Memories of Midnight

In the isle of my loneliness
I chew the fruits of my grief
which taste of nothing
and fill my mouth with ashes.

Alone in the darkness
I find myself imagining
the darkness of your eyes
and the comfort they bring.

What curious darkness
glows in them,
to show me a way out of mine?

Planning the Yet-to-Be

The Winter days of your academics does much to destroy your faith in life's inevitable good sense. Though the Desiderata will tell you otherwise, and Rilke always knows best (at least poetry-wise), you can't help wondering if the heaven's hierarchies took an extra long lunch break and kinda lost track of things.

Being a Ph.D scholar in India is a singularly disheartening situation, given that there are a dime a dozen of us sitting on the back-burner hoping someone will hire us to destroy a couple of generations. This is further augmented by the confirmed fact that-- regardless of the sterling quality of your blog-- you are not the author of the most brilliant thesis ever.In such a scenario, one's unnecessarily helpful imagination tends to think of multiple possibilities, none of them reassuring. The sweaty nights are rendered clammy by visions of living in abject poverty and subsisting on banana,bread and moong dal forever. Or having to sell your books to pay rent. Or being the object of your professionally enabled friends' and family's piteous contempt. Or, worst of all, teaching English for Communication to a bunch of disinterested kids who cannot begin to discern the beauty of the language they speak (yeah, I have my priorities straight). Being an individual with some measure of initiative, one accepts the fact that perhaps a back-up plan is in order. And since a job like this one doesn't really exist, a measure of creativity may be required. While robbing a bank or marrying a rich old guy, rigging his will and then killing him, are the immediate possibilities, both these options are too run-of-the-mill to appeal. Ours is the road less taken. After all, what are we if not inventive.
And so-

Option #1:Midnight Maggi Stall

Admittedly not the most inventive idea, but it does promise returns.
It is the Murphy's Law of university food supply that the hunger pangs hit hardest when there is no food to be had. Every university will suffer from periodic food droughts where none of the usual watering-holes function. The enterprising pauper need merely wait for the window of opportunity. A basic investment of around 800 Rs would be unavoidable ( a hotplate, paper plates and 5 packets of mini maggi noodles- the cooking utensils can be appropriated), but that can be begged, borrowed or artfully extorted  from unsuspecting cronies. Sell your first plate of maggi and you are in business for life. And I have it from the best authorities that I make a mean plate of maggi (Of course the rather obvious fact that you can't really go wrong with maggi is another incentive). To truly establish the venture you would probably have to offer chai-coffee as well, but focus on the main attraction: hot soupy, goopy maggi in the dead of the night when your stomach howls at the moon. Additions to the menu can be accommodated according to returns on investment.
The pros are many- For one thing, at least 70% of the student demographic lives on the stuff, whether they like it or not. And the added joy of having someone else make the manna  renders the experience all the more enjoyable. Furthermore, a little dedicated PR work and we have every hope of becoming a campus fixture with steady clientele. All we need is a table next to an unsuspecting power supply.
However, due to the fact that the clientele is greatly made of students and similarly impoverished denizens of the University biosphere, the venture has a great chance of running into losses through extensive  bad debts. Theoretically, establishing a no-credit policy can neuter this threat. However reality functions differently in an academic environment. And we are not just talking metaphysics here. Whether you give it or not, credit will be taken. Besides this financial issue, the venture also runs the risk of legal complications in the form of eviction notices from the law-enforcing admin. While in a Hindi movie this would be the part where the loving students rally around and fight to keep the benevolent feeder-of-the-masses character in their un-rightful places, the real-life student body is a fickle lover. The mere whiff of trouble would have erstwhile champions ambling off in the opposite direction discussing Marx, Kant and rising unemployment. In this more or less confirmed situation, the hapless proprietor will be transported  back to square one- penury, coupled with the very real possibility of pressed charges.
And thus, option #1 is shelved.

Option #2: Autodriver

True, I don't know how to drive. But that will make me fit right in with the rest of the community. The autodriver-- the human equivalent of the common crow-- is the most resourceful entrepreneur there can be. From tampering with meters to make them ring up double the amount to extorting several hundreds extra claiming non-existent traffic or even the time of the day ("Amma, it's summer. It's afternoon.Pay extra " or "Amma it's night. Pay extra." or "Amma, it's just like that. Pay extra." ) the autodriving vocation seems tailor-made to make a quick buck.

Being a successful autodriver seems a fairly simple project. All that is required is tenacity and an ability to be completely obnoxious. The Author has been known to be both on occasions. The small problem of a non-existent sense of direction might be a deterrent, but extensive observation of the species has shown that whenever in doubt ask as passerby or pretend selective amnesia/ deafness. True, the returns are not quite guaranteed, considering there is always some bargaining involved. But a little heckling and a lot of aggressive posturing seems to have some effect on most people.
The initial investment is a bit steep for the student pocket. But a little research can probably find us a proprietor willing to rent out his/ her auto. Still steep, but not that bad.

While this option seems golden, the presence of rabidly territorial auto-packs makes finding a lucrative hunting ground a challenging prospect. Furthermore, the long arm of the law once again becomes a pain in the back since one (a) does not have a licence (b) doesn't have the vehicle's papers (c) doesn't have money to bribe the cops. And as anyone who's ever traveled in an auto knows, the cops hate them. Or at least pretend they do so that they can make money off the passerbys when they get embroiled in the inevitable collision. In between paying the rent for the auto and paying the reigning auto-stand alphas their cut and paying the cops their tithe, the budding entrepreneur runs the risk of returning to poverty unless she stoops to the same levels of degenerate democracy she denigrated earlier. Ah principles, the damn things!

And so ends option #2.

Option #3: Strike Extra (Kerala Specific)

This is actually a very valid employment possibility. Kerala has a thriving hartal/strike culture which demands extensive crowds for each protest; after all what's the point of protesting if there are no protesters, legitimate or otherwise. A loud voice and a adequate stamina for long distance walking  are all the qualifications required: today you yell slogans for Congress, tomorrow for SFI. All this with the the guaranteed pleasure of 500Rs and a plate of biriyani post-rally, political ideology be damned.

Of course, you will also be beaten up and/or thrown in jail interminably in the event of the inevitable lathi charge. And I am not atheletic enough to avoid escape.  Oh dear...

There goes option #3


Option # 4: Stripper
....
Nah... I don't have the legs. Or the abs. Next.

Option #5: Domestic Help (Kerala Specific)

I have it from every corner of the elongated state that good domestic help is about as rare as a scrupulous politician. And given the general rule of demand and supply and the mallu tendency to favour the working class, a conscientious domestic helper is worth her weight in gold ( and sundry electrical appliances and conveniences that she can demand in return for her services.) Since the author already has a neat disposition, the vocation seems right up her alley.

But it is unfortunately her zeal in carrying out her charge that might be a key issue here. The author runs the real risk of giving her employers a blistering earful of abuse in case of sustained levels of disgusting. Furthermore, the author's often humorous but decidedly caustic use of sarcasm may not be the best means of endearing herself to her employers. Given enough,or even not all that much, incentive she may find herself remitting  comments which can easily demolish any illusion of respect among parties. In sum, whether she likes cleaning or not, the author's innate disposition will land her back in unemployment before you can spell 'broom'.
Option#5 proves unfeasible.

Option #6: Landmark Bookstore Salesperson

Ah the joy! The comforting AC, the good music, the proximity to the food court, all those lovely books--Wait.
And there's the catch.
While working in Landmark would truly be a dream job, the simple fact that the author will definitely be perched somewhere reading rather than doing her job may put a damper on things.( For similar reasons, Option#7 Film Theatre Usherer and Option#8 Candy-store Salesperson might be colossal failures.Especially Option#7 since not only will she get too caught up in good movies, she will also do physical harm to idiots denigrating aforementioned good movies or casually assault morons who may promote really stupid movies. Think Chennai Express.) Furthermore, it is almost guaranteed that she will spend the entire paycheck on buying the books she sees around her- food and shelter be damned. Poverty will return as she wastes away in book-fueled delirium and the author, though bibliophilically euphoric, would return to square one.

So no, Option # 6, #7 and #8 can't happen. Drat.


It would seem that all the possibilities for monetary betterment are entirely unfeasible. While the creative mind balks at giving up this interesting train of thought, the sad and pragmatic truth says quite unsympathetically that all these wishy-washy imaginations are just that; wishy-washy imaginations. It would seem the only real alternative available is the successful completion of the dratted thesis. A task that I have been neglecting in favor of this blogpost. But we thrill in finding means to avoid doing what we should and instead doing whatever we feel like. Perhaps the angels hierarchies are just waiting for us to get our act together so that they can sort things out once the kiddies go in for their nap. In either case, it seems the only alternative available to doing a job is to just do it. And that's exactly what I am going to do. Just as soon as I think of a possible plan B. I am open to suggestions :)

(It's just) One Day Matram aka The Confessions of an Incurable Optimist

Forgive the mallu-wordplay in the title. The pun was irresistible.

This blog has seen many a post certifying my flagrant fraud-malluness. But this post isn't one of them. (Thankfully.)

The thing about growing up in another country-- besides the obvious diasporic confusions of being and belonging-- is that it tends to make one's  perspective on the motherland rather bipolar: either you are myopic to her faults or supremely nearsighted. And when you've grown up in Kuwait which, no offense, is the urban answer to Yoknapatawpha, you have every opportunity to foster these fallacies. Which would explain why,regardless of knowing better and daily proof of dissipation, one still finds ones heart swelling just a little bit on Independence Day.

Actually, it was never Independence Day that got any attention. That was reserved for Republic Day. Each of the Indian schools in Kuwait sent choirs (which, by the way, often consisted of SriLankans, Bangladeshis and the occasional Afghani besides Indians-- a microcosm of the subcontinent, don't you think) to the Indian Embassy with its imposing red-sandstone grandeur, to provide the patriotic background score for the flag-hoisting on the inevitably freezing January morning of the 26th. The Republic Day had the drama of unsaid competition between schools, the grueling ritual of group practices ( and the fun that follows), the simulated sense of purpose that comes from dragging yourself out of bed and into perfectly worn uniforms ( and, in my case, taming the hair into prosaic dignity rather than poetic frenzy)  at the ungodly hour of 5:30 am in a desert Winter, and-- perhaps as a result of this simulated sense of purpose-- an incredible sense of pride and joy when you see the flag climb up the pole. That , and the after program-snack box, of course.( usually a slice of fruitcake, a veg sandwich and juice)

Independence Day, on the other hand, came during the fading days of our summer holidays. We are too busy running around getting our fill of field, fallow, food  and lazing around while contemplating the ephemeral nature of holidays to think about celebrating in any sense. Travelling was discouraged because of clogging traffic. (Though there was this one time we had to go somewhere on the 15th and I got to see a 12yr old Gandhiji with a pappadam-based bald-pate trying to cross the road with an equally juvenile Nehru.)
Our entertainment was mostly confined to the screenings of Roja and Mr.India on the T.V-- if it was working. If it was not, then Independence Day made itself known through the blaring loudspeaker from the village school that burped out patriotic songs from another era. As you can see, not the most exciting holiday. It wasn't even a real holiday.

Coming to India gave me cognitive-spectacles that greatly remedied my ideological myopia. It is impossible to live in a country and not see its faults. And we know that India tends to be over abundant in that category. I also realised that so few of  us 'educated' and 'informed' citizens wanted anything to do with our country. Unfettered by NCERT censored text books, we find that Gandhiji, while an excellent statesman and a great idealist, was also a little off the deep end. Nehru  may have been Chacha Nehru, but that's not all he cha-chaed  with.  Poor confused India, flounders like a rudderless boat grappling with alien democracy it never got the hang of, parading her penchant for dynastic rule in  ballot box choices which bowed to inevitable evil either of the necessary/familiar kind, or the next best alternative, or whichever party offers the better deal in terms of material benefits like two kgs of rice, a sari and a bottle. Somewhere you start to think that democracy was never a good idea. That dissent is too wearisome and that 'choice', the fundamental premise of freedom, is just not worth it.

Everyday we shrug at idealism with studied apathy, our psyches are flogged by multiple proof of corruption running rampant and the anarchy meted out by administrations. Everyday we find new examples of atrocious mismanagement and inconsideration. Everyday we find one more reason to wash our hands off our state and fall a little more in our own eyes. Every day we find ourselves giving up on the idea of freedom, forgetting that this is what freedom is-- the inability to blame anyone else and the burden of carrying on by yourself. Freedom is a myth, it always comes at the cost of some other kind of liberty. But freedom in whatever form is something to be savored.  It may be screwed up, but it's our screwed up.

Too blind, perhaps? True, very true. The arguments against what I just wrote create an Indian Parliament worthy cacophony in my head. But I silence them with the single thought that 364 days of the year these arguments reign supreme. For just one day let us see our country as they saw it on that fateful midnight hour when we made our tryst with destiny-- with hope. They were not fighting for a section, or for a position. They fought for 'freedom'. The freedom to make choices, whether a physical one like entering a certain compartment, or a tertiary one like applying for a certain jobs, or the freedom to have a stand and to maintain it. The freedom to go where one wants, to be what one is (whatever that might be) while allowing other freedoms to exist. The times we live in give us very little affirmation of this hope, but for just one day let us try to see it as a possibility rather than an improbable pipe-dream. For just one day, let us free ourselves from our self-proclaimed cynicism and hope like they once hoped that our country will indeed awaken to that heaven of freedom. Because, that is what they fought for, that is the freedom we have-- the freedom to dream of "One day... someday".

Happy Independence Day

Speaking Words of Wisdom

Long post. Something to sink your teeth into.

Given the fact that the author's grandfather was a doctor, it is rather ironic that both she and her family share an anathema for the Hippocratic guild. Most ailments were greeted with little or no fuss, so much so that the germs soon got bored of our indifference and left the building faster than you could say "Elvis". A perfectly decent method, but the situation is a little different when the source of discomfort isn't  a real pathogen. And, when the epicenter of pain is located at the back of your mouth.

When it comes to wisdom teeth, here's a word of advice- don't let it be.

The mater's tryst with toothache crumbled the foundations of her dental state. Literally. She opted for dental care only after the tooth began to actually crumble into little shards-- up until then it was the classic clove oil /ice treatment. Having worn her wisdom tooth down to a stub, and rendered her face asymmetrically swollen, she finally swallowed the bitter pill that she needed help with her dental work. As it turned out, it was quite a bit of work. In keeping with the family character, her (now) tiny wisdom tooth had roots that ran deep, stubborn and twisted. The dentist probably wrenched his shoulder trying to get the tooth out, and it didn't help that he had an angry twelve year old staring daggers at him for the unspeakable violence he was inflicting, no matter that her mother's mouth was insensible. Following a tug of of war, which left the dentist bathed in sweat and heaving for breath, my mother emerged  cotton-mouthed, pain free and generally rejuvenated. Even the returned feeling to her benumbed mouth could not compare to the agony from before and she had admit she was much better. Following this episode, dentists were deemed ok. Sort of .

Which would explain why the advent of an impacted wisdom tooth in the daughter was greeted with prompt marching orders to the nearest dentist.

In a clear case of a spatial paradox, my big mouth's jaw was too small for all the wisdom bursting out of it. True, the molars had begun to make their presence felt quite a while back, but their no-pain-no-gain policy was largely benevolent, allowing for life to continue uneventfully regardless of space crunch issues on the jawline. Unfortunately, the right-wing tooth decided that it was time to go Lokpal (Lok-pallu. hehehe.) and demand justice. It ached, throbbed, got a swollen sense of self, generally became a pain in the head. And would have been ignored as usual if not for the fact that phone calls had to be conducted through gritted teeth all the better for not moving the jaw-- apparently this is a dead give away even if you are a state and bad phone-line away. The maternal instruction was augmented by additional exhortations from other quarters which gained traction from the simple agony of angry tooth. The final blow was the fact that a hunger-driven sortie to the mess saw me effectively destroying multiple appetites through my pained winces at every chew. A day of cold compressing and badly disguised phone-winces later I had to accept the sad truth: It was time to see a doctor. Damn it.
Then came the inevitable verdict.
The tooth had to come out. Urgh.

Let me clarify the context. The only time I'd gone for a tooth extraction was waaaaaaay back when my age was still a single digit number. All dental escapades that followed, were conducted by yours truly (I distinctly remember pulling out both my loose canines on the same evening simply because I was bored.) The thought of a dentist navigating these uncharted territories was a huge breach of privacy. Besides, being in a dentists chair is a supremely undignified position, splayed like an upended beetle with your mouth is wide open,constantly worried that your over-sensitive gag reflex will kick in an spew out. It didn't help that my brain, usually reticent and retiring, chose to to efficiently relay my tenth standard Ogden Nash lesson word for word. And when that memory was pushed aside, it decided to remind me of this movie. Ah the vagaries of the mind.

In all fairness, the most uncomfortable part was getting the anesthetic injection. Your mouth has been subjected to a lot of things, but being poked in the gums with a sharp needle is not one of them. Understandably, the reaction is not the most pleasant. In any case, the introduction of chemical assistance rendered the entire right side of my face, and a large part of the left, impervious to all sensation. It would have been a good day to get my threading done, had circumstances been different. Now that the face was properly benumbed, there was no more stalling. Extraction time. Once again Ogden Nash's infernal poem ran slides in my head as the doc pulled on his mask and took out what looked like a wrench-spanner hybrid and a pygmy chisel-lever. Just as the good doctor leveled the first blow, the author's mind began providing a beautiful background score of the magnificent Reethigowla Ragam she was learning at the moment ( and which will now probably be permanently associated with dentistry). Ah the vagaries of the mind.

The wisdom tooth, like beloved Will's love, does not "...bend with the remover to remove...". True, there was no epic battle as in the case of the Mater's molar, but the dentist did have to put in a couple of extra ounces of muscle into the task. The tooth did not want to come out and its roots clung stubbornly to my jaw. The dentist dug and pulled and twisted and pulled and poked and  pulled and tugged and pulled and pulled, trying to shake the tooth out of its foundations. My mouth, desensitized as it was, twinged in sympathetic discomfort.  And some annoyance too, since the doctor's enthusiastic levering was stretching the mouth in to unbelievable shapes. Through all the pulling and chipping and poking, the author's consciousness, still pleasantly serenaded with classical music, fixed itself upon the fact that the doctor had the kind of perfectly curved eyebrows that were positively wasted on a man.  Once again, we wonder at the vagaries of the mind.

Just as I was beginning to draft a complaint to the powers that be regarding the dentist's unfair eyebrow advantage, with a last wrenching tug the tooth came out. And what a tooth it was! Large with solid curved roots that could and did hold its ground, it was the Leonidas of my dental Thermopylae: no wonder it was causing so much trouble. But I didn't have much time to contemplate the beauty of my lost wisdom. Bereft of the distraction of mental background music and curved eyebrows, the senses were suddenly assaulted by the nauseating miasma of acrid chemical, the bitter taste and smell of latex gloves and the overpowering scent of blood that flooded the mouth. This general discomfort was compounded by the insertion of large wads of cotton in mutilated area which promptly set gag-reflexes jumping .The author was suddenly very glad she hadn't eaten anything before the performance. Tamping down on the rising bile was made difficult by the fact that all the muscles on the gagging side weren't listening to you. Providence kept the contents of the stomach where it belonged and the dentist escaped unscathed. Cotton in place and blood wiped away, normalcy was more or less regained except for a slight tendency to lose control over the right side of face and the very real danger of drooling and not knowing it. Communication for the large part was carried out with animated head shakes, expressive eye-rolling and an erstwhile unplumbed talent for dumb-charades; a very amusing turn of events for spectators like the pharmacist and his assistant who seemed to have great fun trying to figure out what I was trying to say.

Opting to walk rather than trying to communicate destination and fare to autodriver-bretheren gave me the time to contemplate the fate of the tooth. I had tried to redeem it as a souvenir of the experience, but it had already been disposed of. I suppose in a sense I mourned it's loss-- that overlarge piece of enamel that clung  so tenaciously, so desperately to a jaw that simply could not accommodate it, now lying at the bottom of an alien dustbin. But then again, it would only have decayed in the claustrophobic cavity of the jaw, destined to being whittled into a tiny half-shard of itself, that would only get attention through pain and torture. Better by far that it free itself in this early age, strong and white. Or so I tell myself. Returning to hostel, to what would be the first of many bowls of cold oats, I toast the lost tooth: your memory lives on in all the grains of rice that will inevitably end up in the shallow niche that you left behind, reminding me that gaps will be filled whether you want it or not. Rest in (one) piece.

Tech Support

Apologies in advance. It started out small and then grew out of control before anything could be done. Much like the Author's gizmo-collection.

Most of those who have the dubious fortune of acquaintance-ship with the Author know that she is what is known as a "techno-dud of epic proportions". It is quite possible that her genealogy may be traced back to that particular line of neanderthals who were most loath to move away from beloved rock and stick and move on to iron tools. Whether they are phones, computers or ipods, gadgets fail to garner interest.

This ambivalence is not entirely without reason. From an early age it was drilled into me that technology was way more trouble than it was worth. This line of thought was nurtured by the fact that a) I studied in a school where most electrical implements were guaranteed to malfunction. Especially when you need them to work. b) Whenever something went wrong with the TV/ Computer and later the mobile, the first reaction of the adults was "What did you do?!"(Though in all honesty they are not entirely to blame; every once in a while we really WERE the cause.) Of course neither of these factors deterred my brother from turning into a connoisseur of electronic excellence, but he is the exception in our family's general trend of gaping ignorance in all things gizmo-like.

Perhaps the beginning of the change was when I first left home. The momentous leap from school to farway college and consequent hostel-dom made the acquisition of erstwhile avoided cell-phone inevitable. This foray into the alien practices was still limited to basic applications- bluetooth and other colour-coded activities did not register in the list of phoney skills. The mobile situation did, however, teach my mother and myself the fine art of texting. My father on the other hand remained steadfastly disinclined (in fact, it took at least 5 years and a rather troublesome episode in the airport for him to finally condescend to carry a mobile phone). Be that as it may, the initiation into the tech-world convinced the family that there was some profit in discovering the New World of gadgetry. And who better to experiment than the eldest far away.The years that followed were characterised by tenaciously typed typo-riddled texts, several backfired or missed phone calls, painfully saved and lost data, terrified panic attacks at having pressed the wrong button and thinly veiled threats of family funded technological upgrades which were constantly and firmly rebuffed. I really didn't want more equipment than I already had and went to great lengths to dissuade my parents from appliance-benevolence. I recall a sleepy afternoon, made sleepier still by my monologue on the travails of fighting off electronic instruments, when Sirgit turned around and asked me quite seriously, "Are you crazy?" I suppose to the general public such an anti-gadget stance seems strange. The fact is, these things were a necessity, and the ancestry of the the thing's circuitry did little to electrify my interest. Plus, they scared me-there are either too many buttons, or none at all!

For all my fighting against the industrial revolution of my mechanical life, in the course of eight years my family has managed to press upon me a digital camera (beloved Digi, who I still refuse to part with regardless of her obvious decrepitude), a laptop (Zephyr of the fried right-click fame, a comrade without whom my M.A-Ph.D life would be unthinkable.), mp3 players (beloved Tony I and later, when he kicked the bucket, Tony II, partner to all my journeys, rainscapades, and miscellaneous occasions that require a soundtrack- including but not limited to assignment submission, frenzied cleaning, angry walks in the middle of the night or simply the middle of the night.). A small external hard-drive (Satine of the glossy black skin and insufficient disk space for all my music), a big external hard-drive (Passepartout, named after the super-resourceful right-hand of the intrepid Phileas Fogg, but mostly because he declared himself Passport when first plugged in). And of course my sturdy Nokia (who is called just that because to call her anything else detracts from her impervious, super-toughness. It would be like calling the Rock, Dwayne Johnson.) As you can see, I have been quite effective.

This appliance-boom has also seen a congruent techno-improvement on the family side. My brother, who was never held back by the debilitating tech-fear as I was, is a certified expert on all things electronic. My mother has scaled great heights of telephone and internet competence by being proficient at not only texting and telephoning, but also at navigating the world wide web with a fair amount of confidence. Even the Pater, averse as he is to any kind of telephone related duties, has , of late begun to frame full sentences in the messaging/mailing scheme. This is a truly momentous development considering my father's typing episodes usually entail long spells of searching for the right key, getting worked-up if the screen throws something he wasn't expecting (eg: a pop-up ad, a new tab, the wrong letter.) and finally throwing up his hands in frustration and badgering one of us to write the godforsaken thing on his behalf.
But apparently things have really changed.
My Father suggested we take to chatting online.

The temptation to vigorously clean my ears and keep repeating "huh?" was the overriding reaction when my mother relayed the conversation. Several sputters later, I heard the explanation. "With the situation in Kuwait being the way it is, the officials are cracking down on the online-phone calls. The mobile keeps running out of charge and balance. This way he can talk to us consistently."

The image of my father hunched over the keyboard, forehead creased in concentration, hitting one slow, painful key at a time flashes in my mind.

When I first left home, everyday  for the first three months would see a meticulously typed text and a phone call in the evening. Every break was punctuated with extensive photo sessions and concentrated memory-making. The advent of internet facilities brought the laptop. The burgeoning work and data brought the hard-drives, and my family's unflagging and sometimes misplaced appreciation for my music- the mp3 players. And even now, a veteran of transits, moves and farewells I find myself supported, whether I want it or not. 

Robert Frost wrote "Home is the place where,/ when you have to  go there,/ they have to take you in." With some luck and a lot of love, I have been able to fashion home everywhere I went. And I have the great good fortune of incredibly reliable, albeit occasionally over-enthusiastic tech-support from head-office. But then it wouldn't be the same without that over-zealous element, now would it?

This time they got me a new phone. Oh God!

Rain Lovesong

Many thanks to Resham George for the title and the lovely song.

Living most of your life in a desert and later in two decidedly arid cities, makes precipitation of the torrential kind a delightful treat. And since, like in most things, the Author tends to work in extremes, this fascination for rain tends to tip towards eccentric.

Simply put, I love the rain.
I can make a literary case for it: Rain is like a physical manifestation of Wordsworth's much quoted "spontaneous over-flow of powerful feelings".Only it doesn't wait for tranquility. It arrives when it does, and does not give you a choice about whether or not you are ready for the downpour. I suppose that too is a part of the charm. Rain does not allow secrets; it drenches you completely, seeking the fissures in your soul and filling them to the brim. It renders all the time you spent worrying about what to wear useless because at the end you'll still just "...look like a  cat that stuck its nose into a socket that shocked it" (once again, thank you Resham George). And yet the rain loves you, regardless-- and probably because of-- the fact that you really can't hide from him. Of course he can be quite frustrating. Like when he signals his arrival with so much promise employing all the fanfare of flushed skies, thunderous laughter and lightning smiles only to go speeding away on the wings of a smirking wind. Worse still is the half-hearted rain where he is just showing waaaaaay too much attitude. Times like these you wish the rain was an actual person rather than a personified entity so you could give him a piece of your mind. Yet, even as you pout in disappointment, you know he's probably doing that only to see you pissed off and looking like an idiot. Humph.

Thing is, you don't stand a chance against  so much exuberant bonhomie. The rain, in his overwhelming loving, washes out everything leaving you clean, pristine and strangely rejuvenated. Even the dirt is a happier brown after a good downpour. The rain drowns out all the doubts, the anxieties and replaces it with either the soft, comforting whisper of a gentle shower, or the excited applause of a million droplets, or the exhorting teasing of a bullying deluge. The rain renews, revitalises and reminds one that there is nothing so bad that a good cloudburst cannot wash away. The rain hugs you close and lets you expend your emotions, letting your tears meld with his or rumbling an answering laugh to yours. And then there is the quiet content of sipping a cup of hot chai  while watching the rain run riot, soaking in the joy of knowing that there is always beauty in the world. Even if it does cause power cuts and jams traffic.

I love the rain because it reminds me that regardless of how small you are in the wide world, the world still loves you. That small raindrop that hits your face is a kiss from the universe, telling you that there is still something to look forward to. The wind has been picking up outside my window and I expect to hear the soft rumble of thunder some time tonight. The first rains are finally arriving and life, once again, is made possible.

On reading Red Sorghum

I usually do not do book reviews, neither do I enjoy them. I am of the general opinion that everyone should be allowed to figure out if they like a book or not, with no external help; much like with people. But every once in a while a book comes along to remind you of your supreme naivete. In our sanguine smugness and misplaced faith in reason we tend to analyse, assimilate and file away experiences to be fished out as convenient anecdotes. The reality of the episode fades with time, repetition and with this basic act of classification, and we begin to use these instances only as precedents to support a case. We are argumentative and competitive and rarely, if ever, dwell on a moment long enough to allow it to seep into the bedrock of our psyches.

And then,  suddenly, you realise that realities are real, not manageable instances. No matter how much you 'manage' them, its graphic nature can never be veiled.

Like I said, I don't like book reviews. I prefer to go in blind. But this book deserved a word, not of praise but of caution. It will not negotiate, it invades. It does not forgive, it demands vengeance. It cannot give, it drowns. And most importantly, it stays.

Reading Red Sorghum is an exercise of agonised fascination. Mo Yan does not give the reader any respite, he is as ruthless as his characters and seems to take the untold-- or rather the excrutiatingly described-- violence in the same matter of fact, survivalist mien as they do. Watching a movie allows you the ephemeral comfort of closing your eyes to avoid the horrifying. The book will not brook such cowardice. And so, regardless of the fact that your insides are cringing, you continue reading. Just like the characters in the book.
They only stop when they are dead, just as we can only stop reading at the end of the book. It drains you, stretches you taut and thin and brings home the fact that you know nothing, can never know and that you should pray that it remains that way; because to know is to never be able to ignore.

The closing pages of the book describes the changed landscape of the place of setting-- Mo Yan's only lapse into blatant allegorical eloquence. Filled with a deep and abiding guilt at the inadequacy of the present to live up to the past, the author finally helps you name that terrible ache in your chest, so smothered by horror and shock. It is shame: the shame of not being that original, the true seed of the earth that aught to stand tall and proud instead doomed to the boxed existence of pet rabbits. And yet, underneath that crushing realisation, one also knows that we came from this cruel, loving, avenging earth and will return to it no matter how many times we are exhumed from our rest or fight its reclaiming tug- this too is true.

Ah literature, love of my life.

Dirge to the Year

I emulate the inimitable Shakespeare and appropriate his lines to suit my own ends.The evil that years do lives after them. Sometimes in the form of wrinkles and marriage proposals. The good is oft interred with their obsolete calenders. Those of you who still follow this blog are probably wondering (or shrugging sarcastically) at the tardiness of this post. Stay your chiding for the moment while I mourn the passing of a dead year. A year that didn't get its due.

It took me 21 days, 2 hrs and 25 minutes to collect myself enough to attempt a eulogy for a human year. Yes, a year so very human. She (yes, she ) came rushing into the world on a crisp mid-winter spring day with bright eyes that painted the world in vibrant tones of red, gold and green. Travel plans, multiple reunions, large garrulous weddings: Life, life and more seam-bursting life. Her loquacious toddlerhood melts into a mellow maturity too old for its age. From the shrill coos of the first months she settles into the slow steady cadence of little children speaking big words. The baby year was beginning to realise that she had a deadline, that she had to make it count. And so she makes the transition without losing her cheer. She keeps her lengthy conversations so as to not worry you with her deeper silences and quieter excesses.The young child-woman who you care for gingerly wraps her adolescent arms around you feeling for your empty spaces and slipping into adulthood. Caught in the cusp of her loving and loved embrace you close your eyes and think 'forever'.

And then, suddenly, the shadows fall longer on the sundial. I look for the young year that had thrown her arms around me and find her shriveled and pale in my arms. She did not have the time to grow old. Youth sublimated into age leaving behind a fragile form of spun crystal. Yet, her delicacy carries the weight of  lost causes, broken promises, the smiles you missed and the tries that failed.

It took me 21 days, 2hrs and 51 minutes to get here. It took a stroke of midnight for her to turn into an obsolete number. The dinning rage of the outraged mortals merged with the gong of the midnight hour shattering her glass body.I scatter the atom dust of her broken hourglass form to the winds that clamor with the trumpet of prophesy. What prophesy? I wonder. She is gone and we remain. And yet, I can still feel the weight of her shrunken body in the empty hands of the clock and the misty rays of morning. She is here. Still here.

I breathe in the dust of the departed year pulling along with her the essence of eternity, infusing my blood with the Age. In my lungs are lodged the multiple pasts and all my future, burning itself into the DNA of my present. I am all, I am nothing, and I am yet to be. I am. And I will be.

It is 3:00 am. Soon the dawn will unroll her golden tapestry. On my desk 2013 smiles a toothless smile through the columned crib of her calender. As I finally lay to rest the year gone by, I re-invoke the poet who supplied the title of this post.

To love, and bear; to hope till hope creates
From its own wreck the thing it contemplates;
Neither to change nor falter, nor repent...
This alone Life, Joy, Empire and Victory...

                                          Percy Bysshe Shelley,
                                                Prometheus Unbound Act IV

A belated happy New Year, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for animating The World According to Me.

sincerely,

The Creator.

A Taste of the Mallu

In the banana-republic of Kerala- whose name translates to 'land of coconuts'- the banana-ness and the nutty-ness feature stridently in its cultural and often physical make up. The very shape of the state itself can be likened to an elongated pazhampori (fried banana fritters- a singularly unglamorous, but uniquely yummy dish). The natives unconsciously try to emulate their beloved banana and coconut trees: They look like the former and smell like the latter. Or vice-versa. We mallus either come in the soft, stocky variety or the inevitable tall, swaying type. In both cases the hair is large and scarily bouffant. And if it is not these two fruits, then we mallus generally come along the lines of the other superstar of mallu cuisine- Jackfruit. Mallus of this variety are large,prickly and cause a lot of damage if they come down on your head. But open them up and they are golden, honey-sweet and very messy to handle. Mango mallus on the other hand are deceptively benign. Sweet, effusive and fat with health and good will, they look benevolent enough to make one forget about the stinging sap and the inevitable stomach upset from over indulgence. Cut too close to their core and things can and will turn sour. And then of course there is the tsundere mangosteen of the bright, strong rind and soft melting insides with just the right amount of snap to keep you on your toes.


But don't let all this fruit-talk fool you into thinking we are healthy company.. 

Another elucidation of the mallu reflection in food is the plethora of chips that we have managed to create. We mallus have managed to turn the most un-fry-eristic entities into chips or fry-ums. Jackfruit, bitter-gourd, ladiesfinger, beans, chillies, bananas- you name it we fry it. And what we can't fry we turn into fiery pickles that leave your stomach lining charred, as the famous kadumanga, which looks as deadly as it tastes, will attest. Our pickling penchant is all inclusive, making provisions for not only our flora but also our fauna. No hostel would be complete without someone pulling out Ammachi's  homemade fish pickle or Amma's special prawn pickle. Think of the last thing you would ever think of pickling/ chipsing/ turning into jam and I can present you with a packet. Perhaps  the most astonishing fact about the Mallu palate is that we are omnivores in the truest sense. While no occasion is complete without the all-vegetarian feast menu of the sadhya, the non-vegetarian mallus are almost obscenely accommodating to anything that breathes. Fish, fowl or amphibian we make room for you on our plate.

Our protean diet makes its way into our social make-up turning the general mallu into a wonderfully adaptive creature with multiple avatars and an overblown sense of confidence and self importance in a world which does not know of half the favorites that stemmed from their land (ever heard of 'lubika'? It's a fruit.) and does not care. But it is perhaps this tepid social response that challenges the mallu to take the world in hand and show it how its done. We love the world and are determined that it enjoys what we do. We are a little autocratic that way, but it all comes from the best intentions. After all, how can a generous mallu allow their beloved brethen to go on in life without enjoying the universally yummy taste of kappa-meenkari. We are resilient and hardy- much like our famed rubber (which has resisted every attempt at edibilisation). We are like our metamorphic menus- we change to taste and acquire additions and renovations with few reservations. Which, strangely, does embody the spirit of globalisation and therefore is a perfect explanation for why Mallus are taking over the world. Besides of  course the simple fact that once we decide to stay you can't get rid of us- much like jackfruit gum (the connection endures).

We are wholly unexpected. Yet strangely wholesome. And very often unholy strange. And yes the multiple use of 'strange' is perfectly apt. In either case, I am told we are an acquired taste- you may feel the urge to spit us out, but we are always a memorable ride for the adventurous palate. Would you like to try?

Change

The rain is crying
At my window pane.
And I cannot go out
And comfort it
I suppose this is what they call
Growing up.

Dreamcatcher

I found a dream
At the back of my head
And carried it
Softly-
For it's a hard thing to touch.

I found my dream
And laid it to rest.
Then sang myself to sleep.

S#*! happens

It can be good,bad or ugly. Big, small or stupid. Jack, dip or dingo. Bull, horse or chicken.You can sling it, catch it, throw it, talk it, take it, handle it, eat it and have it kicked out of you .It can be your luck, your brains and sometimes your face. It gets bad, it falls apart, it hits the roof, the fan, the ceiling and often it makes the world go round. You can have too much of it or too little of it or simply not need it but the truth is- the S#*! is here to stay.

Feces has gone through several phases, keeping stride with human evolution itself. Early man woke up in the morning took a good one and then had the s#*! scared out of him when the local cave lion decided to pay him a visit. Having managed to save himself from being main course, he got his s#*! together, tracked the big cat's spoor and thus gave rise to the first fur carpet. (Sorry Simba. S#*! happens.) With fire came the next stage. Culinary development was very straightforward: if it smells like sh*!, don't eat it. If it tastes like s#*!, spit it out. Unless Cave Mama is in a bad mood- she can and will beat the s#*! out of you.

Civilisation did not do much to distract us from our fecal fascination. The prime example would be the 18th Century french court where the morning movements of the monarch were carried out with the entire court in attendance. Which does make some sense... after all a King ought to know how to handle his s#*! and get his S#*! together. As you can see, human exertions have been greatly influenced by excretions. I suppose that's why we continue to take s#*! from different quarters.

The scatalogical obsession of the human race has been a rather embarrassing but apparently unavoidable trait that runs down our genes. (...). But none, I believe, have imbibed it as much as we Indians. Any Indian writing in English will have its fair share of allusions to offal, what with Anita Desai's blase references to nose-digging or Mulk Raj Anands rather disturbing relish for feces. But the true proof of it's indelible stain on our psyche is excretion's presence in casual conversation and familial bonding. For example my father, brother and uncle would go out of their way to crack shitty jokes in the middle of meals. And if my aunt ever offers you 'green-s#*!', do not be alarmed. She is merely giving you a helping of harmless green gram. In fact, as the wise MaterialMom once put it, s#*! has replaced God- there was one a time we said "Oh God!", now it is "Oh S#*! ! ". The 'Holy Ghost' is now 'Holy S#*!"

No matter how much we may feign fastidious disgust, we undeniably dig s#*!. Which will also explain why I have spent so much time on it. And I'm not just talking about my academic life. When shit happens it happens. We can either carry an umbrella and watch where we put our foot, or we can simply dance through it and come out smelling like a flower. In either case, as my supervisor once told me in a fit of eloquence, "How you handle it makes all the difference."Since we can't escape we might as well kick the s#*! out of any c%@P life may throw at us, eh?

Write of Passage(s)

While writing a long drawn out angst filled apology for my prolonged absence is very tempting, I believe and actual post will make my sincere regret clearer.

Contrary to popular opinion, the Author has not fallen off the face of the earth. Rather she has been perching on a particularly unproductive pimple on its wide lovable cheek.There is a general belief within the layman masses (look at me- so elitist!) that being in academics involves the amassing of knowledge. And they are not wrong: I've been doing just that! Over the past twelve months I have gained considerable knowledge in the areas of a) Cooler maintenance (wiring, tubing,plumbing and fibre-reattachment) b) window re-modelling (detaching, reattaching, grill-removal) c) Survival cooking (how to cook pasta when you only have maida, salt and half a thimble of milk powder to help/toasting bread on a candle) d) Multi-tasked make up (how to use a chapstick as lipstick, rouge, eyeshadow and burn treatment) e) Animal Husbandry ( getting rid of 'husbanding' animals from your hostel corridor) f)basic plumbing. While these skills are nuggets that you pick up by chance on the way to academic Valhalla, there is one that will find you and bury itself into your psyche whether you want it or not.

Observe, if you will:

"A singular specific Felis Catus observed a non-kinetic stance upon a horizontally positioned fabric production created by the interlacing of two distinct fibres."

Translation: The cat sat on a mat.

While most traditional occupations requires one to put in a requisite number of hours, an average academic is required to meet a word count. In the ideal circumstance one would know enough about the subject to be hard-pressed to stay within the word count. However since research requires prolonged work, and work is anathema to most of us (ok fine! me), one would usually be struggling to write enough about the subject to not disgrace oneself before peers and professors alike. As a result, every year,those trees that were lucky enough to have escaped the felling glance of the NET/Board exam paper-makers, meet their demise fulfilling their wasted existence as a medium for our outrageous faff. And having spent the large part of my blog-absence fighting the colossal abomination created through the evil copulation of course-work and cumulative procrastination, I am placed in the prime position to enlighten the impressionable reader on the right way of creating high-flying hogwash.

1.Always maintain the Grass-Gas Balance. It is humanly impossible to churn out a thousand words with nothing more than your advanced thesaurus. There must always be some grass to create some bullshit:The trick is to hit the right proportion between the grass and the gas. The student must maintain a minimum 40-60 ratio if she is to escape egoscopy, for the professor is a canny breed. The skilled student must outwit the natural cunning of these superiors, distracting them with the right kind of shiny bait. To this end I recommend the Sabari Express Pazhampori technique.

The pazhampori served in the Sabari Express is large, golden, succulent-looking and characterised by a distinct lack of banana.The crisp burnished skin tempts the hungry traveler to flout experience and buy the snack, only to sink teeth through the interminable layer of fried batter before getting at the golden fruit within. And yet, the simple fact that we spent money on it and that it is pazhampori keep us munching on the disappointing, oily, unhealthy item. The assignment must beguile the poor prof into ignoring their better judgement, egging her/him into reading through all the tasteless faff to get at the nugget of thought within. A way with language and the occasional showy folder and/or nice stationary, will always help this cause.

2.Two words are always better than one. The Oxford English Dictionary lists up to 228132 words. Any academic must always try to include as many of these as possible. In fact, coin a few of your own while you are at it. The example sentence is proof of the expansive properties of this method. True, precision and efficiency are irredeemably obscured. However, word count is prodigiously boosted. Judicious use of this method may not make you an intellectual but may help you sound like one. Remember, adjectives are an academics best friends.A descriptive prose often proves to be the best recourse for the intellectually dehydrated. It also helps to provide homeric epithets to names/ ideas that will inevitably be repeated in your ill-researched paper. This is apparently called 'flabby' writing but given that our substance is paper-thin we don't really have much room for weight-watching.

3. What's in a name? Lots. Name dropping not only helps lubricate government channels but also makes your feather light paper seem more substantial. This is a more effective method of paper-weighting than the much touted Jargonaut, where the writer overloads the paper with bombastic jargon. The Jargonaut runs the risk of seeming as insincere as it actually is whereas name-dropping carries an aura of brown-nosing humility. And the bigger the names the better- literally. Longer names increase word count! But on a less bimbettic level, names-big,small or medium sized- give an impression of secondary reading and may often represent the sole grass for the rest of the gas (refer to point 1). For the same reason, it is imperative that one disguise ones disgracefully rudimentary knowledge with timely reiteration of the Names. But the diligent slacker must know that the name alone cannot wield much power. For optimum results, one must endeavor to substantiate this name-dropping through the universally beneficial medium of the Quote. A well placed quote can not only conceal your gaping ignorance but also legitimately increase word count and page length.

However the student must beware the perils of hollow quotation.

Familiarity breeds content. Feigned familiarity breeds discontent. And a bad grade.

4. And of course there is the the Cow-Coconut Tree Connection. Remember the story of the exam candidate who had practiced an essay on a cow? Unfortunately the paper asked him to write about a coconut tree. But our hero (who was definitely an academic in the making) was not one to be daunted. He simply stated that a cow was tied to the coconut tree and then proceeded to talk about the animal. We academics already carry the stereotype of vagueness hence the resourceful student can make use of this to put in some paper-wasting digression. To the canny academic everything is related (even if one is not mallu). A little deft manipulation and one may be able to tie together two completely disparate ideas to create a legitimate sounding paper.

These four pointers will help the fledgling academic piece together a paper that is like a 'made in china' product- it looks good but wont last in the long run. However, as most Eleventh-hourists will agree, quality is usually the least of our worries when faced with a long dead deadline and a prof who has become so disillusioned that he would be painfully grateful to receive any paper from his charges.

The future of academic thought slouches unaware of the cancer growing in its breast as the multiplicity of mediocrity chokes away what little idealism that survives its great institutional Machine. Thought is churned, recycled and recast in the molds of wrenched language twisted out of shape within the jaws of the academe.Language has been chained and bowed by the heavy weight of pointless papers which will never inspire, never stimulate. And the thinker falls asleep and cricks his neck.

But we shall not be daunted. As Anupam Kher so neatly phrased it, "language was created to satisfy man's deep urge to complain." I shall use this maligned language to malign those who force me to malign it.

Which is why I shall now return to my neglected course work and struggle to churn out 2000 words on a subject I am unfamiliar with.

PS: Readers who want to read what this post ought to have been should check out George Orwell's delightful essay on the subject.

You know you are older when...

1. The Home Centre becomes exciting.
2. Train journeys in sleeper coaches become less exciting.
3. There is more hair in your hair-brush than on your head.
4. You swap cooking stories with your buddies.
5. You swap joint pain-remedies with your parents.
6. You start drinking green tea- and liking it.
7. There are very few things that surprise you and surprises never sieze.

The Unrequited

Republished for apt-ness.

It is the eternal fate of the hostelite to always miss something/ someone. You spend one half of the year dreaming of and sighing for home. And when you get there, you sigh and dream of all those hostel moments which home just cannot provide. At hostel you yearn for your family, at home you yearn for your friends. At home you wish you didn't have to ask permission or let someone know where you're going. At hostel, you get depressed that there's no one who really cares where you go or what you do. At hostel you regale your friends with nostalgic stories of home.At home you tell nostalgic stories of hostel. We oscillate between the two ends, and gather particles of memories and feelings from each. Thus rendering us without resolution. The sharp, sweet respite obtained when we hit one end fades and forms another want until we
hit the other. There's no home for the wanderer. Just a constant movement from missing a little to missing a lot. A sense of incompleteness pervades every stop-over,urging us to move again. To try in vain to catch that missing something.
It is our fate to always miss something.

But perhaps because of this we value our short stays even more. We know we wont be here long, so we make the most of the time we have.We glean more from less, so to speak. Life is all the richer because we live the moment to the fullest...

I believe that everything has a reason. So does this...

Chip off the old Banana. Extended version.

Republished after additions. Hope this is an improvement.


We mallus are inherently fruity. Hence, the incredible loneliness of the soul faced by a fruitless Mallu is self-evident. This deep angst surfaces in the deprived mallu's desperate delight in the face of such seemingly unimportant items such as coconut chutney and banana-chips. And this is all the more intense when the mallu is transplanted into a dry arid desert lands of that other Mallu-land lovingly referred to as 'the Gelf'.

Every year, the Keralite home-base faces a sharp shortage of the non-perishable edibles and snack-like as non-resident mallus flock back to their homeland. Stores are ransacked of their savories and looted of their lip-smackers; the state suffers from an acute drought of tea-snacks for months to come.But though the mixtures may go missing and the diamond-cuts kidnapped no other snack variety suffers as greatly as the banana-chip. The fruits quiver in fear as the shadow of the Gelf-returned fall upon their pliant green stalks. Bunch upon bunch of barely ripe bananas are deep-fried in coconut oil with salt to create a taste of Kerala in your desert living room. The bright gold of these gilded treats drew the marauding migrators like the doubloons that incited the plundering conquistadors.


But there are looters and bounty-hunters. The first indiscriminately haul every available flake of every available banana. The latter however are the connoisseurs who quest for that perfect, crisp, delicious chip and savor it as it aught to be. My family falls in the second category. And so our clan are receptacles of that deep race memory that flows through every mallu- the Chip hierarchy. For example, anybody knows that big bakeries never sell you the best chips. The true finds are always in the back alley shanties or in the seedy tin shops near railway/bus stations. And besides,no discerning mallu with their inherent anti-capitalist stance will ever trust a big brand. The last time I was in Mallu-land I heard a Hot Chips franchise was starting out there. I pity them. Another instance of Mallu general knowledge is that every fastidious mallu knows that Calicut is the Mecca of the Banana Chip. The crispiest, tastiest and most scrumptilicious chips are from beloved Calicut. Even my father- who hails from Trichur, and believes everything Trichurian is automatically exemplary- agrees to this. But my father was never one to bend his knees before the insolent tasty-ness of a non-Trichur chip. Besides, he had a special supplier.

The return trip from our frenetic vacations was usually a weighty affair. More than anything because of the constant worry of weight issues. The airlines being a rather fussy institution demanded that all the travelers carried only a limited amount of weight. This of course resulted in a series of weighing, tearful half-hearted unpacking, offloading of much loved items and reweighing. In our household it is imperative that every member be present at the packing arena: mostly so that my father will have enough people to order around. But in all honesty he did a great job (both at ordering and packing)- there wasn't an inch of space in those two boxes that wasn't utilised. Be that as it may, neither the airlines nor my father's edicts could deter our beloved aunt from buying half a bakery store for her darling brother to munch on far far away.
While my father- who is a big softy under all the bluster- may manage to leave behind some of these tokens, he could never say no to his mother. His mother who always had chronic knee pains.His mother who despite said knee pains would stand for hours at the old fashioned stove and fry handful after handful of raw bananas in searing hot coconut oil,bananas which she'd painstakingly sliced for the entire morning so that her youngest son can have the freshest batch.It was almost a tradition- My father would have just finished stuffing in the last maligned item and squashed the box shut when my grandmother would send up the tins of banana chips. My father would get the haunted look of a man who really really wants to say no, and then he would proceed to unzip the stuffed box and take out some of the previously unavoidable items and loving wrap up the new bulky presents.

Oh he would grumble of course. He would scowl and bluster. But funnily enough he would never tie up the box until the tins came through. And when we'd get back the first phone call would be greatly comprised of praising the chips. And the truth is, no one could make banana chips like her. Even the blessed Calicut varieties had salt issues. My grandmother's chips were perfect.

It's been more than five years since we've tasted her chips. The stroke paralysed her right-hand-side and she hasn't walked by herself since, let alone stepped into the kitchen. I remember the day my father and my uncle, his older brother, got the phone call. It is a strange moment when you realise that the adults had always been children. Their mother's stroke, coming so close on the heels of their father's demise, was the turning point where childhood living finally ended. The brothers left immediately and we followed soon after. The shock of seeing my ever active grandmother prone was quickly repressed, partly so that we could look after her well and partly because we didn't want her to think about it and mostly because we didn't want to think about it. The irony was that life,in the strangest and simplest of ways, went on.The leave ran out and the exiled had to return to their work place. And the charade of normalcy carried forward into the packing ritual. As always the boxes were packed, only this time there was little fear that they would be heavy. After all, we had other things on our mind. The last of the clothes were put in, the mandatory space check done and all was ready for the final tying up, when my aunt climbed up the stairs weighed down by parcel after parcel of chips. "Amma didn't want you to go without the chips.", she said.

We Mallus are made like our favorite food items. We are either soft and sentimental and sometimes diabetes inducing or crisp and salty going off with a loud crunch. But every part of us- from husk to flesh is stubbornly resilient. We take all the jokes thrown at us and make up several of them too. And regardless of what life throws at us, we believe that everything can be fixed or at the very least reconciled with. All we need is a cup of tea and banana chips.

One Flu Over the Cuckoos Nest

The one thing that the Creator (the actual one, not the Author) didn't scrimp on while creating yours truly was the health package. However being human does involve the inevitable tussle with some kind of malignant microbe. Contrary to what the mater keeps saying, what doesn't kill you, does not make you tougher. It makes you whinier and universally annoying.

It is a proven fact that most people crumble into incompetent nincompoops or belligerent boors the minute a germ decides to visit their system. My father, otherwise an exasperatingly 'in-charge' person disintegrates into a bewildered babe on the commencement of a microbial infection. Firestone, an otherwise angelic, perfectly amiable person turns into a brat as soon as a germ makes its way through her epidermis. And then there is the third most manageable but most heartbreaking variety: the Silent Decliner who sinks into pale weakness unable to put up a fight. My brother, otherwise the life any party, becomes quiet and pitifully docile- a sight which has enough tear-jerking properties to be declared a prime-time soap. Each type comes with it's own unique aggravation. Being a dedicated observer of the world, it is my bounden duty to describe the forms that these microbe-induced madnesses might take.

The most common mental-morphosis is the 'Difficult Patient'. This very broad category may be sub-divided into 'the Boorish' and 'the delusional'. The former, as the discerning reader may have surmised, is the permanently grouchy, eternally unsatisfied bed-pan-throwing variety. We may consider ourselves lucky if the subject in question is suffering from laryngitis or some other throat ailment since that will reduce the yelling plus give us a valid enough excuse for dishing out double doses of cough syrup or similar sleep-inducing elixirs. The Delusional category consists of individuals who are convinced that they are not sick and go about making everybody's life difficult by insisting on doing myriad tasks while their body screams a plaintive negative. While the overly kind-hearted may be able to sustain a certain level of sympathy, the more or less normal would soon be reaching for a handy tool to put the unfortunate to sleep. Between these two broad categories is the deceptively docile but deadly Polite-Requester also known as the Nagging Pain. The individuals in this category employ a passive aggressive cumulative technique that is guarantee to wear your patience to threads. General scenarios usually involve a 'request' which is repeated endlessly in various avatars until granted. Be warned that these requests usually require time and/or effort and so within the gap that it takes to to get them done your brain would have been chewed out. And any attempt on your part to be firm and reasonable is met with deep sighs and/or looks of pained forbearance which drives you crazy and possibly to violence. This variety is supremely aggravating because it parades as the epitome of reasonableness while being the brand-ambassador for bratty. Very similar to this variety is the Whine-and-dyin'. Patients of this class try your patience by constantly whining about how they are dying when in reality they are barely afflicted, leeching out the sympathy from soft hearts drying them to a husk.

True, this is an unsympathetic and harsh summation, but the author is not a heartless soul neither is she unreasonable. All of us go a little cuckoo when a microbe enters the system. I wouldn't be surprised if someone accused of violence was acquitted on grounds of a flu.The whole world becomes dark, desolate and depressing and we unconsciously try to vent all our unhappiness onto this oppressive world and everything in it. But, the beauty is that every time you emerge out of a sickness you realise the world IS a wonderful place full of opportunities. Every sickness in some way is a brush with death, and so to return to health is a miracle of human sturdiness. And as a previously groaning patient blooms into health again, the one nursing also feels a parallel happiness at seeing a dear one return to their beloved self. Before they killed them. As the patient hops and skips their way into full health our hearts lighten and all is right and bright in the world- they are back and that's what matters.


PS: The Author's brand of patient-hood is the least troublesome of types. She sleeps from dawn to dusk and pretty soon the germs are bored to death. As you can see, whether in sickness or in health the Authors habits remain unchanging :D

Training Day

Warning: LOOOOOOOOOONG post. But then rants usually tend to be that way.

The one good thing that the British rule left behind (besides the lovely language that you are reading) would be the Railways. Train journeys are the humanest means of transport- they are colourful, exuberant, fragrant with the scent of life(and other not so fragrant things)and full of character. While my more fastidious and finicky friends may prefer the avian mode, I firmly believe that flight is to train as an Ingmar Bergman movie is to a Rajni flick. And no train experience is complete unless it is carried out in the sleeper class where one can experience the teeming sea of humanity at it's garrulous best.Of course this is the pink-tinted version of the smoky locomotive story. Even the author, an enthusiastic endorser of the Indian Railways, must admit to having faced several moments of doubt. But no journey has managed to shake this constant admirer's faith in the railways!

...Wait...

There was that One Train Journey...

If the diligent reader would recall the mention of a third wedding in mallu-land, we may establish the setting of this tragic tale. We had whined, dined,given our newly espoused friend blood-pressure problems due to constant blushing and generally had an awesome time. Now it was time for farewell. The author, her comrade Apple and their comic relief side-kick Para (pseudonymed so for several reasons- none of them complimentary) were to leave immediately after the wedding. Kerala being such a hot-spot and Sabari being perpetually over-booked, we had taken the precaution of booking our tickets earlier than early. Though our tickets- in true Sabari fashion- were in the RAC category,constant internetting showed evidence of our upward movement and consequent seatedness. Poor Para, on the other hand, was in the railway limbo called the Waiting list. But we generous seniors assured her that we would share our confirmed seats with her.

The trouble started with the time. Anyone acquainted with the RAC process will know that it is the early bird that catches the berth. Hence we set out from the wedding venue well in advance of our train's arrival. If my loyal readers would recall a certain previous post, they would recall that a Mallu wedding usually entails being awake when normally you would be in La-la Land. As a result the wait at the station was a battle against vertical snooze. Furthermore there were complications regarding our assured seat bliss: For some reason the seat numbers were not showing up on the chart. Tamping down on our rising trepidation we decided to wait it out and keep our chins up.

But as anyone who has had to do their fair share of it would agree- waiting is the most painful of experiences. Furthermore, keeping your chin up is very difficult when it constantly slips downwards in inadvertent sleep. To add to this already excruciating situation (especially for the back of your neck) any train announcement -consistently of some other train- was preceded by the aggravatingly up-beat MCR mundu ad which would jerk us out of half-snooze into the arid plains of vain hope. To add salt to our wounds, any blessed interval between these spells was demolished by our darling Para who had taken to humming the entire ad right down to the tag-line. It is a wonder how she survived the journey without being thrown onto the train tracks. An hour and a half later the wretched announcement finally mentioned Sabari Express- only to tell us that it is delayed by an hour. This was repeated thrice, by which time we our sanity - already threatened by lack of sleep, leering station loungers, demanding beggars, the damned MCR Mundu ad and our junior's unhelpful repeat-telecast of the same - was on its last leg.

Four hours later Sabari finally trundled into the station- and conveniently stopped several bogeys ahead making us run after it like the proverbial Lola. Matters were not helped by the fact that Sabari was uncharacteristically crowded and resembled a Calcutta Local train rather than an interstate sleeper. Added to this was the fact that the train stops for exactly three minutes at the station. There followed a dramatic enactment of the Charge of the Light Brigade. Several mangled body-parts later we managed to squeeze our way into our compartment and to our prescribed seat... only to find a family happily settled there. Confusion ensued as both parties had confirmed tickets. Meanwhile the tide of would be passengers surged around us hurling impatient abuses at our inconvenient position right in the middle of the alley-way. Thankfully this annoyed our comfortably ensconced co-passengers enough to make them create previously non-existent place for us to rest our behinds. And so the commencement of our highly eventful much delayed and interminable journey saw Apple, Para and I perched at the edge of our seats.

EX-Seats, as it were. The much awaited TTR made his harried appearance and brutally squashed our hopes of occupancy. Apparently our confirmed seats had to be sat in a junction back. Since our behinds did not make their presence felt at that point our seats were reneged. So here we were seatless and suffering. As we sat(?) slack-jawed at this declaration, one of our helpful comfortably lounging co-passengers took it upon himself to give us a long list of rules justifying the lack of seating and our general stupidity. Needless to say we were not too grateful for his input. Ignoring the annoying human rule-book and our aching feet we bolstered our flagging spirits. The TTR, in his hurried rush had let slip a golden droplet of hope into our parched minds: "...cross the state border and seats may empty..." With these words in mind we perched on whatever horizontal unoccupied surface we could find and hung on for dear life. The Author, being rather small and monkey-like, managed to climb her way into somebody's luggage-occupied upper berth. At some point of time she keeled over in sleep and Apple and Para sincerely feared for her life since she refused to regain consciousness regardless of rigorous head-shaking and shoulder shoving. They were saved from the task of calling for a stretcher when a couple of hours later the Author finally opened her eyes with an eloquent "Huh? Wha-?"

By this time the border had been long crossed, the dinners had been served and people were demanding the use of their berths. We were still stuck in seat-limbo. Enough was enough- It was time for action! Leaving Para to keep an eye on our scattered luggage, Apple and the Author set of to search for the TTR. (A search not unlike the Matrix trio's search for the Key-maker. There were an equal number of tight situations -Literally) After having finally located the elusive official we were told that Salem was our Jerusalem: "Wait for Salem, seats will empty". Having extracted a promise of seat update from the TTR we trudged back a little uplifted to our compartment. Meanwhile the happy family who had gotten our seats decided to take pity on us and gave us the side lower berth. So there we were three females cramped into a single berth. It was like a human picasso painting- all angles, no comfort. By the time the Sabari edged into Salem several body parts had lost sensation- small mercy.
At long last the TTR made his blessed appearance. We woke from our half slumber our bleary eyes lit with undead hope. He flipped his sacred seat list and said "No seat."

Our undead hope was staked in the chest.

Para, being a resourceful soul, located a couple who had vacated one of their berths in favour of companionship and made herself at home there. Apple and the Author were left to negotiate minimal space with optimum accommodation.How we managed to avoid spinal injury in the next few hours is beyond the imagination of this writer. Day break saw Para the hapless Waiting-Listee sleeping like a baby and the two 'confirmed' passengers turned into human scalene triangles. The half-asleep but ever-alert Apple noticed that other more fortunate souls were waking up and vacating berths. Throwing caution and pride to the winds we quickly scrambled onto these havens and slipped into blessed oblivion. At least that's what I did. Unfortunately, Apple was not fated for dormien bliss. Her berth was sadly located in the lair of two terrible toddlers who took to playing tag between berths and were not averse to jumping on her feet or screaming in her ears. Their continued existence on this hallowed earth is testament to Apple's sainthood. Around afternoon the heat (in mine and Para's case) and the noise (in Apple's case) put an end to any attempt at sleep and we were brought back to unhappy reality. The co-passengers, well-rested and happily settled, tried hard to make conversation only to receive monosyllabic responses. Except of course for Para who gave spirited, renditions of the godforsaken MCR Mundu ad to the admiring public. Wretched brat.

When at last we were finally just a station away from our destination, Sabari decided to delay itself yet again. Ah the humanity!!! I believe the torture of the journey can be best expressed by the fact that it felt a lot longer than this post. Needless to say we avoided long distance travel for a while. But all said and done, when push comes to shove I would still prefer a train journey. They may be messy, smelly and utterly dehumanising: but they definitely make for a good story.

Blue Blues

2 April 2011.
Whether this date will be remembered with joy or sorrow is yet to be determined, however it's iconic significance is more or less confirmed.
'Lanka Dahan'
Sounds good doesn't it? It's a good thing RaOne isn't being released right now.
Being a malayalee and therefore genetically programmed to favour football over the sophisticated gilli-danda game called cricket, there is always a certain amount of 'urk' invoked when I realise that I am just as crazy about it as the rest of the baying lot. It is a personal theory of mine that every Indian is injected with a cricket virus when they go in for their vaccinations. Those polio drops: they aren't just polio drops. Personal theories aside the match of the century promises to make and break faiths. India, being such a reliable team, guarantees that nothing is guaranteed. Prayers waft heavenwards and everyone indulges in unabashed jingoism.

And what am I doing?

Research.

GAAAAAAAH!

Ah well, I have my trusted friends who have promised a blow-blow recounting of the match and besides it's just cricket. and my eyes blur with frustrated tears. Sanity returns a breath later and I resume my equable pose. After all when I become a great writer ( the scornful snorts are not appreciated) this terrible pain may fuel one of my deeply complex, angsty novels. Plus, now my humble blog becomes an archive: it is marking a momentous episode in history- with some luck and a lot of great plays it may be the day we bring the World Cup back where it belongs.

And now back to Research Methodology.

Food of love

To have survived a world that is fast becoming quite terrifying is a miraculous feat. To have survived it without emerging a psycho a la Norman Bates or complete idiots like Harry and Lloyd is even more so. But the greatest surprise is that we have not only survived but also emerged determinedly rotund from a century obsessed with lines and angles- a tribute to the tenacity of human will and adipose.Our parents-bless them-may or may not have had a hand in this; but it goes without saying that they had a lot of help in this endeavor. It is my personal theory that zealous aunties and uncles are responsible for ninety percent of all failed diets or weight-loss programs. While aunties and uncles may be gently dissuaded from expressing their love food-wise, parents are a whole other story.Our alarming horizontal growth should have restrained our progenitors from expressing their love through culinary means, however they most often continue to pile our plates high with fragrant, delicious, ultimately fattening, love.

Apparently I was born skinny, but a couple of weeks later my mother was reeling under the weight of giant baby. While this aught to have warned my poor parents of large issues in the future, their love continued to make it's way down my gullet and I never complained. The pattern continues in my twenty-third year where a two week stint in home-ground leaves me trundling around with a couple of extra tyres. The airways would have charged me for excess baggage if it weren't for the fact that it was a personal attachment. If it isn't my mother who is an officially recognised gastronomical goddess, it is my fabulous father who is convinced I am starving myself in the food-heaven of Hyderabad. Day one saw biriyani, brownies, cookies, lace-like dosas, pure coconut chutney (untainted by disgusting gram-flour augmentations) and strawberries as a vain bid at healthiness. Day two went on the lines of cloud-like idlis with fiery onion chammandi, shawarma, kerala fish curry and rice and a nameless pudding that soared past yummy into the higher realms of palato-nirvana, . The next sixteen days that followed continued to test of the tensile strength of the human stomach(pasta, appams, turkey, cookies, chicken-tikka and cheesecake being the tip of the giant iceberg). Needless to say given a high enough incline I could have rolled all the way back.

As I huff my way up the stairs to my humble hostel room, I wonder what it is that brings out the culinary excess in our loved ones. The pain of leaving behind your family is reinforced with the knowledge that you leave behind all those delicious leftovers only to return to the"dreary desert sands of dread habit" and mess mush. Ah parting is such sweet sorrow: literally- given that I was treated to chocolate donuts the evening I left. As I munch on my mothers lovingly parceled brownies, I realise that it is in these bitter-chocolate moments that we return to our childhood. We are once again that five-year old who demanded dosas and chutney or drooled over cake that turned into cookies enroute or went gaga over pasta smothered with mozarella. And I suppose that's why they feed us silly:
In the face of our alien adult-hood, food becomes the only medium by which our parents can bring their child back as a child. And as you indulge in gluttony, heedless to the streak of tomato sauce smeared across your cheek, you experience time-travel in the simplest way: You are as you were once upon a time; fresh pristine and happily content in the firm belief that you are loved. And the reconfirmations of this belief makes its way all through your being with every home-made morsel that you intake giving you the courage to drink life to the lees- calories be damned.

To misquote the evergreen Forrest Gump - Life is like a box of chocolates: it'll make you horrifically fat and probably terribly unattractive but you'll be happy at the end. :)

Ps: And of course this was all just an elaborate ruse to justify my gluttony :P