Patience

When they met,
She held two minutes of silence,
And threw them at him hard.
They smashed into smithereens of conversation.
He had good reflexes.
Her aim was always off.

He said take your time.
Then hurry up.
(No, he didn't listen to Kurt Cobain.)
She was never slow.
But then again how fast can you go?
She had never.. you know..
Well.
Closed her eyes and touched
the right hand.
Then opened them and looked at the scenery
Still the same.

Bad phonelines, casual endearments,
Never his name.
Except when she was angry.
Or anxious.
She can't tell the difference anymore.
No, she can. Can she?
Can't she?
Won't she?

Look at the moon
For answers.
It's cloudy.

Change music tracks.
And wait for the train.
It's a song she heard a long time ago
On another record.
She sits still  in the cloudy moonlight


She feels in the dark
for the silence she threw at him
The shards cut her words.
She glues the pieces together
Creating new shapes with the shapeless
And waits for him to notice.
He has no eye for lines.
Or what's between them

The track changes,
The links break and join with each turn,
Purple twilight windows
Shade a paper moon
Carrying a note she can't read.
It's a long way to the moon,
But you can't tell that to a train.

Rain.

Pats her on the back
In tune to a lullaby
Heard and long forgotten
(on purpose?)
So long ago
Like the cloudy moon
That signs mutely
of unfamiliar familiarities.
Like old photos exhumed
With moon rock faces
Blotchy with fungal craters.
Hold your head between your knees
And breathe.

He finds her hand in the dark.
With the jolt of an accident,
He's been searching too.
They are not sure what they've found,
Between moonshine and memory
There's still a long way
To the moon.

2014 in a Playlist

The year 2014 had all the characteristics of a long-running seinen manga series. It starts out at a breakneck pace, then skates at an aggravating 30 km/hr  and then accelerates into hyper speed leaving you reeling from the inertia when it comes to a stop. In fact, the momentum of 2014 carried you a long way into 2015 before you realised the temporal shift. And I might have strayed from my metaphor a bit. Before I descend further into incomprehension, here is what 2014 sounded like.

January: Sympathatique- Pink Maritini
...Je ne veux pas travailler...Lyrics translation.

On one hand, your deadline is getting uncomfortably close. On the other your reading list is far from comprehensive and your writing feels reprehensible. There is a 99.9% guarantee that your thesis will be unread and that the 0.1% that would flip through it would have a great laugh at the giant joke that is it's academic credibility. Not the most encouraging state of affairs or mind. Worse so, when your folks are under the misconception that you are at least halfway done. Made still worse by the fact that you are getting married in three months.
Right.
It's all going down any way. Let's just close our eyes in ostrich-like denial, eat cake and hope to forget.

February: I can see clearly Now- Jimmy Cliff
...Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind...

A change of place and the bolstering presence of the indomitable mater pumped life into the flat-lined writing and made the thesis more possible and the deadline less like an death sentence. Apparently, multi-tasking really gets the creative juices flowing. Having something to divide your attention puts an end to obsessing over the writing process and gets you writing instead. Apparently juggling wedding tailoring, invitation print collection and review and trips to multiple family conclaves and writing 200 pages of theory centered thesis, textual analysis, check-listing sources and maneuvering  around the MLA handbook rules for citation gets the job done. Dinner was punctuated by summaries of pages written and wedding projects completed.
Naturally, the one person who knows my thesis better than me is my mother.

March: Thaka thaka- OST Neram
...neram poraa...*

My deadline is the skinny guy in the video. And the Vetti Raja that is the wedding waits around the corner. 'Nuf said. Back to writing.
*Translation: Not enough time.

April: We are the Champions- Queen and Maangalyam OST Bangalore Days

We allow ourselves a slow-motion walk as we exit the admin office post-thesis submission, only to run double time to to make it for the wedding and the madness that precedes it. The Wedding (the capitals are warranted), featuring the amazing organisation skill of the Pater-Mater duo, was made super by the presence of friends old,new, and awesome without exception, and further brightened by family whose degree of amazing defies description. Thank you. Your supernatural, extra-brilliant kindness makes the world a wonderful place.

May: Frog in my Throat- Resham George. Recording unavailable
...I lost my voice to a frog in my throat.. Whyyyy?...

Post Wedding, travels and visa application, the reunion with spouse is blighted by the worst throat infection in the author's life. It was like the strep had waited all these years just to rev up to throat-closing virulence; consequently freaking the hell out of the Mister who is now under the impression that the Missus is a wilting violet. He got to try out the 'in sickness and in health' clause early on.  *Cough, Khakh khahh, cough.*

June-July: Grey Sky Eyes- Carbon Leaf
...you welcome me in with your veil that's so thin, but your mystery continues to grow...

Post-Wedding and way past pleasantries, we find ourselves wondering what exactly is the deal with the other person in the story. While Mister has the healthy distraction of occupation, the student fresh out of school has little to ponder than the working of this newly acquired curious specimen.
Thankfully, intervention in the form of a beloved aunt who contributed editing work and other distractions saved both sanities. Meanwhile, the academic door remains ajar with a conference in the horizon. Paper time.

August: Lemon Tree- Fools Garden
...wasting my time I got nothing to do...

Ok fine, there's  this one conference paper. But protracted stasis especially after the flurry of activity that preceded the isle of calm, or the desert of joy as it were, has a way of messing with your equilibrium. You start waiting for something to happen and sip lemonade. But nothing ever happens... and you wonder...

September: We are One Tonight- Switchfoot
... I don't want to lose the common ground...

A return to the motherland becomes a site of social rehabilitation. A complex maneuver comes into play requiring one to navigate around fledgling relationships. Relearning how to learn people, can be quite a challenge. To take in their differences without becoming defensive of your own is emotional rocket science, especially when you try too hard. But the common ground brings us together and we remember that this is not a competition. We are on the same side. And we are just dreaming out loud.

October-November: I have a life that's Good- Lennon and Maisy
...two arms around me and heaven to ground me and a family that always calls me home...

When you are mostly on your own for at least 8 years and suddenly get a two month stretch with your family where you are free to give and receive full attention, you experience a full-body vibration of goodness that you now recognise as something very special and very very rare. This feeling brings out contradictory emotions. You realise that regardless of whatever you've told yourself so far, you do have something to lose. At the same time, you realise whether or not you have anything else, you have this.

December: Sthirata nahi nahi re-Sadashiva Brahmendra
...manasa sthirata nahi nahi re... Lyrics Translation
It was a long and dark December, as Coldplay put it.

The confusion of a rescheduled viva flowed into the awkwardness of a conference bristling with academic celebrities. The buzz of daily mundanities is cut by a soft voice which speaks gently of death and suddenly there is a crack in mirror of your mind. All our annoyances seem so small. All our joys so petty. Our triumphs so guilty. How do you contain loss so profound it isn't really assimilated into your pysche? A living laughing memory beside the fatal knowledge that she is gone. Even a long life can be very short. Death is always more difficult for those left behind-- they have the difficult task of returning to the land of the living.


2014 was a landmark year. The kind of year that Dickens used as a model when he wrote "It was the best of times and the worst of times." The short span of 365 days stretched our erstwhile untested limits and we come out of it winded but wiser. 2015 looks to be a gentler year, and let us hope with Browning-like optimism that the best is yet to be.

Live long and prosper.

Er...Um... I'm back. Heh heh heh *Sheepish Shuffle*

The Creator has given the Author one page time to make her case. The reader sits as jury.

The next worst thing after an accusatory glance induced guilt trip, is the non-accusatory, understanding-face induced one. And The World According to Me, has perfected the art. (Taking lessons from the Mater, behind my back, are you?)

Following her release from the Thesis-Defense, The Author has been attempting to retrieve her lost writing habit since late 2014. There are at least five initiated posts to corroborate this statement. However, the incredible high of being on a vacation-- a real one, not a quick set of snatched holidays where most of your contraband fun is adulterated with guilt or the thought of the aggravated work load on return-- effectively wiped out any writerly conscientiousness. And hence, aforementioned five posts remain in production. And every shamefaced click back to Blogger's doorstep saw an abashed retreat. The New Years Playlist, stayed unplayed, the latest update of Dr.Ames's Diagnostic manual remains dormant, the Wedding Saga episodes await conclusion...  The Author confesses the sins of the past, in hopes that they may not be repeated and grows wiser.

Freedom is a heady drug, that makes time behave outside the laws of man-made physics. Given the nature of 2014, this temporal anarchy is in character. However, time is an ocean of our creation, as much as we are fish in that endless sea. Some say time is linear, others that it is cyclical. The Author believes that direction is pointless and we make the best of what is given to us and take direction from our surroundings (This may also be because she has no sense of direction) Freedom is Eden, but as a wise teacher of Shakespeare once said, Eden is for exile or holiday, one cannot live in Eden. It is time to return.

And The World According to Me, smiling and brilliant as always, calls the Author back to the land of the living, leaving behind her lotus-eating days. To misquote the Bard, The World According to me, must be peopled. Won't you join us?

Notes on a pen

There is some thing so romantic, so sensuous about a much loved pen. It's weight resting ready against the middle finger. Its thorax indented by the tight embrace of relentless digits that held it in the tight grip of passionate inspiration until the fingers themselves changed and grew callused grooves to fit. Its nib  gathers to a point the  suspense ridden trepidation that kept it hovering a full minute above the page before descending with a reckless or defeated sigh on the pristine smoothness of page. The smooth body holds the remembered warmth of pursed lips pressed to it in thoughtful contemplation, It carries the scars of feverish bite marks left behind by a particularly meaty idea that needed to be wrestled into submission. The stains of sweaty fingerprints from punishing examinations cling to it's glossy skin.  It is almost a living thing -- this carrier of memories .Witness to the words let fly, held back and the ones that ought to have been. And just like the human being, a pen too has character.

I think it all began with the period films- the Victorian men and women scribbling away furiously on creamy parchment, the elegant plumes of their quills executing a scratchy flurry of pirouettes.
I used to fill obsolete notebooks with scribbles just to watch the long wand of my pen dance and sway over the page. And then there was my grandfather with his beautiful handwriting sloping across lines in a smooth glide.Whether ball pens or ink pens, his pens were meticulously maintained and treated with utmost respect. I still remember the battered beloved stic pen he was using on the day he passed away.

My grandmother was an inveterate writer. Letters, stories, lists, notes, asides, all dashed away in the pale blue of her favored ink. She was the one to introduce me to fiction; pushing a battered but beautiful copy of hardbound Jane Eyre into my eight year old hands.  And then having spirited discussions on the characters and plot line. She also started me off on the artistry of writing with her innocent yarns about cousins hunting down a missing pair of spectacles all written in her sweeping cursive over sheets of rough unruled paper.  She was the one who unwittingly introduced me to  the dignified but sweet-natured Hero pen which started me off on my love affair with fountain pens.

Have  you ever noticed that when you use someone else's pen, your handwriting becomes a little like theirs? The weft and warp of your knit cursive adopts the slants and curves of the predecessor. The sweep of the inked letter seems to call back for the familiar hand, putting our upstart penmanship back in its place. The pen can't let go as fast as the fingers that grew cold without them. And so, one sunny afternoon you collide with a sheaf of letters penned in a beloved hand and realise that your hand is not the same anymore. It is stained with the indelible ink of memory and love, seeping under the callused epidermis to color the canvas of your character.

Pens aggravate. They break when you least expect it and break your heart with it. Run out of ink at the worst time possible. Leak all over your hand, ruining anything in the path of its outburst. They become inconsistent and boorish leaving you no choice but to let go. They make you fall in love with their smoothness and leave you wanting when you realise it is an understocked/limited edition piece. But pens console too. They let you weep out your frustration in jet black spurts of hurt or in a long stream of unchecked eulogy. The comforting friction of  nib on page eases the ache within, letting it flow out your fingers. The careful ritual of cleaning, refilling and drying that aged fountain pen is a mode of meditation of what is, was and will be. It mandates deliberation, checks the excess, crafts the thought. The pen demands that you give what you write enough room to breathe and give yourself time. And most importantly, the pen marks the journey that your writing took-- it shows the checks, corrections, the blotches, the over indulgence in metaphor and adjective that you had to scrap. Contrarily, if you have chosen to put something down in irretrievable ink, it must be that special. My paternal grandfather always used any random stub of pencil, or an errant ball pen for his everyday businesses. It was only years after his death, that a vintage Sheaffer fountain pen was retrieved from the safe, secret place in his back drawer protected from the mundane scrawl of habit.

Animism holds that an inanimate object can carry a spiritual fingerprint, a soul if you will. Or perhaps, I am entirely too enamored with the written word and the vehicle that carries it. In either case, I have learnt too much from pens and their lovers to ever take them for granted. It's a special thing to be able to love an inanimate object minus the materialistic edge, to endow it with a spirit beyond it's wood, steel or plastic bodies. Especially for an observer whose major preoccupation is deciphering human attachments. But then again, there is nothing that can't be given a deeper meaning-- something an old faulty pen, found in a back drawer along with moldy papers taught me.

Memoirs of a Meesha

The origins of facial hair are quite obvious: early man had bigger priorities than fashioning a razor. And the origins of the removal of aforementioned facial hair are also quite obvious: Supporting a certified biosphere on ones face could not have been comfortable.And it must have been a rather virulent biosphere indeed to warrant the steep leap of faith involved in applying sharp item on soft face- especially with the high probability of surprise mountain lion/cave bear attacks causing a fatal slip of the hand. (But then again, in the event of such a surprise, better ear-less/nose-less than lifeless.) In either case, the true mystery lies in the genesis of the mustache. What induced the freshly shaving man to leave behind patches of hair on his face? Is it because applying the razor under his nose also took off inches from it? Was it to conceal his deplorable dental condition? Or to strain the water of its questionable additions as he sipped from the river? Or was to mutter expletives into its dark fronds, safe in the knowledge that CaveMama can't hear or see what you just called her cooking? The practical uses of the bit of fluff may still be within the scope of our imagination, but the cultural and symbolic significance the mouth-wig achieved within the course of civilisation is beyond logic! Instead of coming up with hair-brained ideas let us hear it from the horse's mouth. I present, the distinguished mouthpiece of the man-kind: the Moustache!

Behold! I am the moustache! Observe-my glorious crest descending in a swaggering incline of inky black ending in perfectly symmetrical nifty, upward curl. Magnificent am I not?And it is not merely my considerable beauty that underscores my opulent charm-  civilisations have been supported on the sturdy loop of my dark wings!

Let me describe the illustrious history of this lustrous specimen.The first mouche to sprout up in the archives adorned the lips of a Scythian horseman riding across a wall painting. Following which they began popping up everywhere. Apparently it was total rage with the Mesopotamians, who often teamed it up with flowing beards. Sure the Egyptians still walked about bald faced,but what can you expect from them-their gods had animal heads forgodsakes!In India the virulence of your mustache growth symbolised great vigour. Young boys waited impatiently for us to grace their upper lips. Facial-hair deprived men sighed in sadness wishing for a better fate (it is a wonder they didn't drive themselves to this option)  while those graced with our flowing presence caressed us lovingly. And women, the poor dears, were so overwhelmed by our obvious glory they couldn't bear it: they literally ripped us off their upper lips. (They may give you some other story, but now you know the truth);A hairy upper lip was a sign of virility, dynamism and what the patroness of this blog would call 'dudeness'. But, as a great man once said, uneasy lies the upperlip that wears the crown.Our hairiditory magnificence was a source of jealous pride.With our beauty came the curse of honor.A half shaved moustache was the height of insult.Lesser men envied those blessed with our glory, resenting our dramatic presence. Bloody feuds were fought over insults thrown at our regal splendour.

Through most of twentieth century we clung tenaciously to stiff-upper lips and were lovingly smoothed by brilliant detectives and PIs. We graced the dashing smiles of dandies who frankly didn't give a damn and were waxed eloquently by iconic artists who dallied with the very creme de la creme of  the age.We were broodingly combed by philosophers who went beyond good and evil or lent sternness to others with weak mouths or lay in glorious state upon the lips of some who believed they had a superior mission. We bracketed  and augmented comic relief. We were, perhaps, the most dynamic fashion statement a man could make.But such an age was too glorious to last.


The 21st century saw a baldfaced betrayal of the Mustachio Creed. No longer embraced by the mainstream, only a particularly confident or careless upperlip  would acquiesce to carry our weight. The metro sexual male found other outlets for facial hair grooming, like the detestable chin fungus called a "soul-patch" (more like a soul-blight) Beards of different sizes and shapes began to return to the face, but the poor mustache began to be seen as a mark of provinciality--doomed to the likes of Texan steerherders or Mexican wranglers. Even our stalwart patrons, the Malayalees, are beginning to withdraw their support, moving towards a clean-shaven look rather than the favored face-ornament of yore. Even the proprietor of this blog is only allowing this lament because her father happens to sport a particularly virulent mouche! We are forced to perch precariously on available upper lips, forever wary of the blade.

Weep ye mortals-- not for the fallen mustache, but yourselves. We used to be enough to mark a man's manhood. It didn't matter if you had the cheapest car, or whether your daughter worked or if your son took up fashion designing, or if there are people kissing in front of you-- your mustache would have established your credibility. Now what will the poor man do to prove himself?His security, once so prominent and worn bravely in the middle of his visage, now flounders in the face of so many new things, exposing his vulnerable upper lip to everything!

Perhaps, it is inevitable. We could not have protected the substance of manhood forever. It is only natural that the cycle turns and the baton is passed. We learn to enjoy the few months when we sprout on young lips and lead our charges into shaven puberty and decline with grace. We only hope that our replacement will be as tangible as we have been. Mankind is a wayward race, easily distracted and ready to take offence. They have outgrown us, but we hope that they have grown up in the process.
We thank the kind readers who have patiently listened to our plaint

The Great Menon Wedding II:Roots and (Photo) Shoots aka How to Get into The Wedding Spirit.

The problem of stepping into a wedding that you were never planning to have, is that you aren't really prepared for the choices you will have to make.

     Following the tremulous 'yes', my parents had slid into a comfortable bonhomie reminiscent of the iceberg after it sunk the Titanic. However, I had been grossly blinded by the parents' appearance of chilled out equilibrium. While I was aware of my parents' burning urge for a marriage in the family, I began to realise that the heat of their matrimonial ambitions could sear rhinoceros hide! The Pater, who is given to exaggeration, blithely aired plans of a thousand strong wedding guest list and expeditions to unknown corners of Kerala and the Deccan Plateau to run the invitation gauntlet. But my amused smile shriveled into an incredulous 'huh?' when the mild Mater began to pull out bulging folders labelled 'invitation card options', 'wedding favors', 'decor', 'bridal hairstyles' (and I thought she had made her peace with my maenad hair) 'blouse patterns' (!). Ostensible research.Oh dear...

     Sensing peril, I began to observe their routines more closely. Where Achan would once shun the telephone like hostel chutney, he now spent valuable minutes on the line collecting phone numbers to dial in still more phones. Besides conferring with various cronies regarding infrastructural cornerstones like the catering and transport, housing and lighting, Achan was also willingly venturing outside and visiting acquaintances-- both highly allergenic tasks for the subject. Amma who used to spend her online time on progressive pursuits like this, now spent her days watching videos like this (nice song, though). Where we once had stimulating intellectual conversations on poetry, politics, books and family gossip, talk now inevitably veered towards sari colours, thalam arrangements flowers and inevitably the groom (the last item usually some advice prefixed with a "please don't"). And when we weren't talking about wedding planning, my economically conscientious mother would disappear into the bowels of Mysore Silk Emporium and return laden with booty with nary  a wince at the bill. It was when my father and I got into an argument regarding the hypothetical wedding jewelry that I knew for certain that as a responsible adult it was my duty to lead them back to their sane and sensible selves. Some one needed to step in and pick up those slackened reins!

     Which was exactly what I had planned to do... but...well... We have a way of getting swept away in the flow of things-- especially if it is less 'flow' and more 'tsunami waves'. Besides, if I was going to get married, I was damned well gonna have a say in the freaking thing. And I was never in a thousand years going let myself become this kind of a bride! (there were dangerous thoughts in this direction) Consequently, I got involved in my own wedding. A decision I was sure I would never make. Ah hell, I wasn't planning on getting married to begin with, it was about time I got with the program.

     Having become the unwilling protagonist of this wedding saga, I was now called upon to make several decisions for which I was ill prepared. For example: What colour wedding sari do you want? Er...
     Spare me your calumny you mocking mockers! It is apparently the most crucial piece of knowledge for a prospective bride. The wedding shade is the one colour to rule them all-- the jewelry, saris to be given as gifts, even the stage settings were subject to the Great Pigment. Seriously- it's a big deal! Yeah, I didn't know either; much to the frustration of all interested (which waseveryone I knew, irrespective of age or gender) Other subjects of infinite importance in the wedding scheme included possible blouse tailors, the best options for d-day beautician and what kind of shoes. Besides this, the bride has to make her peace with certain truths:
(a) She will have to put  off reading the complete works of Haruki Murakami or even one small little novel in favour of socialising.
(b)She will have to sit still and smiling for looooong stretches of time.
(c) She must be well dressed full time. (mostly because her mother is revisiting her daughter's pre-cognitive days where she got to try every look she fancied on unsuspecting, compliant baby)
(d) She will be called upon to pose for innumerable photos, in ridiculous poses*. And she must do so graciously. (The wedding phase also saw the return of the Mater's favorite phrase from my childhood: "Don't make a fuss")

     Needless to say I was much happier to take care of transport coordination, room list tallies and invitation printing and inviting. The last, only when permitted-- it is apparently bad form to invite people for your wedding yourself. Which makes some circuitous sense since your wedding is mostly your parents' project, whether or not you try to make it otherwise. The guest list is like the Humanities discipline, it is flexible and ever growing. In fact, as evidenced in a cousin's wedding,  it continues to  expand right up to the wedding day. While I can't generalise, most South Indian wedding guest lists do not work on the overly simplified notion of inviting only close family and friends. Oh no. Anyone on the family tree with a valid address was a candidate. I remember in my naive past my observations on weddings were marked by incredulity at the logic of inviting people one barely knew to  ones own wedding. The fact is. that's how you get to know them. I had the opportunity of meeting such lovely people while running the invitation gauntlet it made the wedding worth it. Of course, there were those I won't recognise ever again as well, but the fact remains the wedding was an affirmation of roots and the far off shoots sprung from these forgotten ties.You see, the rhetoric of parental duty has deep roots in a very simple urge-- communal bonding.

     Forget all the middle-class morality discourse about marriage being a social obligation. What it really is, is a chance for parents, family and friends old and new to get together, call everyone they can think of  and throw a really big party. It is a chance to open doors, renew bonds, make memories of every kind and generally have a whale of a time. And the easiest way to appreciate this, I discovered, was to stop thinking of the wedding as your wedding. Rather, think of it as the one opportunity to show them how it's done and do it right. The minute the perspective changes, you are suddenly free of the self consciousness and what we Mallus call chammal** and challupu***  of being the center of so much unwanted and unprecedented attention. Your attention shifts from their attention and you finally see things for what they are-- a chance for your family to cut loose. A time for you to hang out with your friends, giving them a venue to reanimate friendships. An opportunity to be happy and make happy.And I was determined to be the one bride in history to have fun at her own wedding. And this wedding would definitely go down in history.

Next up, the getting the wheels running for the Big Knot

_______________

* The photographer we finally settled upon was that rare breed of clickers-- polite, efficient and likable. A large reason for this was because he smiled so apologetically every time he requested a certain pose, and that the final album was quite lovely. To his credit, viewing the shots later proved that the poor man had had to use all his skill to make the bride look passably nomal-- the subject had failed spectacularly at point (b).

** Roughly translated as embarrassment.

***Another form of extreme embarrassment and shame. Use the retroflex 'l'-- All you linguists out there, you know what to do.

The Great Menon Wedding: Introduction

Yes, there was no Christmas post last year .There was also no New Years playlist.
Easter bounced by in a flurry of fluffy omelets and dust -bunnies. Spring gaily sprang into Summer  (which, somehow, seems to be going on forever...) All passing without comment.
(By the way, A belated Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy Easter and any other festive occasion I missed)

The World According to Me has been languishing in prolonged stasis- a state that I sincerely wish to remedy. However, the world around me was and is performing rigorous cartwheels, somersaults, high tragedy and comic farce . And we are not merely describing the political-social entertainment that has been the trend of 2014. 
In either case, I wish to remind myself and my faithful readers (most of whom have given up on me already) that this blog
a) exists
b) is still active. albeit irregularly.
 And while I may become as erratic in my updates as some of my more distinguished brethren seem to be, I assure you, The World According to Me is never forgotten. And just to make my sincerity clear...

Parents of a Marriageable Age.

     While my views on marriage have been widely publicised within the blogsphere and any circle that has come within a meters radius of self, my idealism did not take into consideration the presence of two very radical variables: my parents.The fact is, my parents were ready for marriage at least five years prior to the Great Event. And while sterling individuals in every count, they are not above some emotional strong-arming. To err is human. Long and rather unpleasant story short, I decided there wasn't all that much to lose. As a wise woman once put it, don't run, you'll just die tired. Once the difficult task of wrapping ones head around a previously inconceivable future is taken care of, things become surprisingly easy. It also helps if the man you decide to marry is not half-bad. (in case the man in question is reading this- understatement is the new black). But I am ahead of myself. 

     The prospect of  possible nuptials brought about some disconcerting knowledge. A cursory self-assessment revealed that I was not only a pathological friendzoner, I was also as dense as stale doughnut. A cousin of mine was narrating the meet-cute of a relative who met her spouse at an airport. There they were, two strangers at the baggage carousel, unaware of cupid's quivering arrow racing towards them. The guy accidentally picked up her bag and in the confusion and the exchange of sheepish grins their eyes met, a lot of sappy violins played and the rest is history. Now, If the same thing were to happen to yours truly, the hapless hero would be summarily yelled at, glared at, derisively laughed at and dismissed as nincompoop and/or thief. The sound you hear in the background is romance staking itself in the chest. Bottom-line : I wouldn't recognise a pass if it danced the hula in front of me wearing nothing but a neon sign.

    It was glaringly apparent that any true-mind marriage that dear Will espouses would happen only through parental liason. Having had twenty-six years of exposure to my particular brand of cluelessness, the parents were not surprised. In fact, they were chafing at the bit.(To those individuals unfamiliar with the concept of an arranged marriage, it's not the slave trade it's made out to be. Honest. In fact, for individuals like self, it is often a helpful modus operandi.) No sooner had the grudging 'yes' passed my pursed lips than the progentitors (and one sibling) jumped to the task of finding Mister More-or-Less Right with rabid enthusiasm. Apparently, my parents were waaaaay past marriageable age.

     A note to all children, if you think you know your parents-- you don't. They are like three year olds , one minute they are obsessed by a certain shiny object, the next they sprint off in the opposite direction. But again, I am ahead of myself.

     The man groom hunt was a rather entertaining exercise given that half the candidates that cropped up were hilariously unacceptable. (A notable specimen openly stated that his only qualification was his enormous wealth. Another said as baldly that he had nothing to declare but his optimism) The other half was further whittled into nothing by astrological mismatches. And the few that remained were comfortably shot down by my father and brother. Mother on the other hand tended to have a very liberal view of human fallibility and age appropriate hairlines. So, they plowed through multiple possibilities drawing blanks. Meanwhile, I let out a relieved sigh-- it didn't look like I'd be getting married anytime soon.

Right.
Less than a year later, I was handed a proposal worthy of consideration. My parents pulled the carpet from under my feet in more ways than one. Not only did they actually locate a possibility that had both mental acumen and enough hair on his head (a rare combination, as the hunting logs proved). They also blithely hummed consent to someone who was only half-Mallu and didn't even speak the language! This after years of demanding that the female offspring refrain from even looking in the general direction of a non-Mallu male. Is there no certainty in this world?! Apparently not.

Thankfully, I was saved the indignity of the long walk-of-chai service, popularised by so many movies. The acid test came in the form of a rambling conversation with the hapless he where the author made no attempts to tame her loquacity. At the end of which, the candidate did not keel over and die. Rather, not only was he still lucid, he was still pleasant! A real sign of endurance, if any. Apparently, my parents (and one sibling) did know what they were doing...
In either case, cute half-Mallu boy seemed worth the effort and he on his part seemed ok with throwing caution to the winds and his lot with mine. Consequently we got engaged. The family smiled in satisfaction. "We've got her half-way, now we just need to get her married"

And that is a story for the next episode of The Great Menon Wedding.

Statutory Warning: Posts that follow in this series will be longer than average. After all this is no average mallu wedding. Keep your glucose close at hand.

Stepping up to Plate

Food is one of the most innocent pleasures available to the human experience.It's a pleasure that does not detract from anyone else's happiness (except of course when Nigella Lawson makes it a point to eat chocolate cake on screen) A foodie and food share an uncomplicated, undemanding relationship, refreshing in its simplicity. And here I state the obvious--
 Atomicgitten loves food.
Apparently this trait had it's beginnings at the author's genesis itself. At one week's age, the only thing that got some reaction out of generally indifferent baby was the prospect of feeding. And then came the long wails at twilight because she was bored with milk and wanted solid food. Mother dearest realised quickly that the easiest way to quieten bawling baby was to stuff food down her gullet. Unfortunately for the baby's waistline, the trend continued far out of babyhood; but that can be the subject of another post.

Moving out of home territory ought to have laid a damper on my gastronomic hedonism. Fortunately for me, I seemed to find great cooks wherever I went. So much so that my tastes only grew more fastidious and my repertoire of eating more broad-based. (Though it must be said of the Mater that, when she deigned to accommodate these demands, her skills proved more than ample to the task.) If it wasn't poor Gitler who had her lunches usurped by us marauders, it was Kutty who was lucky to get a bite of her home cooked lunch after it made the mandatory pass. Then there was poor sweet Chitra Aunty who smilingly ignored our shameless gluttony and catered generously to our vethakuzhambu/sambar sadam/dosa/filter coffee greed. Life was a lovely thali waiting to be licked clean.

B.A passed into M.A and the age of shamelessly finishing off somebody else's lunchbox or 'dropping in' at a friend's place right in time for a meal came to a sad end. But the heavens continued to smile upon on my palate. I was gifted with a room-mate who was all but born with a frying pan in her slim hands. Besides being a certified expert in all things fashionable, Rikosama is also a chef of formidable skill. And while she is always more than happy to do all the cooking herself, we realised that the only way we could establish a mode of demanding food off her was to participate in the process in one capacity or the other. Hating dish-washing and having had a couple of tussles with prep work on a few occasions, the author took on the sous-chef role and enjoyed slicing, dicing, icing, flipping, dipping and generally tripping on the whole food extravaganza. Along the way some of the cooking knowledge seeped into my food steeped cranium but nothing enough to alarm. Trips home were punctuated by amused surprise and ill-concealed disbelief on the part of the family at reminiscences of hostel happenings.

It was only when the Mater took a spill in the bathroom and was rendered shorthanded that the author's culinary talents came to test. It was generally understood that my skills covered the broad spectrum of multiple styles of egg, instant noodles, sandwiches and the occasional curry but whether this could see us through a month and a half of sustenance was suspect. Besides, whatever skills I might have they could not hope to reproduce the palato-orgasmic nirvana  that Amma dished out and lesser mortals with shoddy vocabulary deemed to call just 'food'.The first 'proper' meal was partaken with some ill-concealed fear, but my mother and brother gamely bit the bullet and emerged minus food poisoning. The most surprised person was the author herself. Apparently all the gastronomic goodness she had been imbibing had accumulated not just in her love-handles. In the middle of receiving, she had also learnt to give.

We are presently in the season that emphasises the joy of giving. And after finally getting to the other side, the author can confidently guarantee that the joy of feeding is just about as much as eating itself.The author has been blessed with the company of several exemplary chefs in her life. It has not helped her waistline, but it does remind her of the enduring goodness of life, which I believe is a lot more important, if not attractive. A full belly goes a long way in easing the pain of existence. And with such exemplary examples of generosity, the author hopes that her plate and what she plates can prove as full of goodness as those she has had the good fortune to partake from. 

The Many Loves of AtomicGitten

Certain changes have occurred in my small universe. Singular, I am. Single, I no longer am.The majority of my acquaintanceship received this revelation with shock and/or disbelief. Some even asked for proof. But, long story short (for a change), they had to finally accept the facts. Which is when the condolences began to pour in. To the guy in the picture. Incorrigible friends aside, the advent of an official partner demands that I lay to rest all the tendres I nursed in my passionate heart till date. Not that there were hoardes of exes--I AM fastidious-- but the few that were, were loved enough to warrant a real farewell. And what better place to pay tribute than the dear blog? So, in ascending order of intensity of affection, I present:

The Many Loves of AtomicGitten

*For the purpose of brevity all fictional beloveds will be excluded from this list. Sorry Tamahome.  And Jamie Fraser. And John Thornton as played by Richard Armitage. And Benedick. And Darcy. And Colin Firth as Darcy. And Scott Summers . And Alladin. And Rick O Connell from The Mummy. And-- Ok enough.

Devon Sawa:
Mostly for his sweet, friendly and utterly glah-worthy cameo in Casper  circa 1995. An all-round good-guy, endowed with occult mystique (what with being a ghost and all)-- what a combination.He was a noble spirit with an endearing vulnerability which could even render a decidedly creepy line cute. Plus he was blonde! My eight year old soul was dazzled.
This affection stayed steady until a combination of age (his), and awareness (mine) brought home the fact that he had a gap in his teeth. And apparently I was fastidious about dental work. Though this shift may also be attributed to the next great love that came my way.
Which was--
Aravind Swamy:
Somewhere along the multiple Independence and Republic Days with their inevitable re-telecast of the Mani Ratnam masterpiece Roja, the author began to realise that the protagonist was quite a dreamboat. Aravind Swamy in Roja was everything a hero aught to be. Not just a pretty face but smart too, he packed a potent punch with poignant civilian bravery and the ability to romance a girl right off her small-town-feet. Plus he he had a sense of humour--The thirteen year old heart fluttered. Said thirteen year old heart was even willing to overlook facial hair, until he began losing head-hair and gaining paunch. And the author could never stomach a paunch in her love interest.The caprice and shallowness of youth perhaps; but such is life.
Percy Bysshe Shelley:
The original wild-child, "Mad Shelley" swaggered into my heart with literary pizzazz and a lingering note of loneliness in his voice that made one want to sit down with him, talk to him, and unwittingly fall in love with him-- even when one knows he is bad news. After all, a man must be a special kind of amazing to write something like this. But his bigamy, questionable notions of fidelity and universal notoriety placed insurmountable impediments in the path of our true love. That, and the fact that he was dead. It wouldn't have worked out anyway.
Pablo Neruda:
I dare any woman with a beating heart to read this and not feel anything. Or this, for that matter. I believe I have made my case. But, to misquote Bob Dylan, he was born in summer and I was born too late. Sigh... Tonight I can write the saddest lines. But I will resist the urge.
KK:
Any man who can melt knee joints with just the caress of his crystal voice, is a formidable contender for a woman's heart. And mine was forfeited with the first soaring note. Watching KK live in concert was one of my biggest mistakes; it rendered me a drooling idiot for days to come. A voice like the brush on an angels wing (ok, a little hyperbolic there) and enough energy to power a medium sized district combined with a pleasant personality and a sense of humour made him the complete package. Plus, he was Mallu! That too from Trichur!-The parents would be pleased. Unfortunately, he was also married, with two kids, and nineteen years older. Dammit. And now I sit and hum 'Tadap Tadap'.
Tom Hiddleston:
As his deadly, underhand charm-- evidenced in his adept wooing of Catherine Valois in The Hollow Crown-- would show, Tom Hiddleston seems to be burdened with the glorious purpose of turning you into a puddle of mush before you can say  "St.Crispin's Day'. Not only is he talented, well-read and funny, he also does impressions and talks to the cookie monster! Oh can a man be more adorable? A few months of frenetic youtube-stalking later, I find he has a girlfriend. Oh the pain. I soothe myself with the sound of his poetry reading voice.

:Gael Garcia Bernal

There is very little defense against raw talent and an ability to incinerate your thought processes with one scorching green glance. Combine this with intelligence, social consciousness, an endearing streak of self-deprecating humour and the most unexpected smile on a face that can go from impish to the opposite with the flick of an eyebrow, one might as well raise the white flag. It also helps that the first time the author clapped eyes on him he was riding a motorcycle.
While his face alone is cause enough for mindless admiration, what truly ensnares is his astounding talent. To watch him perform is an awe-inspiring experience leaving you fascinated with not just what you watch, but also the passion that fuels such intensity. And it is fairly obvious by now that the author has a penchant for the passionate, talented and charismatic.
Just when her blood decided that his was the gaze that would electrify the corpuscles, he got married to his co-star. Ah how shall I cool the fire in my blood? And here I thought you would help wean me away from my undying affection for the last person on this list...
James McAvoy:
In an alternate universe we are busy redefining romance and making all our acquaintances amused with /irritated with/ sick of/sigh wistfully at our obvious affection for each other and our dazzling cuteness.
But, this is not an alternate universe.
James McAvoy was love at first movie (Which wasn't even one of his best movies); watching Becoming Jane demolished any hope that I can escape cupid's nefarious plot (damn that fat baby). His entire filmography and most of his interviews later, I remained smitten. Not even the embarrassing Bollywood Queen could cool my ardor! So much talent, so much charm and the ability to twist your heart into unimaginable shapes just with the glint in his blue, blue eyes... sigh.. he was my sunshine.
And now, I can never go to Scotland.
Should our paths cross, he would obviously fall head over heels in love with me and I will be responsible for breaking up his marriage. Better by far that he lives in ignorant bliss, while I carry this brand in my chest. As Auden so sentimentally put it, "If equal affection cannot be,/Let the more loving one be me."
But there is always the alternate universe.

And so, I lay to rest my erstwhile loves in the hope that reality proves infinitely superior to my imaginings. True, the poor man has an up hill task, but my line of work tells me that people have a tendency to rise to a challenge. And with that gauntlet thrown, I return to my stewing thesis.

Observation-3

Many thanks to Rikosama and Moongoddess for their part in these insights

A logical progression of inferences:

A woman's intelligence is not directly proportional to her choice in men.
.
.
.
.
A woman's intelligence is not directly proportional to her relationship status.
.
.
.
.
A woman's intelligence is not directly proportional to her logical conclusions.

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.