eggs and am watching 80s videos on TV. We both woke up contemplating the pattern on the ceiling. And with huge headaches.

So that's that. It's a happy ending for the interim. But then he's turning 30 too...

PS: Of the 14 dogs, four were pups. The bungalow we lived in was huge, with big front lawns and back gardens as well. One morning we woke up and found the dogs dead. Some in the front lawn, some near the gate... only the four pups who lived inside the house lived. The robbers thought we had a lot of money and had poisoned all the dogs. Rigor mortis had already set in.

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.

Birds and bees don't have a penis

"Don't they think about the children?" fumed my friend in the subject line of her email that contained these images. She has a 5-year-old daughter and lives in the US.

Despite my friend's obvious disapproval of the condom ads, I couldn't help but notice the detailing on the penises. Some art director somewhere either has a dubious clip art collection or must have spent his client's money scouting for models. Whatever be the case, other than some obvious ribaldry, I don't think the ads make the point strongly enough. If the purpose of a condom ad is to talk about safe sex, why mask it in stupidity? As for my friend's displeasure at the ads, I am not too sure I agree about keeping children in the dark about the facts of life.

While I wholeheartedly endorse promoting safe sex, letting kids know too much, too soon makes me a wee bit uncomfortable and a whole lot unsure. When is it too soon? Is it okay to mouth birds-and-bees till a certain age or is it better to tell them exactly what happens -- what sex is -- right from the start?

As a child I don't think I was ever overtly curious about how-babies-are-made. When I discovered, at age 11, what really happens between a man and a woman, it was by accident. I don't remember how the conversation came about between a bunch of 9-12 year kids, but I clearly remember this 8-year-old Sardarji who told us. "A man puts his thing in a woman's thing," he said and guffawed at the expression on our faces. Most of us had reacted with a "chhee". Much before I learnt the words 'penis' and 'vagina', a man and woman's private parts were just that, private.

While I've spoken three languages from the time I was eight-months-old -- English, Hindi and Bangla -- for a long time I didn't know a 'word' for a penis or a vagina. From shame-shame, to no-no, to chhee-chhee, to nangu; the terms I've heard were always about shame, guilt, taboo... always to be kept private and definitely not to be discussed or shown. The whole idea of showing 'it' to someone else and then things being put here and there was confusing, shocking.

The next shock came soon after. The realisation that love between a man and a woman was physical and had a lot to do with my body. It was my paternal grandmother who delivered it... She lived with us for three months in a year, had magic hands, knew Ramayana and Mahabharata both by heart and was an ace story-teller. Perhaps it was she and her stories of Krishna and rakshasas (demons) that make me so devour science-fiction-fantasy books now. She would have loved Harry Potter... Thamma would gently stroke my forehead and tell me bed-time stories. It was also at bedtime that she told me other stuff...

While my mother never discussed boys with me (hell I didn't even know I was supposed to have pubic hair and was initially quite distraught), Thamma took it upon herself to 'prepare' me for my future-husband-to-be. She told me four things. "A woman has to look good to keep her husband's love," was the first mantra. Coconut oil was the next. "A woman's hair is her true beauty," she would say, "...and regular oil in your hair will keep it soft for your husband to play with." The third was 'snowcream'. It was Lakme's vitamin-E rich cream that smelled divine, came in a white bottle with a blue lid and was white in colour. Thamma would laboriously apply 'snowcream' on my limbs with particular care to my ankles, knuckles and elbows. "Always keep your skin soft, no husband likes rough skin," she admonished. The final trick was the Importance of the Neck. "When you bathe, always scrub yourself properly and always, always keep your neck clean. That's where your husband will love you first," she said.

I have seen umpteen Hollywood movies where parents have The Talk with their children. I haven't spoken to current-generation parents but I know for a fact the topic is not something most Indian parents (my parents' generation) willingly discuss. Till date my mother has never spoken to me about sex (Pa is out of the question!).I don't know if Thamma had ever participated in debates on sex education, but I am grateful for what she told me... As shocked as I was with the idea of things being put in me, she at least let me know there was a physical side to love and that I should not be scared of it. Even if she just meant necking!

When Thamma 'prepared' me (1988), living-in, 'dating' and pre-marital sex were out of the question (particularly in India). Today, notwithstanding the Shiv Sena, open secrets and vociferous denials, they are a reality. So are HIV, teenage pregnancies and growing child abuse. Would I rather have my child not know the difference between a good touch and a bad touch or would I tell her what could happen? Do I want my teenage child confused about his/her attraction to the opposite sex -- and thereby either do something silly or feel guilty -- or do I want to be able to guide him/her to make a better, safer choice?

While I might not thrust a tumescent penis in my child's face -- like the ads, which are in stupid taste -- I could perhaps employ some of my Thamma's style and break the news gently. It doesn't have to be shock. Or guilt.

PS: I never replied to you when you sent me that email, so here is the answer. If your daughter sees that condom ad... don't hide the magazine or shut her eyes or tell her to be scared. Just explain and please give her the right terminology.

PS2: Just in case you all noted the headline and are wondering 'do birds have a penis', check the link for an accurate answer.

Cluck, cluck, cluck...

I don't clearly remember the first time I had that dream. I have not had it for a while now, but the details are clear.

A red jeep, open top, me driving it, thumping music playing but it's not too loud. I am driving down familiar mountain roads and I'm very happy. I am wearing denim dungarees, a red shirt and have a cap on my head. My hair, open and uncombed, is streaming behind me and I am smiling easily. On the passenger seat is a girl, about 4-years-old, wavy hair, open, hearty laughter and dressed exactly like me. Both of us love whatever music is playing and she keeps insisting on replaying her favourite song. I don't mind, I love her. She is my daughter. Most mischievous, most adorable, most treasured.

I have not had that dream in a while. Perhaps it's because I realise that reality and wishful thinking are two very different things. I am growing older; 30 in May.

I yearn. I know it does not scare me anymore, the idea that anything new or extra in my life, any added responsibilities will take me away from other cherished dreams. Or will hinder the way I have operated so far: decide on something and then bend whoever, whatever to my will. Get my way with a single-minded focus that is flexible enough to incorporate distractions. I won't say I don't care about my former dreams; just that now I know that the older me can fit those dreams in or around a child. I can wait for other dreams but I want my earlier dream in flesh.

I've always wondered about my parents and other parents like them. How can you just give up everything you are, were, wanted, for children? I have always doubted if I am going to be up to it. To change, modify, perhaps even let rest, all that I want to do, want to explore....when I have a child of my own. What if I would regret it later? What if I blame my child later? What if I am a bad mother? What if I cannot change and thereby harm my child?

I don't know what has changed; but I know it has changed. I don't even know when it started. I've always enjoyed cuddling other peoples' kids, have always managed a friendly rapport with toddlers and teenagers alike... Now when I see kids though, it's almost a violent reaction. I don't like holding other peoples' kids because it hurts. Because when I give the child back, I feel bereft. But how can I feel bereft when I have never had it? And what do I miss?

The nine months of pregnancy hurt, morning sickness hurts, the back hurts. Labour nearly kills. My mother had both my brother and me as caesarians. It has scarred her abdomen for life. Her stitches still hurt. After my brother she developed varicose veins. But she loves us! Why?

I've heard stories, first-hand, of how infants bite nipples and make them bleed. Of how breast-feeding is not as magical an experience as books make them out to be. Of how parents don't get sleep because babies wake up whenever they want to. How you have to constantly change smelly nappies, watch out for them, look after them. Oh hell. My parents still worry about me, which only means that once you have children, it never really ends.

I know all that. I yearn. And I get jealous, horrendously, inexplicicably envious of mothers as they happily, peacefully take their babies for walks in prams. It hurts somewhere inside - I don't understand where -- when I see babies snuggle into the necks of their mothers. Or when mothers on trains seem to have perfect conversations with a two-year-old. Nothing else seems to matter to them. And oh it hurts.

It doesn't matter... journalism, books, seeing the world, being independent.

And I fear. Desperately. I've always been a perfectionist. I hate not knowing, not being able to do something as best as I think it should be done. As long as it is possible to do it better, I will do it. And yet I am learning that not everything is in my hands. Two couples I know are trying hard, very hard, to have a baby. Endometriosis, in vitro, syringes, steroids, pain. But no child...

What if I don't have a child? What if I can't? I dread.

PS: Will it make me a lesser woman if I can't... It is no one else who will judge; but knowing myself, knowing my perfectionist nature... I don't know.

PS2: Poor Partner! He shudders. (lol)

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.

Blah, blah black sheep...

Top questions on my mind, in no particular order:
1. If I come back my to India, what will I do? Will those I've worked for/with, hire me back? What if there are no vacancies?
2. Will I come back to Delhi, elsewhere... will it mean the same headaches with landlords?
3. Will my friends be happy to see me back... or not care?
4. Do I even want to write a book? And if I do, why should I write fiction first? And why can't the blog be a book if at all it's the blog that is making people say, "You should write a book." Why do we need yet-another author? What's so new that I have to say or that someone else will not say if I banish the book from my Scheme of Things?
5. Will my parents be happy to have me back... or will they think I am a 'problem' never to be resolved? The child who never settles down, who can't get a thing right? They've never called me a 'problem'... so why do I think like that?
6. Will I be able to complete the first assingment and hand it on Wednesday, which is supposed to include at least 15 research books and I haven't even started on one...?! Eeesh.
7. Will gol-gappas sell in Melbourne? How about paapri-chaat? It can be called puffed bread with cumin-flavoured yoghurt (add fat-free!) and salad. Why not?

I hate college. I mean, why can't I be the judge of whether I've learnt anything or not? Why should someone else judge it? Shouldn't they be happy taking the fee and shutting up? I HATE assignments. I hate them more than I hated deadlines.

I HATE being MADE to write things.

I hate reading books that are not fiction and that I cannot throw if I don't like the first few chapters or even paragraphs. I HATE Umberto Eco. All these years I did so well avoiding him completely. Now he has come back. The professors call him a "gap in the literature". Not him, but the fact that I haven't read him. For that matter, no one in class has read him, THAT's how popular he is. And I have a suspicion that if it weren't for research students, no one would read him either. Except for my best friend who was reading him when she was 17.

Why doesn't Ma ask me more than "how are you, do you need anything, is everything ok?" Why does she always add, "Don't spoil this, keep him happy." What if I can't? What if I don't want to? What if I want to fight? Why do I have to keep him happy and how/why is she sure that it will be ME who will spoil "it"? I wonder if she understands (? empathises? comprehends?) what motivates me. Or if I understand what motivates her...

I think there was a time when the 'welfare of the kids' motivated her. Now, I am not too sure... and guilty. If that was her motivation, now it's not there and neither is the assurance that this 'kid' is well-fared. I don't know my mother anymore... and perhaps it's the same for her. Isn't growing up supposed to bring one closer to parents? Mother-daughter? Or is it because of me...? Has it happened with any of you? Or is it JUST me? Disfunctional? Black sheep? (brown?)

When in Delhi, Dad used to send me cuttings of interesting newspaper and magazine articles. He highly recommended Bismillah from Nayee Duniyan. Please read him, in Hindi, but brilliant humour. I don't think he can send my writing to anyone. Ma dutifully (lovingly?) maintains the cuttings of my HT columns and says, "I keep them beta, I don't understand them. I never understand anything that you write."

What's the fucking point of writing then?


PS: I want mangsho-bhaat with aloo in it. Or I want shorsher-maach with nebu and begun bhaaja. I don't want to cook it. I want mutton -- GOAT mutton -- lamb is a fraud. (black sheep?) Stupid, fluffy things. I was delighted to find Maggi in the stores and then despondent to realise there's no Masala Maggi. :(
Did I mention I HATE sandwiches?
Can't upload a pic, the Explorer is PMS-ing.

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.

Smack my bitch up. Please.

Or, Chaos, serendipity and reflection

Pondering: What’s the longest that pubic hair can grow to? Can’t Google-it in the library, dont want the admin to think I am surfing porn. Sad.

Learnt: Too much reflection will never get the work done. I reflect all the time. It’s inversely proportional to word count dished out.

Felt patriotic when: One, Shashi Tharoor was being interviewed on an Aussie news channel and despite never having any particular fondness for him, felt an immense sense of pleasure seeing him up there. However, he didn’t sound too convincing when explaining why India is not a willing party to cutting her carbon emission rates in ways that would make the US and Australian governments happy. And the world a better place. Presumably, since no one wants to guarantee that.

Two, on discovering a Karsh Kale track when uploading Windows Vista on new laptop. The tabla is divine! Three, when teaching how to say “up your mother’s” in Hindi to two Sri Lankan chicks. One of them should soon be saying “thik hai” too.


Inspired: By Aussie lad-mag called Vice, had a picture of a 35-something mother, holding a rifle with a 6-year-old boy suckling on her right nipple. Also some pictures of bums, the photographer felt that since everyone shoots face-pictures, he needed to do something about it. Poorly executed idea, nice bums though. Guess no one minds the execution then. I am going to shoot bums too.

Realised: Relationships can be a pain in the arse. You are forever doing something wrong. Or forever looking for something wrong. Perhaps some of us like some pain in the arse. Or are plain stupid. Have you ever had the feeling that if there is nothing wrong (or nothing going wrong) in your life, it could mean there’s something really sinister happening somewhere? And that it will hit you in the face when you least expect it to?

Confession: I am really angtsy today, have been so all day. I could be missing the Delhi chaos. Maybe. The daily fights with autorickshaw drivers for one. Here everything is mechanical. Punch preference, put money in, get on with it. No humans. Most things are very efficient, so much so they can be boring. Like all my glassware is intact. No maid to rush through washing dishes who would break them. Funny that the song playing on the laptop right now – of the five songs I could download before the Internet died at home – is Ironic (Alanis Morisette).

There are fond memories associated with the song.

First year of college, N and me going to participate in the intracollege annual festival at the Indian Institute of Technology (IIT) Delhi. The fest is called Rendezvous. She participating in the western music competition and me in the on-the-spot story writing one. She sang an acoustic version of Ironic. I wrote “I am a bitch but I didn’t want it to end this way”. It won the first prize. Shrug. College did not publish it in the college mag, they wanted stories on feminism, not psychopathic killers. N never made it to the western music society and I pulled out of the creative writing one.

That was also the time both of us would while away time at the bus stop outside college concocting imaginary stories about what-would-life-be-when-we-grow-up. I was only 19 then, ten bloody years AGO. Where? When? How? What the fuck happened? She was the only one who said that of the 22 girls in class, I would be the first to get married but it would end in a divorce. I had scoffed at being the first to marry. (Smiles) She is married today, I am not. Fortunately or not so, I’ve always been quick at undoing mistakes. Or running from them.

Right now, thanks to all the author names that people throw around, sitting amongst other “writers” seems like a BIG mistake. “Have you read Umberto Eco?” Er, yes, but put down Focault’s Pendulum after page-four because it made no sense to me. My best friend though has read most of his work... but she is into management now. Ironic?

I also want to fight, kick, scream, lunge, lash, hit out. Writing requires sitting in one place. And reflecting. I can do that, perhaps. But what about action? There’s no chaos here. I miss chaos.

I miss home.

PS: Dont think Golu would like it here, he wouldn’t be able to run around freely.

PS2: I think I saw Tinkuji in the market today...

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!!!