rant

2012-01-22T21:21:00.001-08:00

India has 3,400,000 kilometers of roads. How many will i travel?

Wide-eyed Wonderer

2012-01-12T10:38:00.000-08:00

Today's talking point? My silence.

2012-01-12T09:27:00.000-08:00

In the 365 days that make up each year less that I get with my father, I regret to confess that on 300 of them, "Hi dad. Bye Babes." is the only conversation we exchange. Make that 300 and 30. It's been like this ever since I started accounting for my age in two digits. Once in a while, the occasional, "The internet is not working", "the car needs petrol", and the "what eggs for breakfast?" wiggle their way in. The devil's share heavily out-weighs the angel's.

For years, I've hoped this would change. For years, change has hoped I'd take the initiative. Let's hope that this year, change and I will make a compromise so that I can at least fill a chapter of pages in my brain with meaningful conversation with a person who I respect, admire and in silence, love.

Leaf Lady

2012-01-10T09:53:00.000-08:00

A 40 year old lady in the center of a busy sidewalk tearing stray leaves into pixel-sized pieces.

Christmas Meets Wrapping Paper

2011-12-25T10:30:00.000-08:00

It's the most pun-derful time of the year.

2011-12-14T06:28:00.000-08:00

Santa’s Clause

The North Pole’s Joint Venture with Karma.Presents for the nice, absence thereof for the naughty.

ChristMess

The standard intra-family holidaydebacle.

LitTergy

The trash that the priest fills thenight-before-Christmas with.

Carol

The pretty girl in the front row of the choir

Presents

The act of re-paying a visit, (usually empty-handed)

ChariTreat

Sponsorship of a meal in an old age home underthe guise charity. Blesses him that recieve, and him that gives.

Stockings

Hoarding Christmas goodies in napkins from theneighbour’s Christmas party

XXX Mass

Every PG 13’s lechery at the freshly waxed legs come Christmas mass

ChristmasTide

Winter-sham in the Tropics

Ponderlust 2

2011-12-14T03:07:00.001-08:00

A writer without words has as much value as the promises on a promissory note

Ponder-Lust 1

2011-12-12T20:08:00.000-08:00

Life seems nothing short of an uncharted journey from the Factory of Mis-Conception to the Walk-in Closets of Obscurity.
Unless of course, you leave behind yet another child of Mis-Conception, a litany of Rights, or a chargesheet of Wrongs.

Bye bye Ogilvy loves

2011-06-23T12:54:00.000-07:00

Leprechaun luck

Embroidery & Shells

Flower pot

Cherry blossom

Drift wood & Pearls

Confettiratti

Silver roses

Baby Steps

2011-05-28T05:59:00.001-07:00

There were many things he pictured himself growing up to be. A failure wasn't one of them.

And his 5th grade English teacher, the one who had made him memorize Proverbs during moral science hour, forgot to tell him the real truth (the kind that they censor out of text books), when he graduated to 6th grade -that sometimes when one door closes, there is no other door. You just stay trapped.

Catholic Mangalore

2011-05-23T00:18:00.000-07:00

It is with great pride that I often let people know that I am a Catholic Mangalorean. Which Catholic Mangalorean doesn’t? My rendezvous with the city though, have only been over summer holidays and thanks to numerous cousins’ weddings. But having lived with my Mangalore-bred grandmother, my understanding of its customs and idiosyncrasies has come to me through an unquestionably reliable channel of second-hand information. (Mangaloreans have a flare for oral tradition - A good helping of freshly brewed gossip is as much of a must with every meal as is a delicious serving of top-quality meat)

Picture a laid-back hilly beach town with expansive single-storeyed houses. Roofs, tiled and held in place over teak runners, floors, cool by virtue of their red cement compositions. Picture banana trees in the back yard and bougainvilleas decorating the porch out front. Add a cashew plant and bread fruit tree to the kitchen garden; garnish them with a few inch-long red ants called hoomblios. A kennel for the Alsatians, a coop for the chickens. Now walk up to the richly stocked store room, grab yourself a bowl of thukdios, and come sit in the hall for storytime. Look up and you’ll be staring into the eyes of Jesus. Keep looking around and you’ll come face to face with statues of Catholic saints and a box filled with a rosaries collected over decades.

Outside, thunder. Then lightning. And the rain begins. At first it’s all pitter patter, and then grows into a pounding as the winds pick up and the beat of every heavy drop resonates through the tiled roof above. Windows on ancient hinges rattle; curtains get caught in mad gusts of wind. Outside, water gurgles along the open gutters; inside, cousins get creative, reinventing familial ghost stories. (60% of older Mangaloreans have seen ghosts. The younger ones choose not to voice their disbelief.)

At 8 pm, the focus must shift from evil spirits to the good ones - it’s rosary time. Prayers begin -HailMaryfullofgracetheLordiswithyoublessedareyouamongstwomenandblesssedisthefruitofthywombJESUS (there shall be no pause for breath). 5 decades later (each set of 10 Hail Mary’s constitutes a decade. But to the kids seated around her, it feels like 50 years later), 5 decades later, dinner is served.

15 years back, the description above would hold true for a majority of Mangalore’s Catholic family houses. And it is that Mangalore that my generation and those before me fondly remember. Today, the scenery is less green as Mangalore has grown from town to city. Acres-wide ancestral properties have mutated into compounds for sky scrapers and malls. BPOs have set up massive shops around the city whose economy is growing at a steady rise.

As Mangalore transitions from town to city, there are numerous opportunities for people to get creative. While fashionably stocked malls are becoming neighborhood features, respectable bars are few, recreation zones, fewer. But the current generation of Mangaloreans is all set bring about a revolution. It’s every Mangalore-born child’s dream to complete a college education far, far away from home. Most migrate to Manipal or Bangalore to enjoy the springtime of their lives. And then they return, brimming with ideas of how to take Mangalore forward. The lack of established competition gives first movers a good advantage.

But there are some things about Catholic Mangalore that have remained rooted. Like the way we look at wedding and funerals, the way we celebrate Christmas and New Year. And that’s probably because of the composition of a strong Mangalorean Family.
In my parents’ generation, 8 was the average number of siblings one had to share their life with. Go a generation further back and the expanse of the roots of a Mangalorean family tree can sometimes astound you: In a case of extremes, my grandfather was one of 17 + an adopted 5. Which leaves me, at 22, with scores of uncles and aunts, hundreds of second cousins, and in the future, what can total up to nearly a thousand nieces and nephews.

Many Mangalorean families have that one uncle who was born and died with a bottle in his mouth, an aunt who makes to-die-for wedding cake and wine, a master fabric cut-work artist, a cookbook writer. Then there are the aunts from America who are a safer bet than Santa Claus and that one child who has been sacrificed to the church to lead a life of celibacy and to intercede for the rest of the Brady bunch. And it’s this fantastic mix of people that ensures that whether at a wedding or a funeral, tears and laughter are inevitable.

Catholic Mangalorean wedding celebrations begin with The Roce. The girl usually wears her mother’s Sadow, (wedding reception saree) as a sarong. Then she is seated in the center of a line of her unmarried girl cousins. And the Voyos begin: In the past, aunts would get together and sing in a manner that, in my opinion, can be likened to the cry of a wounded animal. Only the lyrics of their song would talk about the to-be-wed’s accomplishments and her family’s background, never missing the opportunity to crack a joke at their expense while singing. This peculiar ceremony was meant to induce a trip down memory lane so that eyes would be all cried out the day before the wedding. Today, professionals can be hired to croon instead. While the Voyos drone on in the background, members of the family in descending age order come forward to bless the bride by tracing a cross of coconut oil, and then coconut milk on her forehead. It’s about the same procedure for a groom. And if the to-be-weds could have a say in it, the matter would end there. But the Roce has for generations, been an acceptable occasion of pay-back time. Cousins concoct deadly mixtures of rotten tomatoes, left-over alcohol, milk, water, eggs and sometimes even throwing in soap powder for good measure. The to-be–wed is then caught off guard and then unceremoniously drenched with it. Eggs fly, abuses fly and a careless spectator is most likely to get caught in the cross fire.

While the cousins shower up, the band or the DJ kicks in, the bar opens for business and the dancing begins. Traditionally, the dinner after a Roce is supposed to be a strictly vegetarian meal consisting of seven special preparations of vegetables. This is one rule that nobody objects to bending.

D-day begins with the bride’s side decorating the church and the reception venue, after crafting center table arrangements. The wedding is a regular Catholic affair. Its highlights are the Grand March, the home-made sweet wine, the Toast, the fondant iced fruit cake, the tossing of the bouquet and the signature Mangalorean dance - the bailas. The Birdy dance, the Mexican Hat dance and Do the Boogie Woogie are also a guarantee. ’Harry’s Band’ may also make an appearance if booked sufficiently in advance. A brass band ‘suited and booted’ in red and black, their Indianized and army-like renditions of popular classic English songs are uniquely amusing. If not drunk and happy by the end of the night, everybody’s at least heavier by a few ounces thanks to delicious roasted suckling, sannas and pork sorpathel. The night then ends for everyone who isn’t the bride and groom with mammoth efforts poured in to getting the humongous family together to pose for a family photo. Panorama is now the preferred method of achieving this feat.

Christmas and New Year’s are characterized by Balls that end post breakfast the next day. The festive season begins with the contributions of the altos, sopranos and tenors in the family to add grace to the family’s carol singing efforts. Though it’s a less common sight these days, the season traditionally ends with the creation of “The Old Man” for New Year’s. Everybody gets together to craft a scarecrow. He’s dressed up in old clothes and his pockets are stuffed with fire crackers. Drive around the streets an hour before midnight and you’ll be surprised by how creative some families will get with their “Old Men”. Just before midnight, the family gathers around him. The volume on the system playing the weathered Boney M. Christmas tape goes up and Auld Lang Syne begins to play. Hand in hand, moving in a merry drunk circle around the old man, a bottle of spirit passes from mouth to mouth, a lit match flies in the direction of the kerosene doused scare-crow and the Old Man goes up in a blaze of glory. And thus, one year of celebration ends. And another begins.

Funerals are no less eventful. After they give their loved ones a fitting farewell and the wells of their eyes have been cried dry, the famished Catholic Mangalorean family gathers at one spot and story time begins. Fond remembrances of the deceased sometimes give way to scandalous stories being leaked. Grandchildren hear things about their grandparents that make them go pink in the ears, and stories are recollected that will leave you rolling on the floor laughing. The beauty of this un-prescribed ceremony is that it reminds you in the gentlest way possible that a life was lived well and lives on through the memories in everybody’s minds.

Apart from the ceremonies, here are a few facts about Mangalore that the encyclopedia will reiterate: Mangalore is a name derived from the Hindu Goddess Mangaladevi. The Catholic Mangalorean fondly calls the city Kodial and his mother tongue is Konkani. It’s a mix of Kannada, Tulu, Hindi, Marathi, Persian, Gujarati, Sanskrit, and Portuguese, just like Mangalorean song and dance. Konkani was a dialect that until recently borrowed scripts. Now, it has its own alphabets to be proud of. Mangalore is India’s ninth largest port and Wikipedia will tell you that it handles three-fourths of the country’s coffee exports. What it won’t tell you is that a view of its artificial harbour from certain spots on its beaches is spectacular. The sun sets over the sea in Mangalore. And a view of the Ullal Bridge at sunset is nothing short of poetic.

But my favourite anecdotes about Mangalore, I’ve saved for last. Like how everybody in Mangalore could be a cross-country racer. Most streets in the city are narrow, long and winding. And the right side to drive on the road is the wrong side. The community is also famous for giving birth to the queerest nicknames. A poor uncle of mine was fondly called “pussy” in his youth by his loving mother. Enough said. And the community also has its share of superheroes. Take for instance a certain high-up police officer who tried high jacking a plane with a toy pistol to prove to government officials just how easy it is to orchestrate the whole process.

To sum it up, Catholic Mang-ys are in general, loud in action and soft at heart. Most take pride in their ability to hold their liquor. And they generally take it upon themselves to show an outsider a good time. And with fair warning, outsider, don’t be too afraid if you walk into a room filled with Mang-ys busy trying to figure out who is related to whom (because the affair can get quite loud and noisy). Just know that somewhere in that room, there’s one Mangy who’s more afraid than you because he probably just found out that he’s his own grandpa.

Jollyday

2011-03-23T09:18:00.000-07:00

I believed with all my heart and body and soul that when I came back from 9 nights in Rajasthan, the words would flow. I had to settle for lines, and in retrospect, am happier so.

2011-03-19T22:34:00.001-07:00

If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you; that is the principal difference between a dog and a man. -Mark Twain

Meet Big George. Guardian of our gate for the paltry sum of his daily bread.

Juxtaposition

2011-02-20T03:43:00.000-08:00

For whom the bell tolls

2011-02-06T07:16:00.000-08:00

Tring tring you'd sing sing
People moved, you'd pass by.
Ring ring to bring bring
Safe passage to a cycle guy.

Mute mute is your toot toot
To him within an AC car
Now it's - shoot shoot! Gotta scoot scoot
Or go sprawling on your handle bar.

O tiny cycle bell,
a bigger bell tolls for you
You time has come, your day is done
Goodbye, goodnight, aideu.

Love letter to a lost cause

2011-02-02T13:09:00.000-08:00

Inspiration, you pretentious bitch. Wipe away your fakeup, take a mood-fixing bubble bath, make yourself people-friendly and stop hiding in dark corners, hoping to be found. Let me see you in the mirror. Let me wake up next to you. Let me stand under your friggin’ umbrella; Wear you like Iron Man’s armour; Bless the day I found you. Dedicate blogposts to how you've made me simply legendary instead. For fuck’s sake, what are you waiting for?

Don't bother reading

2011-01-22T00:35:00.000-08:00

SPOILER NOTIFICATION: *WHINE ALERT*

It is 13:03 pm. I’ve been hitting snooze on my “Get A Life” alarm since 8 am this sunny Saturday. But the nightmare they call procrastination is too momentarily comforting to let go off. I’m running dangerously low on "passion", "inspiration" and "commitment". However, I have an abundance of inconsequential writing that I need to get done:

• There’s that thing for those people
• That other thing for those other people
• Oh, and one more thing for one more person.

What and who are of no consequence to you because they are really of no consequence to me.

I, however, am of consequence to them. Whether their website is reading better than it used to, will depend on how much sunshine I’m able to convert into mental energy today. Whether that frustrated middle-aged executive (who’s picking his nose at 10 am on Tuesday) will have one more piece of garbage to play wastepaper-basketball with, will depend on how protein-rich my lunch is now. And whether that Marketing Executive at a certain telecommunications solution provider will have one more ethically questionable EDM to pass around, will depend on how much water my body absorbs in the next few hours.

That's a lot of responsibility, innit. Not. So much for trying to be positive. Guess it's better luck next whinny-post-time.

You are welcome to feel sorry for me.

Chicken Little

2010-09-09T07:24:00.000-07:00

911

2010-08-20T11:41:00.000-07:00

Dear Children,

I understand that the both of you are my parents. And that's why it's terribly important that you grow up.

No, I'm not tired because I sleep with my windows closed and the ac turned off. I'm not tired because I don't have enough iron jumping my arteries. I'm not tired because I sleep in the midst of a bed full of confusion.

I am tired because you leave me uninspired. I'm tired of not being at the center of attention. I'm tired of trying to understand how hard life is for the both of you. And I'm tired of not being understood in return. I'm tired of acting carefully to spare the both of you arguments. I'm tired of living my life to make up for your individual shortcomings - one's lack of respect and understanding, and the other's acting out as a result of not being respected or understood. When will you understand that throwing blame is the easiest way out and that it's a bad example to set for your children?

Why have I rarely asked for help and guidance? Because the both of you are too full of your own issues. But I need it now. And I'm too ashamed to tell you that I'm feeling a little lost. So I'm telling everybody else instead. Let the world know that I'm jealous, greedy, needy and insecure. Because I'm sure while most may think I'm being unnecessarily childish, somebody out there will understand.

Maybe I'm acting out. But I'm not a mind reader. And if you do appreciate me, consider talking about that once in a while, instead of how toast always manages to slip from my fingers or how I sleep with all the lights on.

Here's where I'm comparing -
I may not have a million friends, or know how to chat up random strangers. I may not have certificates to prove I've completed things, and I've let one too many of my past times go. I may not dress to kill or know to throw a party.
But in comparison, how much have you encourgaed me with praise and appreciation? Aren't you the one's who have told me that money is hard to come by?

So please stop confusing my with your contradictions.

I'm quite sure you're aware of how terribly grateful I am for everything the two of you have given me. Because if I wasn't, I would have been a much harder child to deal with. We all know you had it easy with me. I've given you very little grief to date.

But I think I deserve a little more attention. Don't you? Because I'm walking a thin line here. And if there's one thing the both of you are right about, it's that I wasn't gifted with balance.

Feeling warm in the ears? Welcome to adulthood.

love Love

2010-08-19T00:19:00.000-07:00

I love love. It makes the world yellow.
I miss love. I wished it away.
I had Love. He made my world yellow.
I wish Love, that I could stay.

Sea of Rain

2010-07-26T12:53:00.000-07:00

watch out

2010-06-23T11:09:00.000-07:00

WallFlowers have eyes.
WallFlowers have ears.
WallFlowers have mouths.

I live in my own shadow

2010-05-14T12:54:00.000-07:00

There's a thin thin line between my shadow and my soul -
the part of me that follows and the part that makes me whole.
It's a thin thin line that keeps my past at bay
in the hope that I'll be better with the coming of the day.
For when the glory falls behind me, my shadow leads me on
reminding me I've done something to earn a little scorn.
And when I have been humbled and the glory becomes my guide
My shadow falls behind me and reminds me I've been tried.
But at that sacred hour when the glory is above my soul,
This shadow grows to nothing, and I'm rid of it's toll.
The hour may not vist plenty, but it's sure to come around
In it's respite I enjoy oblivion of what has and to be done.
It's one of those hours I now long for, when my conscience feels no pain
And I'm granted an hour of freedom to live now with no loss or gain.

Why I hate it when you drink

2010-03-28T09:15:00.000-07:00

Alcohol makes
a wise man out of a fool;
a generous man out of a beggar;
an independant man out of a dependant man;
a sensible man out of an irrational man;
a friend out of an enemy;
a free man out of a prisioner;
a happy man out of a weeper;
a king out of a slave;
And vice versa. As is in your case.

One way. Or another.

2010-02-14T06:59:00.000-08:00

Befriend something first. And then perhaps love will follow. Perhaps.

Shine on

2010-02-03T12:48:00.000-08:00

I finally spent my money on something useful - my self esteem.

A week back, I summoned my pride before me, caught it in a gunny bag, and shoved it under a boulder. I then walked into the sports store, smiled at the salesman and said a tad sheepishly "I need to learn to cycle". I'll bet it's not something he hears often from a 21 year old. I appreciate his courtesy and his almost successful attempt to suppress a smirk. "Take this one, madam. (Quite symbolically, especially in my case, the model he suggested was named "Shine") I guarantee you'll learn to cycle in a week. Don't worry". Good faith? Good salesmanship? Either which ways, his kindness had me signing away a good bundle of cash and years of self doubt.

Two hours with a person who's been fantastic enough to bear the weight of my diffidence one time too many, and I had succeeded. I was out there, master of my greatest nemesis - accomplishment colouring my soul, and cold wind in my face, only gender differentiated me from a Hillary conquering Everest or a Jake Sully totally owing Toruk (I so totally am in love with that movie!).

I didn't tell anyone. I enjoyed the secret. But, on talking to people afterward, I've realized that I'm not one-of-a-kind. A lot of people my age haven't pushed the pedal hard enough.

So if any of you are reading this, I'll stand testament to the fact that 'impossible' is impossible. I, like you, have two left feet, trip over myself and weild butter fingers; to begin with. I can't catch a ball either. Yet. But I can, if I want it bad enough. And you can too.

They say growing up is about finding balance. Well watchyaknow! They are absolutely right!

Every Dog Has Its Day

2010-01-31T00:11:00.000-08:00

Fare well lil' mangy black-spotted dog.

Now that you’re a wanderer amongst those star-spangled celestial fields above, may your new found grace give Paris Hilton’s Chihuahua a run for Paris Hilton’s money.

Remember Puppy, Puppy’s puppy, Mr. Puppy, and Mani - Be their Dogfather. Cotton Street’s no bed of t-boned steaks. And they’re gonna need a resilient Watch Dog to get them through these hard times.

You were never a dog in the manger. I'll vouch for that. Yes, you did hog The Threshold. But that's only because it was a dog-eat-dog world past the gate. And the merchants beyond did not look fondly upon your mangled appearance.

It pained me to see you struggle to get by every day. Because you really lived a dog’s life. And you died an unexpected death. A little too literally, did that doggone bastard take that ambiguous parable that advised him to let a sleeping dog lie, when he revved the engine and ran over you and your sweet dreams. The deed being done, he drove away. He shall have his day too.

But seriously - You lucky dog, you! I hear there's no pain and sorrow and misery and hunger and vengeance and greed and deceit and hate where you are. There'll be no more stones and taunts and abuses and disgust to be thrown your way.

You've been spared the misery of increasingly unbearable dog days that these humans are selfishly cooking up by abusing their air-conditioners. And so much more. My world, it sadly ain't going to the dogs. No, It's going to the humans. And you wont have to live witness to the end of that shaggy-dog-story.

I cry, but I'm happy for you. You're a top dog now.

I wish you well. Some lucky sucker up there is gonna get one helluva good best friend.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

PEOPLE: Before you hop into your cars, take a peek under. If your luck's anything like mine, you'll find a sleeping dog under the chassis 9 times out of 10. Yes it's inconvenient, and yes, it's an added responsibility, but It's a dog's life after all!

Left - Right - Left

2010-01-30T09:45:00.000-08:00

Republic Day Parade 2010

Let the Hammer Fall

2010-01-25T12:17:00.000-08:00

Going back to IIT inspired a flood of memories and a stream of tears that I willed be invisible. The sweet smell of freshly printed vinyl sponsor banners was what brought on the reminiscences. A year back, and I was pretty much at the top of a food chain - planning out which banners went where and what impact each would have on the course of one my most important endavours. How I miss Loyola College... and the person I was. And boy, was I unprepared for life after, and the maddening jungle that it is.

My life has a way of going according to plan...not.

When I walked in to The Department, all I knew, was that I wanted to do well. Making friends was not on my agenda. Neither was learning Tamil slang or liking 'padams'. But I ended up doing all those things...and so much more.

Turning my back on school, I thought my best years were behind me and that I'd never love college as much. But that too, like so much else, changed. Because I left college with a whole new outlook on life, inspired by the most fantastic people ever. From them, I learnt to find joy in simple things. I started to understand the value of money. And I learnt to be proud of where I come from.If at some point the people who studied with me read this, Thanks. For your fantastic support through it all. And for all the lessons I learnt from all of you. I know I was difficult quite often. But thanks for being there for me any which way. And for still finding time to chill out at NRC a year later :)

Like I said, plans changed. And I changed.

And now it's time to change again.

So, I've 'let the hammer fall' (In the words of Joacim Cans, lead singer of Swedish band, Hammerfall, who totally owned the rock show at Saarang. Mygodman! The harmony and the melody and the solos and the double bass and the red tights and the fancy guitars and the hair and the rhythm and the power and the everything else...total superfantasticism).

The Verdict:

College is in the past. College is in the past. College is in the past. And I've over stayed in the welcoming comfort of its memories.

As hard as this is going to be, I'm packing my bags. And I'm hopping into a rocket-like machine. Direction next? Up. I'm not sure how I'm going to get to where I want to be. But thanks to you guys, I've learnt that though things change, as long as I know where I want to be, life will lead me there. And that the travel plans will alter only in terms of the journey, not the destination.

I hope that one day I can return the favour.

shattered

2010-01-24T02:10:00.000-08:00

You idiot. Never ever ever scare me like that again.

We were laughing. Talking about nice things. And to see you there, in front of that...Let's just say I've never been more wide-eyed in my life. Everything slowed down. Including you. And my feet felt glued to the ground. And all I could do was scream.

What surprises me, is that you weren't even aware that it was heading straight towards you. It's quite an appalling thought...that danger can not only sneak upon, but hurtle towards even someone as observant and tuned-in as you, without being detected.

I'm just glad that the higher powers were on our side. And that you were gifted that extra second.

The spectacles were a good lesson though...that one minute you're a part of somebody's life, and that all it takes is just one measly unfortunate second to be broken and turn useless.

Idiot.

3 meals

2010-01-23T03:36:00.000-08:00

He left the appam behind. Untouched. He paid the bill, his face sour and the tips of his ears red from all the screaming. And walked out, his stomach leading him by three-quarters of a foot and his backside following by another.

What led to this string of events was the fact that he was hungry. And ID was crowded and the appam pan had over-heated.

The fried chef had been managing alright, each meal taking a good ten minutes longer than usual. 'Groucho' had walked in a while before and placed an order. He seemed hungry and antsy. And the food really was taking time. So when the chef finally got the appam to his plate, he burst into a slew of abuses and kept yelling until the manager arrived. He demanded the bill. He pretentiously opened his wallet, dumped the money at the cashier, and walked out.

The food went to waste.

There's no doubting that he's probably otherwise, a relatively decent man. Like most of us generally are. Except for when we're hungry. Our bowels usually get the better of us. And gas does well to fuel anger.

Life sure must be hard for chefs. Imagine the job stress that comes with a profession that guarantees dealing with potential time bombs on a daily basis.

3 meals -Getting by is pretty tough without one of them.

Conversation rarely turns sour when it’s bounteous with nature's goodness. A well fed person is always healthy, wealthy and wise. We learn well, behave well and are generous with laughter and courtesy. But when we're hungry, some of us get depressed, others turn whinny, and some even resort to violence and tears. I personally either get really quite or I end up biting someone's head off. Yup, we sure require food for thought. We require it to think, and we require it to be thoughtful.

3 meals - It must be really, really, really tough then getting by without the surety of having even just one at all.

Which then gets you realizing that poor people aren't mannerless, greedy, irrational and rude just because they aren't educated. They don't bother about education, etiquette and courtesy because hunger devours all other ambitions. They can't afford being polite, cheery and pleasant quite simply because they can't afford a square meal a day, let alone 3.

So let's all us 3 meals-plus-7-in-betweeners-a-day gorgers give 'em a break when they come tapping the tinted windows of our air-conditioned sedans within which we sit munching packets of unhealthy fried food that each cost twice the amount of a single wholesome meal.

Yes, it is true - they're perfectly normal, limbs all in order . They should probably be working if they need money. And if we keep feeding them, they'll never learn. But everybody needs a break. And since we can afford it, it’ll be very cool of us to help them catch one. A little food just might take them a long way.

And if charity to someone in need is not really your cup of tea, consider abstaining from being judgmental at least. Because remember, if they did have food, it’s quite possible that a good number of them would probably kick your arse in math. To begin with.

Colour full

2010-01-17T10:36:00.000-08:00

Pongal-O-Pongal.

Pongal. It's one jolly holiday. Four days of r&r.

Pongal. It's one jolly holiday. For most people. I had to spend a greater part of it boxed up in a studio, twiddling my thumbs, picking my nails, counting the number of holes in a square foot of soundproofing.

Pongal. It's a day of paying homage to all your hard work and the environment that supports it. So, perversely, I spent my jollydays at the studio. At work. But, I suppose it's the least i could do for all the support I've been getting from there - My way of paying homage.

But I had my moments.

Pongal. Ah, the food.

Pongal. And the colours. Colours everywhere. Both expected and some pleasantly surprising. It's what I love most about Madras. There's so much colour everywhere...and on everyone. And the January sun. It bathes everything in brilliance. Nature's high saturation mood. Yellow. Sun. *smiling*

Pongal. And traditional art. And this citybitty's rendition of it.

Pongal and Kaanum Pongal. At the Chennai Trade fair. Thousands, each draped in yards of blindingly colourful synthetic fabric decked disproportionately with shiny sequins; Accompanied by husbands ranging from uncaring, to tiresome, to drunk, to chivalrous, to overly possessive; Burdened with tiny limbed bundles. Or just boys. And men, who will never be titled gentle. Lecherous, horny younguns who can't really help what their hormones are doing to their disposition; Though being more subtle would have made life more pleasant for the shy, overprotected girls walking with their mothers' aged in-laws. What's a holiday without some madness? Family. friendship. And carnival joy. More Madness. And the rush for the rides. And riding the rides. And screaming. Loud. Without having to conjure explanation. Loved it all.

Pongal. And chilling with someone who loves colour, madness and simple life just as much as you do.

Pongal. It's about thanking Providence. For being able to reap far more than that which was sown. My day is a good example. I was just saving a cloud. And here's what Providence gifted me.

Pongal. Oh, Pongal.

Retail Therapy

2010-01-17T09:46:00.000-08:00

What is it, about walking into an overrated store, and picking up an overpriced piece of tailored cloth that can make a lousy mood vanish, I'll never understand.

Maybe it's the excitement of looking a tad new, since appearance is probably the easiest of faults to fix.

Or maybe it's the joy of believing you've worked hard enough to deserve a reward.

Or maybe it's the excitement of rebelling: Knowing you haven't really worked hard enough. But you have a card. And you can shop. So you're going to. Even though you don't really deserve it. But who cares? Because you can. Right?

Or maybe it's just all the colour. And the smell of unused clothing. And the freedom of choice.

Ah shopping. I'd pick it any day over other vices.

Smoking... Well that's a waste of breath. And money up in smoke.

Alcohol... What goes in must come out. Wasteful ingestion. And I haven't really developed a taste for numbing my senses. Yet.

Chocolate... It's an option. And a fairly less pricey one at that. But as an option to shopping.... we'll let's just say in this case, I'd much rather shed pounds and shop than gorge on chocolate and add 'em.

People... Wish I liked them enough to believe they could cheer me up.

I could just take a walk out in the sun. But that joy isn't something I can put on and rejoice about while looking at the mirror. And it doesn't make anybody jealous. Where's the investment in that? ; )

So, when deep in thought, I shop. It helps me chill. I wish I could tell you why. But vices are vices because you know they aren't a cure, but temporary therapy that will just about suffice.

And today, I chanced upon an array of sales. Though usually I frown upon picking up discount stock that's a season too late, this whole growing up thing and wanting to budget my spending in proportion to my earning doesn't leave my with much. So, i discounted my pride. And dived in. I resurfaced with a bold green striped tee.

My name is Tara. And i am a shopaholic.

(P.S: Not really. Just a social shopper. But I wanted to end on a high)

Beginnings

2009-10-17T23:35:00.000-07:00

Spring time, your livings easy.
You haven’t met with summer’s blaze.
Or autumn’s fall, or winter’s gurney
Revel in your childlike ways.

always there

2009-09-09T04:23:00.000-07:00

I love talking a walk with the world. I walk in its shadow. It doesn’t expect an opinion or an answer. When promises and preaching leave me behind, it reminds me that it doesn’t take a person to provide.
I took a walk with it this Sunday. And it helped me remember that joy is not an object. It is a point of view.

Direction nowhere

2009-09-08T13:02:00.000-07:00

I’ve spent this summer losing myself. Head held high, confidence in my stride, and with a backpack of good memories, I left college behind, believing that what I needed was a break from the routine to clear the mist of monotony in my head.

And now, four months on, a greater fog sits heavy in the recesses of my brain – one of confusion, misgivings and trepidation. My store of memories are beginning to spoil with the rot of overanalyzing what was.

I am now a parched, travel weary, once enthusiastic traveler, misguided by a self drawn map that assured me that enlightenment would be waiting at the end of my path.

If only I had borrowed one instead…

Prayer

2009-09-08T12:46:00.000-07:00

God give me grace
And boldness of face
Let me find a little place
That I can call my own

2009-09-01T01:53:00.000-07:00

i miss pencils.

Shelley and I - snapshots

2009-06-15T11:39:00.000-07:00

Rivka and I - the truth

2009-06-13T04:41:00.000-07:00

Providence

2009-06-11T06:36:00.000-07:00

My request for loneliness, unlike other prayers that were delayed in transfer channels and by weary divine courier staff, like a letter containing an offer to donate, was swift to be read, and replied to, not leaving me with time enough to set aside promised resources and prepare myself for the huge deficit that I had offered to incur on account of having too much and not knowing what to do with it.
From incessant noise with A shouting over the din of the tele, Dog braking over the effort of A to be heard, and B barking back at the dog, I now find myself in deafening silences. I can hear air. I can hear stillness. And I am alone.

Prudence

2009-06-11T01:01:00.000-07:00

Life is a bitch, especially when it takes advantage of your cynicism to prove that you are not the creator of your destiny and that it will take a dump at your expense leaving you to poop scoop its inevitability.

Cynical Sam, with the intent to make a mockery of the lotto, and destiny at that, spent a pound in Prudence’s name to buy the last ticket at Moe’s Malt. Prudence won the lottery. Prudence didn’t win much – just a couple thousand bucks. Prudence was Sam’s Dog.

Poop Scoop.

Sun rise Sun set

2009-04-28T00:19:00.000-07:00

He used to be a rainbow

Now, he's just a cloud.

The sun doesn't shine through him

He failed, it grew too proud.

From colour and jubliation

To filled with ansgt and woe,

From morn to morrow he journeys

The sun is now his foe.

He rains on others beauty

He mourns for the yesterday

When light and life were on his side

And awesome was his way.

Don worry, say i to him

for happiness is just that-

A momentary dance with luck

Who leaves, but then comes back.

49 oh.

2009-04-10T22:26:00.000-07:00

I spent much of last morning is a maggi noodle shaped line. Yes, food was on my mind, despite an unduly warm breeze - a breeze that occasionally kept whipping up the scraggly hair of the lady in front of me causing my hands to itch. Marbles of perspiration rolled down under what I had hoped would be my most summer friendly kurta.

Now I knew the only way to survive the hot morning would be, and ironically so, to chill out. One to ten, inhale – exhale, observe.

Behind me stood a line of seemingly patriotic citizens such as I - 18 to 80 alike, under the brilliant Chennai sun, sweating, gossiping, plotting, cursing, praying.

I, was praying. Praying that they wouldn’t make my anti-India, anti-democracy, anti-the-entire-exercise-we-were-undertaking brother come back again because he didn’t have his original driver’s license. India’s like that. If you’re one of those relatively law abiding citizens, the second you screw up, you’ll get caught. If you’re not a seasoned liar, seasoned liars will sniff out your inexperience. So in my head, I was going over a whole bunch of excuses as to why we didn’t have the original so that we didn’t get screwed and sent home because his copy looked like a copy, though fake original licenses would be accepted.

While the wheels in my head struggled to produce believable lies, along came cunning and paan-eroded-teeth granny. So paavam she looked- head wrapped in her pallu, hands folded, hunching a bit, she came and stood next to me in the little gap I had left to keep myself away from itchy hair. She looked up at me occasionally and her eyes were saying what her pride prevented her from asking. “Beti, I’m old. It’s hot. Would it be too much to ask to cut in before you?”. Now, I, being a convent school girl, had grown up believing that if I had a seat and there was an elderly person around, the acceptable thing to do, would be to offer the seat to them, despite the fact that sometimes, my concern would be fake. But the morning had been long, and as I’ve mentioned, itchy and sweaty. And my self-preservation instincts had seemed to have gotten the better of my conscience. So I contemplated; and thankfully so. Because in that second of hesitation, she decided to go back to her original place and just as I turned around to offer her a place in front of me, I saw her rejoin her family of around 10! Can selfishness be the key to personal success?

Before me, the aunty with the scraggly hair had taken on the role of a moral police man – “walk around, walk around, don’t cut through the line”. I, however, of much lesser an assertive nature, would occasionally let someone pass only to receive a reprimanding look from itchy hair. I pulled out my application and held it in front of me. If not policy changing, at least it served well as an itch guard.

5 minutes turned to 15, 15 to 50 and the line slowly grew shorter and shorter till at last I came face to face with the woman who was one in the first line of ‘officers’ that would grant me my right to universal adult franchise. Now, there are 3 problems I have with this three worded phrase –
Universal (Yeah, sure. When half the votes of the people who really feel the change in government are rumored to be forged, universal takes on a whole new meaning.)
Adult (Who? Me?).
Franchise (Such an important sounding word, like I have been bestowed the honor and the privilege of voting by the governance of the country. The fact is that the government needs theses ‘franchisees ’more than the franchisees need the government. And they call voting a privilege.)

Anyway, problems aside, I submitted my form to the lady at the counter, probably a government school teacher who had been bullied into spending time between invigilation and corrections in helping grant people like me the ‘privilege’. Though hassled, frustrated and absolutely disillusioned by days of monotonously copying addresses into her un-ruled notebook, her eyes shone with a taunting madness that said, “There’s a hundred of you waiting for just one me. I, I single handedly decide the success of this mission of yours so don’t think you can come here and act smart. See, I benefit from our government gross disability to use the country’s human resource. There’s a billion people in this country, but I, I am the one and only, a chose one, at this office. It sure would be helpful to my nerves if the country appointed another 10 people to share my workload. 10 : 10 is a much better proportion that 100: 1. But that would divide my power, you see. So, I’m ok. Ha ha”. And you don’t want to mess with madness.

So I waited patiently as she took her own time writing my address, probably contemplating my nature by analyzing my address (or at least id’ like to believe there was some bigger reason as to why she was writing so immaculately slow). She didn’t bother about the originals so we were spared the lies.

“Thank you”, I said to her, as she clumsily tore of the acknowledgment slip and handed it to me. That’s probably the biggest insult I’ve thrown at someone in my life, or so I learnt. She looked up at me. I expected her to return my acknowledgment with a smile. But instead, I received one of those insulting, demeaning looks that only government employees can give that said, “Sister, I din’ do you no favour. Don’t make me seem like a servant who’s done you a favour. “Thanks?” Pft!”

Though finishing this exercise should have left me with a sense of satisfaction that most completions will leave you with, it did not. For as I walked out, I realized that what I had just done was not complete anything. I had in fact, just lived through stage one of the many government lines that would come in the process of exercising my right.

Horrid isn’t it, the state of our country? But none of the above excuses us from voting. For the fact is this – if we, the ‘literate youth’, abstain from voting, we our giving up our one chance to have a say in where our parents tax money goes. When we abstain, we leave the results of the elections up to the vote forgers and the simple agricultural people who are satisfied with colour tvs. And we sit in our Coffee Days, occasionally discussing how sloppy our country is, when in fact, we have done absolutely nothing to help make it better. We don’t have to become politicians. We just have to care enough to do our own little bit of research and vote for the least evil.

The government has given us a mockery of a deal saying that if we don’t like any of the candidates, we can register a null vote. But our high tech electronic polling machines do not give us this option. We have to physically, and thus, non-anonymously “register” our null vote at the polling booth. So, the best thing to do, would be to get a little involved in the state of affairs of our country. And hat's of to you if you register a null vote!

Read a little, weigh your options, and spend a morning at the polling booth. If nothing else, all this research will at least enhance your coffee pub conversations.

The truth:
There is a Corporation office is situated on Poonnamalle High Road.
The last day to register for a voters ID is the 13th of April.
You need a copy of 2 documents proving you are in fact old enough to waste your time at a polling booth.
The document is rumored to be rather important, so whether you believe in democracy or not, get the ID. Unless your family has political friends, you are not above the law.
A line in a corporation office is never straight.
Never thank an Indian unless he has gone out of his way to help you. Thanks as a mark of courtesy is regarded as an insult in most cases.
Be on your best behavior. You just might become page 2 news. I did. Some reporter took a photo of the desk as I was at it and I got labeled as one of the people “rushing” to register.
You are the creator of your own destiny. Not having an opinion is the worst opinion.
Wear sunscreen and dress light.

light, dance and mystery

2009-04-10T00:31:00.000-07:00

6 years old. Wide eyed. Transfixed. Starring at the dashboard of the wayside truck. Red and green lights dance around a statue of a goddess, their routine mirrored by his eyes.

20 years old. Wide eyed. Transfixed. Starring upward at red and green lights, following them as they dance around his goddess, mirrored in his eyes, immortalized by his mind.

Barr Age, none is too less or too old to enjoy light, dance and mystery.

The Law

2009-04-09T22:56:00.000-07:00

The line between right and wrong is the most imaginary of all.

What I see as most pertinent a reaction, most appropriate an action, is just that, but only to me.
And that's OK.

Irrespective of where we learnt our ABC's, where we knelt down to pray and who we spent our childhood in discovery with, we, each of us, is anomalous.

The paradox lies in the failure to believe this of ourselves.
As unique and as different as we are, we shy away from acceptance. We look to quote from institutions and laws. Those of us who are lucky enough, find congruence in these documents and feel empowered by the adherence to them over time. Those who do not, who have the courage to be otherwise, are deemed rebels.

However, we are all rebels to some law or the other.

The only law we abide by, is our own - laws oft larger than reason and explanation - Because we have different, and often contradicting requirements for every portion of our lives, subject to amendment as and when we see it fit.

And that's OK too - Because we are anomalous, our laws written to best befit our capabilities and faults.

So this is the law i choose to live by - that nobody acts without reason. And though i may not agree with their method, I agree with their motive - which is that, to get from day to day, we can't live by the laws of others; We live for, and only for ourselves.

And that's OK.

The truth - When i can summon no explanation, acceptance is an easier tenant.