My word!

Yoosk today! - Immigration

2007-11-05T12:16:00.001Z

Immigration in Britain: the debate rages on. Join in to ask journalists Nick Ryan, Shelina Begum and UKIP MEP Gerard Batten what has to be done to ensure smoother integration?

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My new home!

2007-07-04T13:39:00.000+01:00

I have moved! Please follow this link to my new abode and don't forget to change your bookmarks!!

Chez Moi - my new home away from home.

Celebrity Obsession

2007-06-27T19:24:00.000+01:00

Media and its love of sensationalism is well known. Celebrities sell papers, as we are told repeatedly. But this week, British media took this statement to new levels.

The past week, parts of England have been buffeted by high winds and heavy rains and quite a lot of people have lost their homes, property and some, even their lives. When GMTV was reporting this dismal state of affairs in the Midlands, they cut short the report rather rudely to LA, where jailbird Paris Hilton was sprung early from the clink, thanks to good behavior. This, of course, made the good people of Britain splutter into their morning cuppa and lodge complaints against this behaviour in great numbers. The programme issued an apology in this morning's episode.

Radio station heart (106.2 FM) pulled a similar stunt yesterday as well. The news report ran somewhat like this '... today's top news: socialite Paris Hilton is freed from jail. Oh and by the way, three people lost their lives in Sheffield'. Outraged squawks could be heard across the South East.

Whilst I agree that no one wants to shell out good money to read everyday stories of your Average Joe, I still think the media should display a little more empathy and a little less TRP love. The flooding is going on in our own backyard, fellow Brits are suffering and why are we bothered about a spoiled brat of a rich American kid and when she's let out of the slammer ?

Trumpeting My Own Greatness...

2007-06-22T18:06:00.000+01:00

.... cos no one will do it for me! Nah, seriously, this is one of those 'feel good' tags, I'm told by the blessed being that tagged me. Some folks have loads of things to write home about. After reading Prems' impressive list, I can safely conclude I will not be one of them. So what the hell am I going to list in the '8 things I am proud of'? Good q!

1. Ok, let's see .... having a 'never say never' attitude that has seen me through the tough times; a Flubber-like mentality that refuses to be squashed or sat upon. There's a solution to every problem, that's my firm belief. Until you find it, there's always Plum and A R Rahman to take your mind off it!

2. My indomitable courage that saw me recently live in firang land with just little P for company. Though the pressure of being the sole being responsible for him was scary, it got easier. The same courage helped me deal with P's operation in India before he turned a year old and S's major car crash in the UK on the same day without folding.

3. My determination to see things to their bitter end, like, getting that blasted driving licence even after two years (on and off, not continuous!) of lessons and a few attempts. Refusing to throw in the towel though S has suggested I give it up.

4. Never bowing down to what's 'cool' and what's not. Not caring a hoot about being different.

5. My dreams. My impossibly grand dreams. Dreams of making it big, of setting up my family for life, of becoming someone of note, becoming a person P would say 'that's my mummy!'

6. Starting off in my job as a newbie, but learning the inner workings of it through sheer diligence and climbing a good many notches in a span of two years. And now, having the guts to change direction yet again and go into uni.

7. Never admitting a weakness as one, fully expecting to get out of it by blagging my way out of it. 'Ride a bike? Why when can have a better time letting someone else do it for me?' 'Housework? Why when I can immerse myself in my latest book and have a far better time?'

8. Above all, am proud of me for my beautiful boy - I know he is his own person and all that jazz but seeing him, listening to the way he processes things and the way he is, well, some of that should be from me, right?

Ok, I have to tag 8 people to carry on this torture - so, Apu, Ams,Dee, Kishmish, Suj, MM, Tharini and Dubukks - take it away, folks!

Remember the rules :

1. You have to say eight things about you that you are proud of yourself. Then write the rules at the end.

2. You have to tag eight others to follow tag. You have to let them know you have tagged them.

Teen Performs C-Sec To Get Into The Record Books

2007-06-22T18:00:00.001+01:00

The Hippocratic Oath, according to Wikipedia, "...is an oath traditionally taken by physicians pertaining to the ethical practice of medicine." As even us non-medical professionals know, thanks to a decade of ER and such, upholding the Oath is of vital importance to a physician. Though segments of the original Greek words have been modified to suit the modern times, the essence of it remains the same. To do no harm to those who come in search of a cure.

I guess this is where the good doctors K Murugesan and his wife, M Gandhimathay slipped. In their eagerness to be the proud parents of a Guinness Records certified 'World's Youngest Surgeon', they veered off their Oath-sworn path and well into the path of controversy. By allowing their 15-year-old son, Dileepan Raj, to perform a c-section on one of their patients, they have caused moral and ethical outrage within the medical community and across the general populace. As doctors, their duty is towards the welfare of their patient - in this case, a pregnant mother and her unborn infant. How can they put that aside and entertain thoughts of world records and such at this stage?

Not stopping at operating on that poor woman, 27-year-old Neela, the ~~doctors~~parents decided to go further and let the whole world and its wife know what a pistol they have for a son. They filmed the operation (oh the ignominy of it!) and premiered it at the Indian Medical Association's meeting on May 6. When the assembled brethren didn't gasp in wonder but in dismay at this, Dr Murugesan quipped, and I quote, “If a 10-year-old can drive a car and a 15-year-old can become a doctor in the US, what is wrong if my son, though not qualified, performs a surgery?”

Let's see if we can tell the good doctor what is wrong. Googling for the Hippocratic Oath netted me the gems the doctors have forgotten:

1. To keep the good of the patient as the highest priority - Strike one - having an unskilled boy, perform a complex operation as a caesarean-section, thereby risking not one but two lives is a big no no. I cannot imagine anyone feeling better at the thought of having the proud parents hovering over their son's hands and guiding them.

2. Never to do deliberate harm to anyone for anyone else's interest - it wasn't in anyone else's interest but their own, so that they could see their son's name on the Guinness Book of World Records. That they didn't cause GBH to the mother or the baby is a blessing. So, strike two!

3. To practice and prescribe to the best of my ability for the good of my patients, and to try to avoid harming them - The mother of them all, 'for the good of my patients', has been wiped off the memory banks of the culprits. Strike three!

Three strikes, doc - you're out!

IMA's less than enthusiastic response and the resulting fallout possibly triggered a late reaction in his brain and Doc Murugesan back pedalled furiously to keep self and wife out of disbarment and further negative publicity. He has denied that the offspring actually took the scalpel in his own bare hands and cut open a woman's belly. Apparently, the boy just watched, while his dad did the deed. Maybe. But what about his claim to the Kumudam Reporter that his boy has been performing such operations from the time he was 12?

With the IMA urging disbarment and the local Health Minister promising 'tough action' if the whole incident could be proven, the future seems a bit sticky for the doctors. But no one can get their hands on a copy of the offending video - maybe the doctors came to their senses and burned the evidence. I, for one, hope that someone locks these offending individuals up and throw away the key. What sort of a doctor, what sort of a person does such a thing?

Growing ear hair to get your name on the record books is one thing; wilfully endangering a person's lives is a different kettle of fish. I say, punish these idiots and make an example out of them. Maybe that will deter other idiots from trying to create such vile records, like the nut who tried to make waves by performing 50 hernia operations in 24 hours.

I have an idea for a world record - the doctor who actually put the welfare of his patients above other vainglorious pursuits. How about that? Any takers?

Vote for the Taj Mahal

2007-06-20T21:45:00.000+01:00

The first and only time (so far!) I visited Taj Mahal was also the first and only family trip I took along with my parents and the sibling. I had just finished my Class X Board exams and was feeling like I had conquered K2. Wandering around the streets of Delhi in the mad May heat is something I wouldn't recommend to anybody but the madcaps that we were, we did it anyway! The day we landed in Agra was one of the hottest days of that summer and I could feel the leftover grey matter getting fried.

The first sight of the Taj Mahal was indescribable. I had goosebumps on my arm and felt the hair at the back of neck stand up. I couldn't believe that in front of me was the Taj Mahal, one of the Wonders of the World, a love icon, standing in that very same spot from the Mughal times.

I have, since then, seen other Wonders like the Leaning Tower of Pisa and the Eiffel Tower but none infused me with the same sense of awe like that first sight of the Taj. This majestic building, standing impressive and somehow lonely, standing all by itself amidst this vast expanse of land stirred something deep within me.

Having grown up reading about Shah Jahan and his testament to his love for his wife, how it took hundreds of men, years and years to complete it. And of course, we’ve also read about how he allegedly blinded the labourers so that they could never build anything half as grand elsewhere. All of which made for some fantastic build-up and the Taj lived up to every bit of the hype – and then some!

As the sun was blazing overhead by the time we reached the monument, the white marble was hot enough to fry eggs. So we didn’t get to do a gentle stroll around it, taking pictures hither and admiring the friezes thither. It was more of a mad dash from one shady spot to another, even as your feet tingled in the contrasting temperatures. And jostle twenty others as we fought for the vantage point to get that particular shot.

Once we came back into the gardens, sandal-ed feet and all, we were hailed by the special photographers milling around us. They promised to get that popular pic of the Taj, wherein you make it seem like you are lifting the impressive monument off its feet by holding to the tip of its dome. My momentary fascination with this vanished when I realised I had to stand there like an idiot, with my right arm sticking up top to complete the effect. Though I balked at this, many people stood so like lemons, though the resultant image made up for it, I suppose.

I have only seen the Taj in pictures and on the telly since and it is my dream to see the Taj at night, to see the marbled structure gleam in the moonlight. I keep telling myself that I’d do it one day, show my son the magic and hopefully see the same awe written on his face.

Living now, amidst the British, I have found that it is the first thing that pops into any firang’s head the minute they hear the word ‘India’. Though the country has a great many icons, the Taj Mahal is our biggest and brightest. Without it as the gateway, the myriad treasures of our country will be lost on the world’s population.

On 7.7.07, a brand new set of Seven Wonders of the World is going to be selected out of 21 worthies. The Sydney Opera House, Petra, the Pyramid at Chichen Itza are some of the icons shortlisted, apart from the Taj Mahal, Eiffel Tower, Statue of Liberty etc. Not many Indians have heard of this because, as usual, our insipid government hasn’t jumped at the chance to promote this great icon, the one thing that put India on a world traveller’s map. Other countries are vying with one another to get the coveted ‘Wonder of the World’ tag for their treasure. Why isn’t our Tourism industry lifting a finger? As always, it is up to us, the aam junta, to show to the world what a treasure we have in the Taj Mahal. So please, fellow desi bloggers, pass the world – blog about your feelings about the Taj Mahal. And please vote for the Taj! Let the world know it fully deserves to be known as a Wonder of the World.

Mind Your Language

2007-06-10T21:56:00.001+01:00

Have you wondered where your English language is from? As in, the type of language you speak is it English, American, Australian or any other. I never questioned the source of mine till very recently. From school, I learnt the English left over from the colonial days. Spelt armour, valour, colour etc with a u, waTer with a ‘t’ and not a ‘d’ well, you get my drift. But thanks to STAR TV and Hollywood, I also learnt some Americanisms along the way I knew about Route 66, pronounced schedule as skedjool, route as rout and could generally follow the plot of an American movie without subtitles.

When I moved to UK, I did not feel out of place as after all, I have been learning English all my life! Till the day I blurted out loud at work ‘where’s the F in lieutenant?’ and caused a mini uproar (‘please don’t swear ….’, ‘I beg your pardon’) of sorts. After my team mates had stopped wetting themselves, they set up educating me in the ways of the world. So I learnt to say ‘leftinent’ and ‘shedule’ and words of similar ilk.

You would think, having grown up learning Colonial English, I would have no problems fitting in with the Brits. Right? Wrong! I was under that mistaken impression till I switched on the telly and sat through day-time TV. I did not understand a word and had to fumble along, aided by that marvellous invention called Teletext! I ended up begging people's pardons every other minute, asking them to repeat what they said. Of course, they couldn't understand what I was going on about, when in my eagerness to sound less desi, I tried mimicking the accent oft-heard on STAR TV and ended sounding like Buffy gone bad.

For starters, there was the accents - hundreds of them. Geoff Boycott's 'crickeet' and 'wickeet' had me in splits when I used to watch the game but now, when I had a lady asking me if the boos would be along soon, it took me a long time to get her. Even after six years, I still get thrown by the odd word: had an interviewer on the phone today (I work for a social research firm) asking me for what sounded like 'used diaries' and I was perplexed at the request. Used diaries? Whatever for, went I, till the bulb went on in my brain a good few minutes later, when I realised he was asking me for some 'youth diaries'!

That is when I came to realise what a minefield the varied British accent is. Most Eastenders seemed to have lost or misplaced the hard 't' that is found in almost every word. If it comes at the end of the word, well that's easy enough to understand but when faced with a request to get someone some 'wa-er', what can one do but blink? Most people in Essex also seem to forget to pronounce 'th' as it must, choosing instead to go with the wildly popular 'f'. Thereby, one sees blokes answering to Arfur or wish someone a 'happy birfday'. P almost killed us the time he sang about the three Kings and assorted junta who went to Beflehem to see the baby Jesus. We also get a 'fank you' for a good deed, even when it is 'nuffink'.

The English, much like the Australians, have this habit of shortening things into something that bears no resemblance to the original word. Thus, sandwiches become sarnies, potato patties become tatties, pinafore is a pinny, the list is positively endless. This is before we even venture into the murky waters of Cockney rhyming slang. 'Don't you tell porkies', admonishes a character in EastEnders. It was a while before I twigged (porky pie ~ lie; hence porkies = lies) - phew! Thus, I have found that I was taking the Michael, Bob was my uncle and on one memorable occasion, urged to ask for the William (the bill!). Who says the Brits have no sense of humour?

All in all, I have often felt the language I was taught all my life in India bears not much resemblance to the one I have been learning the past six years. The advantage is, I can truly say I learn new things every day!

The Apprentice: Was Katie's Exit Staged?

2007-06-07T22:14:00.000+01:00

Was anyone shocked with the outcome of last night's episode of The Apprentice? I was! I thought it would be an all-girl final like last year, between Kristina and Katie. Whilst I was hoping that Tre might get a look in, I never thought Scatterbrain Simon would make it. I most certainly did not even dream that Katie would get chosen for the final but would step down. With such a flimsy excuse too.

I mean, to say she cannot make the decision to move her family from Exeter to London without consulting her parents, who help look after her children smacks of something unprintable. Which parent takes up or goes for a job without thinking about things like childcare, schools etc? Conversely, which parent expects their child, shortlisted for the final, to check with them first before signing her life away? Give me a break!

Even before I went for my job interview (which, ironically, took place at Amstrad House - where the winning Apprentice would work!) I checked out the local daycare facilities for P and he had started the nursery three weeks before I joined my company, to give us both decent lead time to get used to the new state of things. And this 'man-eater', this 'go getter' who is in it to win it wants us all to believe that she cannot offer that sort of commitment? Who is she trying to kid?

The whole show smacked of something straight out of a cartoon. The interviews were all horribly edited. Poor Tre kept trying to assert the credibility of his organisation but the Western mind could not comprehend the meaning of a 'family business' in an Asian setting and the interviewer kept mocking him. When he gave his report to Sir Alan, claiming Tre was 'running an international conglomerate from his bedroom', I thought it was a cheap shot.

Likewise, the whole charade of Sir Alan giving Katie the benefit of the doubt and allowing her to go through, even though all of his advisers said there was something about her they don't trust, only to come back to her and dig the reason why she wasn't whooping with joy... the scenario just didn't cut the mustard, unfortunately. I think some serious editing has happened for it to come across the way it did.

Whatever it was, the Apprentice is becoming more and more a reality game show, more along the lines of Big Brother, rather than a credible, grey cells worthy programme. Sound bytes are given prominence, in place of truth and I, for one, am fast losing interest. What's more, I would not be the least bit surprised if Katie wound up in next year's Celebrity Big Brother or I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! lineup.

Have a Bad Day...

2007-06-06T20:38:00.000+01:00

No, I am not doing a Daniel Pewter here. It is just a summation of the stinker of the day I had. It got off to a bad start when I decided to dust the cobwebs off my tummy trimmer thingummyjig and actually use it. Bad idea! It was propped up tight against the exercise bike (which I use to dry clothes mainly) and when I tugged it hard, it shot out and hit me on my soft head hard enough that I saw stars. I tell ya - exercising is bad for health!

I pootled off to work with the sore head and this screechy woman rings me barely five minutes after I've sat down. I wanted to wring her neck! Now I really was feeling what they meant when they said 'hammer & tongs' - I was all set to lie down and weep by lunch time. That was when I decided to get a drink and wouldn't you know it, barely has the first drop gone down my throat when I choke on it and go into paroxysms of cough. Jeez!

Just when I was wondering if my day could be any worse, like Ross, I learnt that some eager beaver at work has taken my name off the company rolls, a full month before I am scheduled to leave. *sigh*

Come on, Daniel, sing with me - you've had a bad day...

Catwalk Mishaps

2007-06-03T17:08:00.000+01:00

The things you learn during your daily web trawl! I was just going through my daily fix of blogs when I came to know of this arresting fact: Miss USA took a toss down slippery catwalk as she sashayed down it, during the Miss Universe pageant. After the first couple of sniggers, watching the clip on YouTube, I decided to go a step further and see if I can come up with a few more.

I needn't have worried my pretty head about it - the following came in the mix automatically!

First, catch the Little Miss Humpty Dumpty in action:

At least she recovered well!

Next bit of ha ha comes when a Miss Universe contestant's outfit comes apart:

As if to prove that this isn't a one-off and strictly pageants only, here's what happens when a model wears columns of material held together by string, instead of clothes:

When A Child Goes Missing...

2007-05-29T21:10:00.000+01:00

The UK media has been flooded with images and news reports of four-year old Madeline McCann, who disappeared from the Algarve, Portugal, more than three weeks ago. She was holidaying in Portugal along with her parents and twin younger siblings. On May 3, 2007, she disappeared from the family's holiday apartment at the Pria de Luz, even as her parents dined at a restaurant right opposite. They had checked in on her barely thirty minutes back.

She hasn't been seen ever since.

This is every parent's worst nightmare come to life; being a mum of a toddler myself, I cannot even begin to imagine what the poor McCanns must be going through every single second. Not a day goes by without them seeking some form of sustenance in the form of prayers and visits to sacred churches, to pray for the safe return of their daughter.

They have vowed to find their missing child at all costs. Public funds have been set up to aid in the search and celebrities like J K Rowling and Simon Cowell, amongst others, have contributed to this. The McCanns are hoping the toddler's distinct right eye, where the iris bleeds into the pupil, would prove to be a valuable tool in the search.

Here's hoping the child is returned safe and sound to her parents' soon.

Meanwhile, I came across this poignant blog, set up by friends of a desi in US who has gone missing. This is no helpless toddler; this is a man grown, who went hiking and hasn't been heard of since. But, he is still is parents' child and I am sure they are just as desperate for news of Kiran's whereabouts as the McCanns are of Madeline.

When people go missing, it somehow feels worse than death. At least with death, you get to say goodbye, you grieve for your loss and you try to pick the pieces. When a loved one goes missing, how does one bear it? There is no news of what has happened, a constant state of 'are they well? how/where/in what condition are they?' that goes through the family and friends' minds non-stop.

I once read this novel of Mary Higgins Clark, where a child is abducted and sold to a couple who cannot have children. The childless couple bring her as their own and she lacks nothing. She doesn't know she isn't biologically theirs till she is almost thirty and that too, by sheer accident. Meanwhile, her birth family goes through sheer hell - her mother's mission in life is tracing her lost daughter and she neglects her husband and older son; the parents get divorced and the brother grows up somehow, with the ghost of his missing sister constantly there. I remember reading it and thinking 'how ghastly'. The mum in me shuddered at the turmoil her family lives through.

I now hope and pray for the well being of these children, and the hundreds of missing loved ones the world over. I hope the parents' search is over soon and the children find their way back home, safe and sound.

Edited to add: I am really saddened to note that Kiran's lost his life in a freak accident while trekking in the Yosemite with friends. According to news reports, he slipped and fell into the whitewater. His body was found Tuesday, May 29, ten days after he went missing. My sincere condolences to his family and friends.

Madeline McCann is still missing.

Wanted: Swayamwaram Applicants

2007-05-29T18:32:00.000+01:00

I was chatting with a blogging mate of mine about the stuff that life's generally made of - Bill Bryson, DC writers with a penchant for ignoring rules, assorted idiots who cannot read / absorb the clear Comments policy, Bangalore weather v Chennai, relative merits of LinkedIn, Orkut, Tagged etc when the topic arrived, some how, at girls. Well, this isn't such a shocking concept considering I am a card carrying member of the species but in this instance, it is the lack of eligible bachelorettes that was causing said mate some problems.

Birthdays arriving thick and fast, with no suitable girl sending a gushing Val's day card has proved to be the bane of his mum's life and she has recently given up dropping subtle hints in favour of actively jabbing him with the fork during meal times, in an effort to make him get the skates on and get on with the job of getting her a daughter in law, like NOW.

In this enlightened day and age, us being blogoholics and all that, what better way to kick start this modern day head hunt than, well, blog about it? Rather like the matrimonial version of The Apprentice, we are now inviting applicants for the enviable role of a permanent partner of Mr K. Of course, there are a few stipulations: that the applicant must be a girl, is an obvious one. She must also belong to the enviable TamBram community of South India, in order to please the senior cast member.

Interested applicants leave a message in the comments and await our call eagerly.

TAG: Indian Writing

2007-05-29T08:57:00.000+01:00

We all know what an impossible soul dear ole Ams is. She never does anything by halves. So she's gone and listed an impressive array of tomes in her Indian authors/books. I have as much chance as the proverbial snowball's chance in hell of coming up with one half so impressive. So I decided to go my way and make it short n' sweet.

So here is my list of Indian authors / books I have read or would love to read:

1. Ashok Banker's Seige of Mithila - Second book in his very impressive Ramayana series. Can't wait to lay my hands on it. It was Dee who relentlessly badgered me into reading the first one and like Ams, I wasn't really hooked onto it from the start. The twins calling one another 'Shot' and 'Luck' sounded more Hardy Boys-ish than anything. But once I passed those, it was pure heaven. A must-read.

2. Kalki's Ponniyin Selvan - I have read parts of it when it was serialised but for a long time now, have been meaning to read it in its entirety. Mean to get my mitts on my mum's copy when I visit the folks later in this year. Ooh!

3. Vikram Seth's An Equal Music - yeah yeah I own up to not having read this till now. I have borrowed it now from the library so should get cracking on it soon!

4. David Davidar's House of Blue Mangoes - heard / read good things about this one. When I heard he is the Mad Momma's uncle, I am determined to read it!!! (Call me shallow!)

5. Jawahara Saidulla's Burden of Foreknowledge - Sujatha Bagal of Blogpourri has said such lovely things about this book that I am compelled to put it on my 'must read' list. Added to it, the fact that she is a Desicritic makes her work unmissable!

6. Saavi's Washingtonil Thirumanam - absolutely hilarious! Made me long for the traditional Tambram weddings of yore. 'Shhhiver bath' is a phrase you would not forget!

Phew! Time to pass the baton to Apu, Dee, Suj, Premalatha, Dubukku and my fellow mummy bloggers MM, Tharini, Itchy and Boo.

Big thanks to the Mad Momma and Dubukku for responding to the tag. Their spectacular efforts have made me hang my head in shame to see such impressive lists of Indian authors / books.

Overheard on the train

2007-05-25T14:43:00.001+01:00

Man: (on his phone) Hello? I should be there by 11:35 PM. Could you come and pick me up?

....

Man: Ok, after you finish watching the Weather then.

...

Man: I'll wait, no, no, I..

....

Man: (sigh) Tell you what, you watch the Weather and I'll walk home.

(Click.)

Hand of God!

2007-05-25T13:09:00.000+01:00

Took this pic last week at Blackpool. It was rather glum and all of a sudden, the clouds shifted and this clear shaft of light broke through. Amazing!

Confidence, Nekked and National TV: Gruesome Threesome

2007-05-20T15:39:00.000+01:00

S and I were watching this programme on the telly Wednesday night, just a moving background to the monotonous DIY work we were doing at that moment. The programme was called 'How To Look Good Naked' and involved a nervy, newish mum, not really comfy with her body shape and as such, not very confident. How the gay presenter got over her fears and ultimately, made her enough confident within herself that she sashayed down the catwalk in her pink matching bra and pants.

Now, as an Indian watching the show, there were many, many points during this that I gasped and squirmed. At the end of the programme, I was left with this question: how is parading semi-naked in front of millions a fitting test of confidence? I am not saying it takes immense guts to do so but why the hell is that even a requisite to ooze confidence? This is where the show left me flummoxed. Seemed to me, it was a drastic way to prove that someone is the epitome of confidence.

I had always thought that I was a fairly confident soul, capable of speaking my mind and generally able to get me from one day to another without greatly injuring myself. But no way on earth would I ever do any of that the woman did on the show last night. For starters, she had to see herself in the mirror, clad only in her undergarments (do you see a recurring theme here?) - why the heck would I do that on national TV? Confidence or not, is unnecessary. WHY would I parade my bloated, saggy self to the whole of Great Britain to choke over their dinner?

Before you go on the 'Ohmigosh, she's a prude', let me stop you right there. I ain't no prude but I firmly draw the line at going through the following things - shivering like a leaf in my undies, having a bloke (gay or not) poke and prod me in various places to show me what I've got, baring my 'bedroom secrets' to the whole world and its wife and to top it all, have the bloke helpfully slot some boob uplightment device inside my bra. No, no, no, N-O!

Forgive me for being so boring / naive, if I was suffering from some serious body issues post baby (who am I kidding? that's a permanent state of mind where I am concerned!) I'd rather work on it by doing something - anything - else. Join the gym (which the woman did, after the bloke chose some hip track suits), sign up for some mummy-toddler club, get a personal shopper to help buy clothes that fit you, rope in your mates to give you some quality, non-mumsy time.... anything other than having to pose about in the buff. Drastic, methinks.

I went through some crippling bouts of depression, post-baby (and the MIL visit!) that wasn't helped by the fact that I didn't have any decent friend or family around me to prop me up. So I slowly confined myself to the four walls of our house, wearing some absolute eye-sores and generally feeling sorry for myself. Had I been home, surrounded by friends and family (which this woman no doubt was), I would have been dragged willy-nilly out into the Big Bad World and made to face it. I don't know why this woman's friends and family were standing around, wringing their hands, in a rather helpless fashion. What the hell was the hubby doing anyways? Why wasn't he wooing the daylights of his wife till she felt sexy again?

If you think ranting about a bit of an undie show is a bit much, even for me, the best was yet to come. The once shaky now yummy mummy posed in the buff ('the shots will be extremely tasteful') prior to walking down the ramp wearing nothing but her undergarments. And her mum and mate in the audience went 'ooh! she is soo confident!'

Good grief!

I felt like banging my head at this point. We talk about women's lib, suffragette and Girl Power and then say parading about half-naked on national telly epitomises confidence. Maybe I am a prude, after all. A prude tightly holding on to her clothes.

Visiting Cambridge

2007-05-09T21:58:00.001+01:00

When I was in college, I used to dream of studying at Magdelene College, Cambridge. Along with my mate, I used to pore over the British Council literature, IELTS forms and spin dreams of 'when we get to Magdelene...'. Of course none of them materialised but I was certainly left with a dream of atleast visiting the college to get a feel of it.

Luckily enough, Cambridge isn't too far from Brentwood and on one late summer morning, we set off quite early and found ourselves on the motorway without too many speed demons spoiling our pleasure. Thanks to the light traffic, we reached our destination well before 10.00 AM and after parking our car in the monstrously expensive parking lot, we set about exploring the town.

In my family, getting lost is a pre-requisite and it is how we explore new and exciting places. Letting ourselves loose in the pre-congestion charged London, we drove round and round this old city and ooh-ed and aah-ed over the various beautiful buildings. Cambridge was no exception - within minutes of exiting the car park, we were lost and walked around like a bunch of drunks in the middle of a desert before we ended, quite by chance, at the marketplace. The stalls were full of old books (which I made a beeline for), lovely fruits and vegetables from nearby farms as well as, incongrously, hot bhajis and samosas! After breakfasting on a hot samosa followed by fresh strawberries and cream, we set about trying to see what this old city was all about.

After reading the map correctly for once, we reached River Cam and the punting starting point well before the place got inundated by tourists. Choosing ourselves a lovely punt and a gorgeous French punter, we set off on a slow and relaxed note. The area surrounding this end of River Cam was really beautiful - lush, green, Weeping Willows lined the banks on either side followed by a profusion of gorse bushes on the park, on the opposite side. The bridge overhead was devoid of vehicular traffic and all in all, it was a pleasantly serene air that enveloped us.

King's College and Chapel

Slowly, we glided past the colleges. Called The Backs, as they back onto the river, St John's College, Queen's College, King's, Trinity, Trinity Hall and Clare, looked so beautiful with their sweeping lawns and sprawling grounds. Tales of Kings and Queens of yore, as well as of wars and scheming courtiers were narrated by Jacques, our punter. Looking across the expanse of King's college, I could almost hear the distant cannons of the First World War. The chapel of King's College, when it came into view, was gloriously regal - apparently, the stained glass window panes were preserved carefully during the Wars to protect them from becoming casualties and one is thankful of all that hard work, as the windows look amazing.

St John's frontage - where Harry says 'UP' to his broom!

The front of St John's was covered in flaming red ivy and seemed oddly familiar. When I queried him, Jacques told us that it was there, in the front lawns, that a scene from the first Harry Potter movie was shot - precisely, the scene where Harry first learns to fly on a broom. The building is called a Wedding Cake, apparently, as it looks somewhat like a lavishly tiered wedding cake. We also passed the Bridge of Sighs, modelled along the lines of the one in venice.

Mathematical Bridge

One thing to be said re the punters/guides - no one told us to take what they say with a pinch of salt. Like a pair of lemons, we swallowed his spiel and found it was all tosh when we arrived home and Googled for it. For example, he told us this wonderful story of the Mathematical Bridge - how it was built without the use of any nails or other fasteners and according to the lore, how some college boys decide to take it apart after a night of drunken merriment, found to their dismay that they couldn't do so and had to resort to the use of nails and screws, much like the rest of us lesser mortals. All hogwash, says the authentic Cambridge guide.

Magdalene Street

We finished up at Magdalene College corner, where the original Cam Bridge was. (Bridge across the river Cam - hence Cambridge, says Jacques.) I spent more than a few minutes gazing at the building, thinking 'if only....'.

Once back on terra firma, we explored the rest of the town on foot. There are so many colleges around you, chock full of history, you literally don't know what to go for. For a small fee, one can experience the pleasure of wandering through the buildings and grounds of these colleges. As it was the closest I could ever come to actually be inside a Cambridge University college, I felt £5 was a small price to pay and happily parted with it so I could wander about King's College and its awesome chapel. According to the University rules, if one wishes to get married in this sumptuous Chapel, either the bride or the groom must have been a student of King's! What an exclusive place!

Trinity College

Across town, in Trinity, we were pointed in the direction of the rooms once inhabited by Sir Isaac Newton. Just outside the windows, on the front lawn, was a scrawny apple tree said to be the offspring of the apple tree that was instrumental to the whole theory of gravity. Whether it was fact or just another urban legend, I couldn't help feeling buzzed about standing there, next to the great grand child of the tree that helped formulate one of the fundamental theories of life.

Newton's apple tree with his old rooms in the background

The town is rather quaint and apart from the numerous University buildings, has vast expanses of beautifully laid out parks, swimming pools, a well-appointed theatre and a great many other things to interest the average tourist. Situated around 50 miles from London, Cambridge is so full of history that walking around the colleges, on the grounds where monarchs and great inventors once walked, one feels oddly humbled. If you are ever in this neck of the woods, do add Cambridge to your tour itenerary. It is definately a trip well worth in memories. One word of caution though - the parking fee is rather steep; so if you are driving to the place, you could do well to park it in one of the Park & Ride areas and taking the buses into town. Then you are free to spend as much time as you like ambling away, rather than worry about the parking fee awaiting your pleasure on your return!

Strange, but true!

2007-05-06T11:26:00.000+01:00

Have you gone days without actually spending a penny but the minute you draw some money out of your account, seen it disappear in five minutes?

Have you ever sat twiddling your thumbs in a traffic snarl, bumper to bumper with all the other road ragers on Monday morning, and fumed at the idiots speeding away in the opposite direction?

Have you ever listened to the weather forecast, paid heed and gone out in summer clothes, only to show up at work in your favourite drowned rat get up? Or how about the next time you show the weather girl a finger and gone out in proper cold weather attire, only to look like a mug as the sun shines brightly all day?

Have you stood in the queue for a long time, waiting patiently for your turn to catch your favourite musical, only to go in and sit behind a pillar? Or sat next to the bloke who's behind a pillar, who makes his annoyance known to the world and its wife?

Or is it just me?

God Is In The Details

2007-05-04T20:15:00.000+01:00

We did not get off to a good start this morning. We were stuck behind the garbage truck, as they do their weekly collection round. Even as I was impatiently twiddling my thumbs behind the monster truck, I couldn't help noticing the flies - or lack of them, buzzing around the garbage like they should do. I am not saying the firang refuse smelled of sweet perfume, but they didn't make me want to gag my intestines out. There was no unsightly bits hanging about or littered around the half mile radius, sort of like a billboard announcement as to the activity that took place there recently.

And of course, as one does normally in such situations, I started thinking, When would we get to such a state in India, where a garbage truck did not get a huge crowd of flies and other buzzards circling it? It is a small thing and I know the ONYX is doing a brilliant job it is such a small thing, isn't it? Doing a job well. But small thing doesn't mean it is simply done.

If you are familiar with Chennai during the summer months, then the water tanker lorries would be a familiar sight as well. For those who aren't, these are blue, rectanglular sided lorries, with METRO WATER emblazoned on all sides. There is no mistaking the contents as the water would be sloshing off the top of the lorry and generally bathe the scooter following it. At times of acute water shortage, when the precious commodity would be rationed, it was disturbing to see huge rivulets of water running down the streets, marking the path of the lorries. I remember a Class IX physics lesson about centre of gravity and my teacher took the example of the water tanks and how unsound their structure is, as they have a highly unstable centre of gravity. So why wasn't a power that be making sure that we had friendlier water carriers, that did not waste it?

What about our roads? Why is it that anarchy reigns supreme on them? Why haven't we got something simple like a codebook for drivers?

Other general matters of etiquette like queuing, holding the door open for the person coming behind you rather than slamming it on their noses, personal space, personal hygeine, respecting others' freedom are all abstract concepts.

We are all busy patting ourselves on our backs about the big things - technological advancement, getting more and more MNCs to invest in our country, increasing GDP etc but IMHO, we are losing sight of the small things, things that will elevate us from also rans to a true-blue advancing country. After all, God is in the details and until we realise that, all-round development will be a foreign concept.

To Aid The AIDS Victims

2007-05-03T18:21:00.001+01:00

There's a WHO report floated about the place that states that India has the highest number of AIDS sufferers in the world. One in seven Indians are HIV-positive, reads another scary report. But the one thing everyone is harping on now, is the smackeroo Richard Gere planted on Shilpa Shetty's cheeks. The media went to town with it; so did some idiots who decided to make a bonfire out of some effigies in honour of the occasion; la Shetty managed to get more than a few sound bytes in Indian and British media while quite a few bloggers made their feelings known on their blogs for all the world to see. That pesky little thing called AIDS awareness, the actual reason why Gere was in India had, by now, slipped out of most people's minds completely.

But there was something happening quietly in the background, that has made me sit up and take notice. Hopefully, this will make people realise what a bunch of silly fools we are and get down to the matters at hand instead.

I am talking about the launch of the Condom Bar, in Chandigarh. What a brilliant idea! Here, at last, is some positive action. Instead of taking the usual route of sweeping things under the carpet and pretending nothing is amiss, here are some people who are actively looking to counteract the rising levels of HIV in the country. And I, for one, salute them and their spirit.

The Condom Bar is a novel initiative to increase AIDS awareness in the country. It is a proper bar, serving drinks and what nots but instead of stopping there, it also does its bit in helping promote the use of condom to its patrons. Firmly believing in going the extra mile, it also has place mats offering some well-meaning advice blurbs like "Enjoy safely" and "Don't just get on. Get it on! Protect yourself, protect others". Instead of the useless chunk of mint you'd find in the saucers along with loose change, at the Condom Bar, you would find a few colourful condoms instead.

What is most commendable about this venture is that this is wholly government backed. Chandigarh Industrial & Tourism Corporation (Citco) is the driving force behind this enterprise and in order to keep the place affordable and accessible to the aam junta, the bar is doing to be run as a "non-profit operation with low-priced drinks and wholesome vegetarian food at cost prices." I am well impressed! The idea that the local government is tackling this awful issue of steadily increasing HIV victims in an informed and progressive way is refreshing and real welcome.

According to news reports, the club was opened by Pooja Thakur, a young mother and president of a voluntary counselling group for people living with HIV and AIDS. When the whole world is going hammer and tongs at amassing wealth, it is rather humbling to hear the club owner say, "Our earnings will be the awareness and the message we will help spread".

I am all for new and novel ways of finding solutions to problems. A few weeks back I saw a programme on the telly where the host Davina McCall was walking about the streets of Amsterdam's Red Light district and talking to teachers there about sex education. Why? Because teen pregnancy is on the rise in Britain and everyone wants to figure out a way to curb that.

Likewise, HIV and AIDS are on a steady incline and the more we see innovative initiatives such as the Condom bar and the better chance we have at combating such issues. I hope they succeed and we are able to see Condom Clubs across the country, promoting safe sex and AIDS awareness.

Heve(r) Ho!

2007-04-12T01:00:00.000+01:00

The sun shone brightly in the blue, cloudless sky. Birds were twittering, there was a slight breeze that cooled our brows and it was lushly green as far as our eyes could see. As I stood next to the lapping water, I so wished I could just lay down here, for ever and never be taken away from this beautiful vista surrounding me.

I was at Hever Castle, in Kent, England, childhood home of Anne Boleyn, the mother of Queen Elizabeth I. I can honestly say that it was one of the most beautiful places I have ever been in. Whichever direction I turned, there were picture postcard perfect scenes. Tall, shadowy trees, stood whispering through the skies. Despite the screaming children and the milling families, there was a sense of calm and serenity in the air.

The castle started its life as an ordinary farmhouse in 1270 AD. When its owner, Geoffrey Bullen (Anne's great grandfather), was made the Lord Mayor of London, the house was upgraded to a manor house, as befitted a Lord Mayor. From 1505, the castle was the home of Sir Thomas Boleyn, the 1st Earl of Wiltshire and 1st Earl of Ormonde and Anne's father. Though it is unclear if Anne was born here, there are loads of references to suggest that Anne, along with her siblings Mary and George, spent her childhood years here. Upon her death, the castle became the property of her husband, King Henry VIII, who gave it to his fourth wife, Anne of Cleves, as a part of her divorce settlement.

Tudor Village

The castle then changed hands a few times, fell into disrepair and was finally bought by the rich American family of William Waldorf Astor. When Astor moved to England, he bought the dilapidated castle and upgraded it to an extremely high standard. He constructed the famous "Tudor Village" to accommodate guests and built the gardens and the lake.

The current owners bought the castle in 1983 and opened it up to the general public. There are some magnificient 16th century portraits on display, as well as Anne Boleyn's prayer books and some scenes from her life. The main draw, however, are the splendid gardens. Astor expanded the existing garden to include the Italian Garden, to house his collection of Italian sculptures. There is also a beautiful Rose Garden, touted to house more than 3,000 plants. Astor also got the lake constructed, which took 748 labourers to dig and two whole years before it was ready. The latest owners are credited with the Millennium Fountain and the hugely popular Water Maze.

Water Maze

Situated around 30 miles from London, this is a local favourite. On a clear sunny day, it makes for a fantastic picnic spot. With acres of flowers, boating facilities on the lake and three mazes, the castle offers something for every member of the family. Entrance is priced at a modest £10.40 and is well worth every penny.

Feminism in a desi setting

2007-04-11T11:08:00.000+01:00

Fellow blogger and one of my oldest mates, apu tagged me on this. And she says we have good ole Ams to thank for it. As it is a tag, I'd like to tag my fellow fem bloggers - Suj, Dee, Premalatha as well as my fellow mommy bloggers - Mad Momma and Tharini, as well as Kishore to take the baton from me.

Right, now let's get started. What is feminism, exactly? According to the dictionary, feminism is the doctrine advocating social, political, and all other rights of women equal to those of men. Feminism in an Indian (or desi) context is a wierd thing. It is like Antartica - everyone knows what it is but no one wants to go there. To most, life goes on as it always had, as if feminism never existed.

Like I mentioned in one of my previous posts, I realised what feminism truly is and that I am a feminist only after I started blogging actively. Till then, I was going along with the Antartic effect. Having been brought up to be fiercely independent, I did not question my right to do things my way. I always thought that that was mostly thanks to my folks' outlook towards most things concerning self and sibling. But I realise now, it is thanks to them being feminists (in their own setting) that they could go with the choices they made, which in turn made it easy for me to go with my choices, my way.

But to many, this is not the case. I have heard of many, many cases where the girls were so 'protected' that many had hardly ventured into the Big Bad World on their own. S frequently jokes that I had a lot more freedom growing up than he did!

In that sense, I feel feminism is linked to your basic freedom as a child. If you, as a girl, are raised as an equal to your male siblings, then you (and your siblings) will grow up to think the same way. If, on the other hand, you are told right from the time you were a child that you must defer to your male siblings or that they come first, then chances of both sexes retaining this and forming a template to their lives, is very high.

So, what has feminism given me. Well, it has given me the right to be me. I can be my own person and not be defined as someone's child or wife or sibling or mother. I can be my own person, in my own right, charting my life the way I want. It lets me be what I want to be. Heck, it gives me the right to make that choice. It puts me in the driving seat of my life.

This basic right is denied loads of women across the country. For them, the alpha male has to make the decision - should they work full-time, do they stay at home,
can they do this or should they do that. Every time a woman is unable to act independently, she is denied the right to freedom.

In my opinion, feminism is synonymous with freedom. And for feminism to truly flourish in a desi setting, it is imperative for not just the women, but the men to become feminists as well.

Read Ams' and Apu's view points.

Restaurant Review: Chilies, Basildon

2007-04-05T00:11:00.000+01:00

There is a rather unfortunate habit amongst us expats to view some things (or most, depending on one’s perspective) with the rather jaundiced viewpoint of ‘oh are they ill-treating me because I am an Indian / non-white?’ Whilst I am not a card-carrying member of this group, I will definitely put my hand up and admit that there have been a few occasions when I have asked myself that. More often than not, the offending situation would resolve itself to make me rethink my views. But some times, certain situations pan out in a certain way that more or less cements my belief that no matter how ‘accepting’ or ‘open’ a society prides itself to be, the reality is often a totally different concept. Last Saturday, something happened to reinforce my thinking and I would be greatly interested to see which way the readers of this post align themselves.

The past couple of weeks, I had been harbouring a hankering for a good margarita. S also kept hinting at the long overdue meet we were planning with a good (fellow Indian) mate of his from work and his wife. Deciding to kill two birds with one stone, I suggested we head for Chilies Restaurant and Bar at Basildon, which was local enough for all of us and which, more importantly, served some amazing cocktails. Plans were made and on ringing the venue, we were told that as long as we were in a group of less than eight members, we would be given a table with minimum fuss and delay. We got one within thirty minutes and I counted ourselves lucky as I recalled a past visit when we visited for a record two hours and forty-five minutes for a table for four (P was two years old then)!

We sat at our table, chatting and managed to come to a reasonably quick decision regarding the menu – made easy by the fact that three of us were vegetarian and we had just two or three mind-bending choices to make. Then we waited.
We talked about our families, which part of the country each of us were from, the languages we each spoke, our colleges, the different cities we each had lived, how we were finding living in the UK and my blogging. Still no sign of a waiter / maitre’d. And we waited.

P was getting impatient and quite a bit peckish. His enthusiasm with the kiddies pack had exhausted itself by now and he had made up his mind about what he wanted to eat. But still, there was no sign of a soul.

The restaurant was full and all around us, the staff were running around taking orders, bringing in the food, generally making sure the people were getting fed. But no one seemed to be paying us a blind bit of notice.

After waiting patiently, we decided enough was enough and we flagged one of the girls down. Who took our orders and we specified that we preferred the drinks, starters and P’s order to come in first. So it did – well, almost. One starter and P’s mains arrived together and we started tucking in, mentally imagining the beautiful pitcher of margarita.

But there was no sign of the ambrosia and we had finished devouring the garlic bread. We were desperately thirsty now and P was beginning to chant for his OJ. Another frantic hand waving resulted in a supremely uninterested girl plonking some side plates and cutlery in the middle of the table and vanishing into thin air the next minute.

This was the first time any of us had been to a proper restaurant and ended up doing part of the staff’s job ourselves. Joints like Nando’s pride themselves on their casual approach but as other patrons had had the luxury of the staff setting the table for them, we had assumed, foolishly, the same would be available to us too.

After a colossal thirty minutes, when we saw our neighbours finish their meal and exit the restaurant, we got our drinks – a pitcher of margarita, with some beer glasses. We first thought they had made a mistake. When we pointed out the fact that we were missing cocktail glasses, the girl who brought our drinks coolly explained they had run out of glasses and we had to make do.

By now, we were getting a few degrees ahead of peeved but still were determined to have a good time. So, we gamely drank our delightful margaritas out of beer glasses, imagining the salted rims and the still-absent tostada chips. Some time later, our pitcher was nearing empty, P had finished his dinner and the garlic bread was a distant memory. There was still no sign of our food – the remaining starter or our main courses.

Deciding enough was enough, we asked for a passing waitress if we could speak to the manager. The manager materialised in a few minutes, with the standard ‘hope you are having a good time’. She did not seem too shocked by our ‘no, not really.’ After complaining for a few minutes, our friend finished semi-jovially, ‘I hope you are not making us wait for our food ‘cos we are Indians’.

To which she replied: ‘No, I don’t think so.’

I was gaping at that. Having got used to a PC Britain, where at least in public people put on a politically correct mask, this nonchalance was surprising, to say the very least. The slight matter of a few patrons waiting for their food and of cocktails served in beer glasses didn’t seem to matter much and after some half-hearted platitudes, she went away to investigate. She came back, with our main courses and useless starter, and a laughable explanation of why we had been sitting there for the better part of an hour, twiddling our thumbs. The kind lady, who was ‘in charge’ of our table, was having a bad day and it was all getting a bit too much for her. Enjoy your meal now that you’ve got it.

I could not bite my tongue any more and reamed into her at the disgusting treatment meted out to us. Not once did we get a heartfelt apology or horror at having some seriously irate patrons, complaining away about every single thing.

We ate our food then in silence, most of it turning to ash in our mouths. A promising evening ruined and I couldn’t even enjoy my margarita. That was when a lady we had never seen before put in an appearance. She bustled in, full of apologies and we assured her everything was okay, all the time wondering who the heck she was. She explained that she was so busy that she was unable to pay any attention to us and she felt so close to tears to know how awful we felt.

WTF? This was not the girl who took our orders. Not unless she aged a good decade in the time since we saw her last. This was definitely the lady who was serving our neighbours and now was apologising profusely. This farce was getting ridiculous and after placating the woman we tried to carry on with our food. A few minutes later, the lady materialised one more time, armed with a scoop of ice cream for P, who gobbled it all up.

The bill, I must say, arrived without any delay and we found our delightful experience was not cheap by half. Though I wasn’t betting on it, I had thought that the management would have had the courtesy to deduct some bit off our bill, as a goodwill gesture. Well, it was obvious that goodwill was in short supply that night, especially when we were at the receiving end of it.

The only thrill we got was walking off without tipping them for treating us so nicely and making the evening a memorable one.

To think I told a friend last week that Chilies was my favourite restaurant in Britain. How things can change in the span of a few days! I think the joint should do what I suggested and put up a big board stating in no uncertain terms that folks of our sort were not welcome to partake food there. Do not start being a hypocrite at this late hour, Chilies and stick to your guns like you did last Saturday night and display the same nonchalant spirit in showing everyone what you stand for. At least this way, your august establishments will not be soiled and your staff, needlessly overworked.

Driving Us Crazy

2007-04-04T09:31:00.000+01:00

No, this is not the sequel to the much-acclaimed Driving Miss Daisy. This, my dear Chennaivasis, is the story of the battle we wage every day – on our roads. I am not talking only about their condition. I am, of course, talking about our road sense – or lack of it.

Though our country can never ever say with pride that its citizens are good drivers, I think gradually the standard has degenerated into absolutely appalling levels that these days it is a wonder if you can set foot outside home and come back unscathed. A casual bang to the side of your vehicle, courtesy a whizzing scooter is the norm.

While driving, we are supposed to look out for each other. Bah humbug, say the drivers. It is one mad dash to get from one point to another. To quote a popular holiday website, the traffic lights in India resemble the start of a grand prix race, with each vehicle vying for pole position. If only our roads were as good as the ones in Monaco! No wonder there is an increase in the number of people interested in becoming Formula 1 drivers. After all, they get practice every day!

One can’t put all the blame on Chennai drivers alone. The roads play a major role in this mess. And a right mess would describe the city roads perfectly. Huge craters in the middle and massive trenches along the sides are so yesterday. The latest accessories to the Chennai road are iron girders – and lots of them! Thick, long iron girders are plunged in the middle of the road, with the trench being strategically placed to make it unfit for traffic to pass in either direction. Add the monsoon (Thank you, Lord Varuna, for your bounty!) and you have one big water feature.

Of course, the usual adornments such as the Veeranam pipe, smaller pipes, random wires and posts, vast quantities of dug-up mud, chunks of tar road and the ever popular garbage sundries all make our road a thing of beauty indeed! One wonders what must go through the minds of the Onyx workers each night, as they toil to clean these excuse of our roads.

I guess therein lies the problem – the Onyx cleaners do their bit while we are sleeping. Come morning, we see the clean roads and our hands just itch to start throwing things! We do have to give something for the poor guys to clean every night, don’t we? We don’t want to deprive them of their likelihood!

You know something? I have always wondered at the volume of mud that lies surrounding the road trench. Even after they are covered, there is still a 2 feet surplus sitting all around it, making it a mini hillock. What puzzles me is that 2 feet surplus. Where did it come from? I mean, it was dug out of the same place and the lovely corporation guys have put it all back in, haven’t they? So where did the extra bit come from, the bit that sits atop like a crown on the head? Did they dig somewhere else to get that bit? Is there an unidentified crater somewhere that has contributed to this trench?

Ok, now I am digressing.

We have identified the problems – bad roads, worse drivers. So, let us all take a moment and think. Road users – we have to stop battling one another. We all have to get from Point A to Point B. There is no point in going like a bat out of hell, only to be caught at the next signal. We might as well go slower – and safer.

Do move to Sholavaram if the spirit moves you. Bullock cart men, please exercise your pets when the city has gone to sleep.

Meanwhile, corporation Annas, please don’t wait till the roadways department lays the road to start digging. Feel free to get in there, be first! And can the wizard who sunk in 8 feet of iron girder into the middle of T Nagar’s Dr Nair Road please put up his hand and explain the mystery behind it?

Brothers and sisters of Onyx, in addition to night shift, please do work on occasional day shifts too. Then you can actually catch us red-handed, making a missile of a banana peel and missing the bin by a mile.

Lastly, can somebody please stop all the timer clocks at the signals? Even Michael Schumacher doesn’t race everyday!

[First published under 'Desi Diaries' at ChennaiOnline on Nov 9, 2004.]

Most Wanted

2007-04-03T08:53:00.000+01:00

Before I proceed any further, I would like to clarify that I am not desperate or anything so wierdos and wackos out there, walk away now!

Let me explain the title: Most Wanted. I should actually expand it to 'Most Wanted: A friend', preferabl a gal pal. Why am I doing a chum version of shaadi.com? A long and relentless search for one, that's what.

You need a mate to hang out with, just to chill, right? Well, that's where I am drawing a blank. The ones I bump into are all okay at the outset but a little bit of digging turns up some majorly iffy characterstics.

So what the hell sort of a friend am I looking for then? Well, for starters, one that is fun. Who likes movies, music, the theatre, is a mild foodie but not a big glutton, has a healthy sense if not wicked sense of humour, loves reading, knows that blogging has nothing to do with clogged drains, doesn't think having a glass of Archers will make me Mata Hari's evil twin and most of all, this is v important, doesn't confuse being the good wife to being fused at the hip with the spouse. Oh, let's not forget, it would help if the said person was in the rough vicinity so real hanging out can happen!

This is my biggest problem. I do go out with S and our little one but at the same time, I would love to go out with a friend too, you know. But the proper shaadi-shudh desi womenfolk seem to think that once you are married, thou shalt not set foot beyond the line drawn by the hubby. That drives me nuts. And I get looked at like I am a harlot for putting such thoughts into their heads. *sigh*

You would think, in this day and age, it would be easy to find some like-minded people. Natch! And the only like minded folks I know are either spread far and wide or are virtual. I know, I know. *sigh*

I rather feel like Siddharth and co in Shankar's Boys, belting out enakkoru girlfriend venumada all over Chennai, as I sit typing this post. I know how you feel, Sid ole boy! Though not for the same reasons, mind you. (Lest the parents fear I am coming out of the closet in a rather roundabout fashion!)

So what say?

The Constant Companion

2007-04-02T10:05:00.001+01:00

Anita could still remember the day clearly as if it were only yesterday. She was five years old and along with the rest of her Year 1 classmates, had been to the Theosophical Society in Besant Nagar for their school field trip. She remembered looking up at the huge trees in awe and felt tiny in comparison.

At the end of the trip, a surprise lay in store for Year 1. The lovely people at the Society had packed a sapling of a banyan tree for each of the children, a lasting memento of the day. There were gasps of excitement when the presents were handed out.

Anita couldn't wait to get home! As soon as the school bus dropped her off in the corner of her street, she raced off with the frail sapling held fast in her little hands.

'Mom! Mom!!' she screamed as she ran in.

'Don't scream Ani, you will wake the baby up. Your mother just managed to put him down for his nap.' said her grandmother.

'Ok, granny' answered Anita and tiptoed to find her mother.

Her mother was there in their room, holding her brother. Anil had just turned two and was such a terror. He took ages to fall asleep and even then, he woke up screaming at the top of his lungs if you made the teeniest noise.

Her mother turned around as soon as Anita opened the door and smiled at her daughter. 'Sh' she motioned with her finger on her lips and slowly put Anil on his cot and stepped out of the room. By the time her mother came out of the room, Anita was hopping from one foot to another in barely controlled delight. 'Mum, look what I've got' she blurted out, shoving the bag up her mother's face. Mother managed to grab hold of the bag with its precious contents and examine it herself, before her daughter did any serious damage.

'Do you know what this is, Ani?' she asked.

'Yes, mum, I do. It is a baby banyan tree. I learned about it today. Can we plant it please?'

'Well, alright Ani but you have to promise something first' said Mother.

'Yes mum anything' interjected an eager Anita.

'You must take good care of your baby tree. It will be like your baby from now on. You must water it, protect it and look after it properly, all by yourself'.

'Yes, mum, of course mum. Can we plant it now, can we can we?' chanted Anita.

Mother laughed her tinkling laugh and off they went into the back garden to find a place for Anita's baby banyan. They finally decided on a spot well away from the main path as well as the compound wall. Mother used an old ladle to dig a hole while Anita lovingly set her tree down it. They both covered the roots with moist soil and sprinkled a little water on it. Mother had to curb Anita's enthusiasm lest she flooded the poor plant on its first day.

Once the deed was done, they both sat back on their haunches to admire their handiwork. Anita had sparkles in her eyes and it gladdened her mother's heart to see her little daughter so taken up by a tree. She thought to herself that the fascination would last about 4 days before she forgot all about it and moved to the next one.

Mother was so wrong, remembered Anita. Anita never broke the promise she made. Every morning before she took her bath, she used to rush down and water her tree. It also got a special wave goodbye as she rushed out of the house on her way to the school. Anita also remembered how her father, on seeing his daughter's interest in her tree, got her a huge book all about trees. It was big and colourful and so full of interesting stuff. He also took her to the local nursery the following Saturday, where they got the proper food for the tree. They had a grand time that weekend, preparing the manure and sprinkling it and generally getting very mucky.

As Anita grew, so did her banyan. Soon, the tree became her friend, her confidant. It was there to listen to her woes after her first big fight with her best friend, in Year 7. It also stood by sagely as Anita sobbed her heart out after she got her heart broken by the boy from the next class. Its leafy branches seemed to hug her like real hands and cheered Anita greatly.

Years went by and the tree grew strong. It became a place of refuge for Anita. She used to run to it when she was told off for fighting with her brother. Once, when she failed History and her father yelled at her for the first ever time, Anita climbed up her tree and sat amidst its comforting branches, drying her tears. When her father came in search of her, he felt oddly poignant to see his daughter getting comfort from her tree.

The tree also patiently comforted Anita when her best friend's father got transferred and they moved away to a different city. It was there when Anita poured her fear of the impending Board exams and how she was afraid she might score very less, disappointing her family. It waved its leaves in glee when Anita scored 90% and hugged its big trunk.

It was also there, listening, when Anita confessed her first ever crush – her new neighbour, who was a real cutie! Anita was sitting right under her tree, engrossed in her M&B, when he popped his head over the wall and said ‘hi’! She almost swallowed her tongue!

Anita thought back to her 18th birthday party. Her parents had arranged for a special treasure hunt and she followed clues all around the house – they had hidden the best gift in the squirrel hole in her tree. In the evening, she had a great party right underneath its huge branches. Father had strung a line of paper lanterns all over the garden and it was like magic!

Her tree – not only did it bring her joy, it gladdened the hearts of her family’s too, with its stoic presence. And now, she has to leave it and go away! The very thought broke her heart. Why did she have to get married, she had no idea. For months now, she had argued with her parents, grandparents and the rest of the family and finally, the fight had gone out of her. Rajeev seemed a good man and was the son of her father’s old friend. Her parents were very pleased with him and even Anil thought he was ‘cool’, which was high praise indeed. Anita didn’t like the idea of being put on display like she was prized cattle and thank god she didn’t have to sing and dance as well! She didn’t know who would have been more embarrassed if she had broken into song, herself or Rajeev! He seemed real soft-spoken and quiet but she assumed it was for her parents’ benefit.

As Rajeev had to report back to work in a fortnight’s time, the preparations for the wedding took place in a frenzy. Mother was permanently out on shopping trips, buying clothes, jewellery or Tupperware. As she watched the things for her piling up, a strange feeling overtook her. As Anil wheeled in her shiny new suitcases, she fled to the sanctuary of her tree.

‘What did I do?’ asked Anil the world in general. ‘I thought she would be pleased!’ Father gave her ten minutes to brood and then came to her. Huffing and puffing, cursing his ripening age, he climbed the tree, wheezing ‘I am getting too old for this, Ani’ and got a grudging smile back.

‘What’s wrong, Ani? I thought you liked Rajeev’, he said.

‘Oh dad! It isn’t that! I wanted to work – get a job, earn pots of money so you and mum can retire and go on a world cruise or something. Get Anil that Tag Heuer watch he craves. I wanted to do something to ease your burden, instead of adding on to it. I don’t know, I wanted to do so many things – now it feels like my time has run out!’ finished Anita in a flood of tears.

‘Oh Ani!’ soothed Father. ‘Is this what is worrying you? I know you wanted to do s many things. It touches my heart to learn you wanted to do so much for us. But your mother and I have our own dreams for you too, Ani. We want to see you married and settled with your own family. Rajeev is a good man. He will help you grow into the person you want to be. Just because you are going to be married, it doesn’t spell the end of everything, you big silly!’

‘Yes, dad – but I haven’t done anything for you’, sobbed Anita. Father could just hold her, helpless to stem his daughter’s tears.

At last, its time. All her bags are packed and placed in the boot of the taxi. Rajeev was joking with Anil about the contents of her suitcases, wondering if she had rocks in there. Anita hugged her mother and could feel her eyes welling.

‘I wish I could stay here with you and be your little girl forever, mummy’ she whispered.

‘You will always be my little girl, my dear’, replied Mother, planting a kiss on her forehead.

‘Go with our blessings, sweetheart’, said Father. Even Anil suspiciously looked like he was going to cry.

As the taxi slowly moved away, Anita leant out of the car window and waved to her family for all she was worth. The house was getting away from her and then, slowly her beloved tree came into view.

There it was, where she and Mother had planted it, all those years ago. She could see Father’s lounging chair under its shady branches, with the sun glinting off Mother’s reading glasses, which she had once again left on the chair.

Anita could feel the worry in her stomach disappearing slowly. She knew that, though she was leaving her family and going away, her tree would be there, always. It will forever be there in the backyard, giving them shade and breeze on a hot summer’s day. More, it will be always be there with her family, a piece of her, comforting them whenever they needed.

Anita waved for the last time, with a lighter heart. It was going to be alright after all, she thought and gripped Rajeev’s hand warmly.

What Price Friendship?

2007-04-02T10:03:00.000+01:00

Quiet giggles in a corner
Shared jokes
Laughter and Yeats over a samosa
Bust-ups and making up
Those were the days when anything went

Angry words soon forgotten
Insults that never stuck
Fights and arguments the norm
But the feelings remained the same

Time passed
People changed
With it, the nature of friendship

Words became barbs
Looks did kill
Patience and love, non-existant.
This isn’t friendship
This isn’t relationship
This
is nothing.

And so,
here we are today,
asking
what price friendship?

Grappling With Bonnets And Fairy Tales

2007-03-31T09:10:00.000+01:00

'Get your Easter bonnets in by Friday, as we will be having the Easter Bonnet Parade later on in the day', stated the missive from the school. Easter bonnet? What the hell! I had visions of P walking up and down his school, looking like Peter Rabbit. Why in God's name would these boys wear bonnets in the first place anyway? After all, this is the land where the tiniest smudge of pink isn’t allowed anywhere near a boy (lest he become traumatised or gay in the future?) and here we are talking about decking them out in bonnets. That was when I was firmly steered in the direction of caps, hats and other manly accessories. No easy way out, then.

Giving in, I asked around work for ideas. 'Make a top hat - make it green so it looks like grass and then put Easter eggs and chickens on it' suggested one colleague. 'Or, you could dress up a baseball cap to make it look like a nest and place the eggs, chicks and things on it', quipped another. Whazisthis? Top hats? Nests with chicks and eggs? When did I die and come back as a Blue Peter presenter?

By now, I was panicking big time and decided to take refuge in that temple of modern materialistic society, Tesco's. And whoop-dee-doo, right at the entrance there was a massive aisle full of Easter-y things. The firang know how to make money, I tell you. Crepe paper, cardboard, balls of cottons, paints, all in a variety of colours, were stockpiled to the ceiling and harried parents were digging into them like they were manna from heaven. I did not have a clue what materials to procure and ended up getting two of everything. Which turned out to be the one smart thing I did.

Once home, the real battle began. I sat with the bag of goodies spread around me, along with other necessities like scissors, sticky tape and baseball cap and realised I did not have any glue. After a long trek for the same, I was now ready to tackle this thing - or so I thought. That was when I realised having ideas is one thing, execution is something else entirely. I sat looking at the pieces of cardboard, felt and the baseball cap alternatively, hoping the spirit of Martha Stewart would come and join me for a while and make the whole thing a doddle. As that did not transpire, I set about trying to tap into hitherto undiscovered, and possibly non-existent, wells of creativity.

As concocting a top hat from pieces of card were beyond my capabilities, especially without a compass to keep me on the curve and narrow, I decided to plump for the baseball cap / nest idea. My thought process ran somewhat as follows: cover the cap with green felt, send some brown felt through the shredder, glue the resultant strips in artistic disarray all over the now-green cap, plonk assorted bits and pieces of junk all over it and hey, bob's your uncle.

Remember what I said about thought and execution? Well, read it once again 'cos, as always, reality and my thoughts had nothing in common. For starters, the green felt refused to stick to the cloth cap, even after I slathered half a gallon of glue on it. I now had an extremely sticky ex-cap and some sodden pieces of green felt. Then, I shoved some brown felt through the shredder, hoping for some lengthy pieces of felt which I could twist to look like twigs. But the shredder decided to make a meal of it and I ended up with some brown felt mince. Pulling my hair out at the roots did not help. Not one bit. So I decided to stop fiddling with technology and cut the darned things into strips using old-fashioned scissors.

That complete, next on the menu was the lawn on which I had to lay my nest. Sticking it didn't work; stitching it proved lot more difficult. I binned the lot and watched 'House' for an hour. Contemplated committing blasphemy during one of the breaks by modelling the nest along the lines of Christ's crown of thorns. Finally, at 11:00 PM, S hit upon the idea of just laying the (spare piece of) green felt on top of the rudimentary circular cardboard crown base I had made, a la a green lawn and just plonking the nest and its assorted bits on top of it. Typically, I wasn't sure any idea of his would actually work. But as I sat plaiting the brown strips and strategically placing coloured feather and balls of cotton all over it, it seemed like a neat one after all. After grappling with it for a long and sleepy half an hour, I finally finished my creation. And boy was I one chuffed mummy or what?

P adored it when he saw it the next morning, thereby making it every bit worthwhile. I also got lots of 'ooh's and 'aah's at work so I think I may have pulled this thing off. I realise now that I got off lucky with the Dressing Up as a Fairy Tale character lark the school sprung on me last month. It was by sheer chance that I realised how seriously the other mums took this when I eavesdropped on a coven of them discussing what their children were going to show up as, the next day. Peter Pan! Tinkerbell!! Dick Whittington!!! Jack (not the Ripper, the other one - him with the Beanstalk)!!!! I would never hear the end of it if I sent my little man to school as his own adorable self. I had a major brainwave when I spotted a white sherwani of his hanging in the cupboard, unused and unloved, and made a golden crown to go with it and sent him off as Prince Charming, armed with a red rose, no less!

When I saw the other mums rolling in with huge bonnets, their girlies fighting their way in through swathes of tissue paper or trying to balance a tray of eggs on their heads, I felt rather proud of myself. I had come through this, hopefully without scarring P for life! And now, I am ready for the next challenge. Produce your own mega serial type saga? Come dressed as an eco-warrier? Discover the cure for AIDS for school science project? Easy peasy!

I am now Super Mummy, P says. I can do anything.
Bring it on!

When Bloggers Get Death Threats...

2007-03-29T23:00:00.000+01:00

(This post is in response to Amrita Rajan's post "I Am A Feminist (Blogger Gets Death Threats)"

Last year, when my dad learnt of my latest love, blogging, the first question he asked me was: are you a feminist? This seemed rather strange, coming from pater and I went 'I dunno, maybe' shrug shrug. To which, he replied 'well, you either are or you're not.'

I spent a lot of time thinking about it. Rather like Ams, my initial image of a feminist was a bra burning, unshaved armpitted woman and (even though I did not frequent beauty salons frequently!) I did not think I was one. Typically, I Googled 'feminism' and felt I agreed with most of what Wikipedia states a feminist ought to be. I was rather surprised to note that I am a feminist. But since that day when the bulb burned brightly inside my head, I have felt rather comfortable and even proud of being one. Like the Mad Momma stated in one of her posts, feminism has made it easy for me to live my life my way. Though I am forever haranguing S about a lot of his and his family's beliefs, it is the concept of feminism that has made it possible for me to even think so.

Though to a lot of my fellow Desicritics, feminism is an ugly word and a feminist is generally considered on par with the seven plagues of Egypt, to most of us women (and to the rational men out there), feminism is a genuinely fantastic concept.

Which is why, in this day and age, I was shocked to learn of Kathy Sierra. Once again, it was thanks to Am's post on the topic that brought this to my attention. Like her, I didn't think of myself as a feminist but once I realised I was, it was a good feeling. I am sure Kathy did not set out to be an X-Woman type of feminist, burning bridges hither and wrecking havoc thither. Nor was she planning on doing a Lady Godiva, to bring the idea home to the masses. She is just a blogger like most of us, blogging away about things she felt strongly about. For her troubles, she has been receiving death threats.

Death threats! The whole phrase sounds absolutely crazy to me. Which regular person gets death threats? They are for the likes of Saddam Hussein, Dubya or other assorted loons. They are not for average Jo Bloggers like us! And who gets off sending bloggers crappy stuff like these anyway?

Lord knows I've moaned long and hard about the pain the Von SIFfers of DC are, with their irritating habit of blaming everything from war, famine and pestilence on this scrounge of feminism but even they don't stoop to such levels. I think it takes a special sort of wacko to launch this sort of attacks on another person. Worse if the criteria behind the choice of victim is that they should have boobs.

I blog about the most inane things in my life - what I made for lunch, what movies I saw, even about the time I took a toss coming fast down the stairs. I also blog about the most important aspect of my life - my son. I am now horrified at what sort of world I have thrust him into. I am sure he is going on blithely, betting on mummy to keep him safe and sound, whilst I am putting his pictures and stories of his antics on the blogosphere. The same joint that now is inhabited by these sick people. What the hell have I done?

Poor Kathy is now reported to be too petrified to even leave her home. How awful! What is her crime here? Her blog is about stuff like mind mapping and crash course in learning theory, for fuck's sake! What is so threatening about that? Why the hell should that prompt the enterprising netizens to drop in some death threats?

What sort of twisted world are we barrelling into? Whatever next? My mind boggles!

(To answer your question, Ams - yes, I am a feminist and am proud to be one.)

Modalle saapadu, apparam nee!

2007-03-28T18:33:00.000+01:00

This unforgettable line was uttered by the memorable Quick-Gun Murugan. This was the name of a rather naff TV character, somewhat along the lines of the Wild West turns East-ish flavour and we used to see itty blurbs of his clips at random points during your movie or mega serial. He used to utter some majorly inane dialogues and cracked me up big time.
After many a year, I thought of him suddenly and had a yen to see some clips. In true-blue 21st C style, I You Tubed it and here are my results. Watch and enjoy!

Doggone It!

2007-03-28T18:17:00.000+01:00

As a child growing up in Madras, I remember my granny telling me every summer during the baking 'kathiri veyyil' days (when the sun is reputed to be at its peak) that if I went out of the house, I might come across the dogs that were driven mad by the heat. Of course, I made sure I stayed put inside the house, all the while looking out of the window for any stray mad dogs, rather like Scout.

Why am I thinking of mad dogs now, you wonder. Well, in the past few months, the news reports I have been reading / watching about the doggie antics, makes me wonder if it is the mad dog season world over.

Things took a decided turn for the worse in England on New Year's Day when five-year old Ellie Lawrenson was mauled to death by her uncle's American pit bulls. Young Caydee-Lee suffered a similar, horrible fate - her parents were pub-sitting and whilst they were away, couple of dogs dragged her out of bed and killed her. As a mum, I cannot even imagine what those poor parents must have gone through and what they have to live with for the rest of their lives.

Last week on TV, there was a special news programme about the dogs suddenly running amok and turning on the people. One lady who was a victim of such attacks, talked about how her whole life is in ruins now. Apparently, as she was walking down a park near where she lived, two American pit bulls latched on to her and tried their best to drag her away. She held on to the railings for dear life and it was a good twenty minutes before a passer-by braved the dogs and helped her out. She's in excruciating pain now and is unable to use her left arm. She needs a full-time carer to help her and it was real pitiful to see this once confident and beautiful woman broken up in pieces.

There has been a widespread dog amnesty in Merseyside as well as in other areas of the country. Police have had owners of Rottweilers, pit-bulls and other ‘danger’ breeds come in and leave their dogs with the authorities, without fear of punishment. A lot of dogs have been culled, much to the RSPCA and animal activists' disgust. But even the police admit that the ones that really breed these dogs to become nasty killers are still at large and the public, still at danger from these dangerous beasts.

Around the same time this is happening in the UK, similar events have been taking place in India as well. By now, you might know the story of the children these stray dogs attacked and the resultant culling. Whilst the act has upset animal lovers, the sadness over what happened to the poor children reigns supreme. After all, we have all looked at these mangy curs askance at one time or another, wondering if they are going to take a chunk off you that day.

What has happened to these dogs to make them go on a rampage? Why are these random dogs across UK and India turning on the people? More importantly, what is the solution to this problem?

In the UK, the general belief is that these dogs, that have been especially bred to be aggressive killing machines, possibly for ‘entertainment’, must be culled and their owners, severely punished. Though it is no fault of the dogs that they are so, they still cannot go against their nature and it is in our best interests to protect ourselves and if the only way out is to put them down, then measures must be taken to do so. The ones that must be punished are those short-sighted people that bred these dogs in the first place, thereby putting the unsuspecting public in danger and causing untold grief to the sufferers. At the same time, proper legislation must be put in place to protect the innocent dogs , so that they aren’t mindlessly killed.

In India, the situation is completely different. As the dogs involved are not all domestic pets, one might think the prospect of putting these dogs down might not be such a wrench but these are still animals, and we need to think how we ended up with so many strays littering the countryside in the first place. We need to get some more dog shelters and find ways of funding them so these dogs are rescued from the streets. We must find it in our hearts to set up organisations like the Battersea Dogs Home, where these neglected and discarded animals are given a new lease of life.

Who knows, by doing so, we might make sure that these sort of horrific events do not take place ever again.

Happy Mother's Day!

2007-03-17T18:08:00.000Z

March 18 is Mothering Sunday. The day that is dedicated to British mums. After Valentine’s Day, this is the next big day in the calendar of the card shops, florists, cake shops and restaurants.

There is a never-ending supply of such 'special' days - Mother's day, Father's day, Grandparents' day, Mother-in-law's day (I am not making this up!), Sister's day, Best friend's day - the list goes on. I am sure there's a person in Hallmark who is paid a huge amount of money just to come up with these special days.

At first, the whole concept of having a specific day to think of members of your family or friends and visit them, etc. seemed ludicrous to me. I could not understand the need for such days. As I got to know the British way of life more and more, however, I could see that, in a weird way, it makes sense - for them. After all, they live miles away from their family, literally and figuratively and need special days to spend time with them.

Why this concept is taking root in India is a question I cannot answer. I live a continent and thousands of miles away from my family but am up-to-date with what's happening in each of their lives and vice versa. I certainly do not need a Mother's day to ring and talk to my mum, send her flowers and chocolates. She'd probably collapse in disbelief whilst my grandfather would shout down the phone at the strange Western notions I was picking up. I am sure this is a familiar situation for many of us.

Which is why I am not joining the mad throng to the florists to make a beautiful bunch of mum's favourite flowers or booking a table at her favourite restaurant. What I am doing, at the same time, is saluting all those desi mums around the globe.

Whether in India or elsewhere in the world, they are bringing up their children the best way they know how. Take a look at some of these mommy bloggers' websites and you will see them chock full of love. The love for their children, their wonder at their little miracle's antics, their joy in their little ones, their fears, their tears, their feelings - it will be real hard for one to glance at these pages and turn away from them without delving deeper.

I chanced across one such blog from a link on one of Sujatha's posts and was hooked real soon. From there, the crazy world of mommy bloggers was just a click away and pretty soon, I had bookmarked more than a handful of them and was visiting them regularly to find out the latest installment of Winkie's world or the Brat's antics or Tara's shenanigans.

That was how I discovered that little Anirud likes to stand on his mum's pots and pans and take a peek at the World of Dining Table. It was how I learnt what a great experience having a baby brother was, to Winkie. That was also how I discovered how helpless the Mad Momma felt, even as she awaited her second C-section so she could see her Baby Bean for the very first time.

With or without the helpful advice of the older generation, us mums (and some daddy bloggers too!) are grappling with this furiously changing world, trying to do the best for their children. Some, like Yours Truly, work full-time; we leave our children with strangers for most of the day. Others choose to stay at home to bring up their children.

Some of us are lucky to have a choice in the matter, whilst others are unlucky enough to have to go with the flow. But whatever we might be doing, we are all mums, who love our children no matter what and who expect nothing but their love in turn.

Thanks to the wonder of the blogosphere, us mummy bloggers now write about our children, our lives and ourselves and share our fears, pain and joy with the rest of the world. Our readers become a part of our lives, so much so that the readers are quite eager to know what happened to the mommy blogger's second scan or if the child has thrown off its tummy bug.

MIL fears, relocation, child's first day of school, school exams, second baby, sibling rivalry, you name it, we blog about it. By doing so, we manage to weave a wonderful web across the globe, a lovely network that helps us in our times of need, thanks to which we are never alone.

So, on this Mother's Day, let us stop for a minute to pat ourselves on our backs for what we do all day, every day. Here's to all of us mums out there -
Suj
Dee
MM
Tharini
and to everybody else, cheers!

Race for Life: Lend Me Your Support

2007-03-13T21:45:00.000Z

Every June, the Race for Life event is held in various locations all over the UK. Sponsored chiefly by Tesco, the races are run in aid of Cancer Research UK, thereby helping collect valuable pounds that go towards helping a cure for this dreadful disease.

This race was first run in 1994 and since then have grown exponentially to become one of the biggest of its kind in the country. Women of all ages, shapes and sizes run, walk or do a combination of both, to complete the 5 mile course. This year, Cancer Research UK hopes to interest a staggering 800,000 women in taking part in the event to raise a record-breaking £60 million.

The event kicks off this year on 2 May 2007 at Battersea Park at 19:30 hrs and continues till the last one on 29 July at Colchester and Exeter. I, along with a few mates from work, am going to be running in one of these. I still cannot believe that I am actually going to do this. I, who am thoroughly unfit, who has been grossly overweight for the past five years, am actually going to walk/run 5 freaking miles! I sincerely hope I do not do a Jade Goody and embarass myself thoroughly!

Oh, I hope to set up a fund-raising page. Please sponsor me/us!

Holi Aayee Re!

2007-03-12T13:42:00.000Z

Holi. The festival that heralds spring. Living in Chennai, it didn't mean much to me. Life went on pretty much the same as always.

But whenever I think of Holi, I remember the gulmohar trees that dotted the grounds of the apartment block I grew up in. Red, yellow and orange coloured blossoms used to cover the green foliage and from the terraces, it used to look like the trees were on fire! Every spring, the trees would be full of the riotous colours and so will the ground around them. The fallen petals would deck the brown ground so that it looked like a beautiful carpet has been spread all around the area.

But, of course, growing up in India, you do hear and see images of how the rest of the country celebrated this rather rowdy-ish festival. Holi also brought to my mind, images of Amitabh Bachchan singing 'Rang barse', multi-coloured kurtas and general all-round mayhem. I remember wondering why the North Indians always wore white on Holi when they knew well that there would be folks chucking colour at them from all directions.

There were pockets of Madras that used to celebrate the festival. The streets of the Hindi areas of Sowcarpet, Vepery and the surrounding, would be chock-a-bloc with girls and boys of all ages running amok, covered from top to toe in the most lurid colours imaginable. If the day fell on a Sunday, Monday morning these girls would wander into college, still multi-coloured - partly because the colours were real fast and partly because they wanted to show-off.

Those were the times when I wished I lived in one of those 'cool'er cities, where Holi was a definate day in the festival calender, where folks drank bhaang and sang drunken songs and danced in the streets. Alas! That never happened. I was stuck in staid Madras all my life. Now, sitting a gazillion miles away in staid-er England, I am wishing with all my heart that I can play Holi. I could toss colours at folks, folks would toss colour back at me, I would get gloriously drunk on bhaang and sing silly songs and dance in the streets. Oh, clad in whiter than white salwar-kameez, too! I want to wake up the next day with the colour still sticking to my skin.

Maybe I should sign up as an extra for the next Bollywood Holi number!

A Mature Mum's Love

2007-03-10T17:53:00.000Z

A mother's response when her son's wedding preparations ends up in a spirited tug-of-war:

"It doesn't matter, sweetheart. If I who have given birth to, raised and loved my son for almost 30 years will not be ready to adjust for his sake, how can I expect some girl who has known him a few months to make things easy for him? Can she love him more than I do? It's up to me to ensure that he doesn't get torn between wife and mother. Let him do what she wants. After all any plans we make thinking that we are giving him a grand wedding are actually uncle and my dreams and plans... they give us happiness - not necessarily him - and that is selfish. The truth is that his happiness lies in seeing her happy and not having to fight her out to keep his parents happy. Love flows downwards .. do you love your parents as much as you love your son? So let the girl's people do what they want. We will go along with anything to see him happy. Whoever loves more, gives more."

Courtesy, The Mad Momma's blog.
I have copied this part from her post so I will have it with me always and can recite it to my DIL in the distant future.

Desi bloggers take on Yahoo India

2007-03-09T20:54:00.001Z

March 5 was a big day in desi blogosphere; on that day, a hoarde of desi bloggers took on that giant named Yahoo! (India) and toppled it. Three cheers for these strong women!

What had happened was this: these enterprising yummy ladies have set up some fantastic food blogs, replete with great pictures of some mouth-watering creations. One of them, Mahanandi even won the IndiBloggers award for the Best Food Blog! If you see her blog, you'd know why - fantastic pictures, simplistic instructions the most inept cook can follow and some great recipes are what this food blog comprises of. The blogger, Indira, obviously takes great pains with her content and its authenticity.

But one of the foodie bloggers, Surya Gayathri, got a rude shock one day when she discovered that Yahoo! had pilfered the images and content from her blog and posted it on the Yahoo! website - with no permission and certainly no acknowledgement. This tale of woe was narrated by fellow foodie bloggers Indira and Inji Pennu. What this plucky bunch did next is super: they got round all their friends and used the power of blogosphere to gun down the mighty Yahoo! They started a 'Start Plagiarism' campaign, which quickly gathered momentum and on March 5th, staged this online protest.

One has to just click the links above to see how many people joined them in this protest. The blogs also put up some nifty cartoons to drive the message home. It is no wonder that Yahoo! quickly capitualted when they ended with egg on their faces. They retracted their filched recipes and sent an apology to Surya Gayathri.

Of course, they used the time-tested defence of pointing the finger at some other partner website.

"The reproduction of the recipes, which were taken from a blog in Malayalam run by a housewife in Kerala, in Southern India, sparked an online protest among bloggers.

A Yahoo spokeswoman said the reproduction of the content was inadvertent and blamed the incident on a company it hired to develop content for its Web site, Webdunia.com (India) Pvt. Ltd."

Yahoo! is not the only site to go down the filching route to beef up its content. According to these bloggers, sites like Sify, Bawarchi and other food websites are not above lifting the images and using the content to suit their purposes.

This win hasn't come easy for these bloggers. When first notified of this content theft, Yahoo! reacted by deleting the offending content and hoping that no one would notice. When that didn't work, the tactics took a turn for the worse, when

"they send their trolls, insulting many bloggers out there who supported us, very well knowing, we are ‘Indian girls’, we cannot stomach insults and we would cow down! I haven’t read so much filth which were put as ‘comments’ in my entire life. It caused me a lot of pain and anger and tears, especially when I saw the same type of filthy comments on couple of my friends blogs too! I, one time even thought of just disappearing from it all. It was that bad. "

When that failed, and news of the March 5th protest reached Yahoo!, apparently they tried to have a mini discussion with a select few. Bloggers like Inji Pennu stayed away from this and went on with their mega protest - and won!

This is definitely a big win for these spunky ladies and for us bloggers as well, who have been victims of plagiarism before. The precedent has been set and I can safely say, with due apologies to Neil Armstrong, that 'this is one small step for a woman but a giant leap for the bloggers'.

But the reality is, these bloggers may have won the battle but the war is far from over. Combing through the Yahoo! content, many more instances of such pilfered content are apparently found dotted across the website. It seems that we have barely scratched the surface of this copyright issue. How are we bloggers to protect our content? Can anyone tell?

Edited to add: According to the latest blurb from Mahanandi, Indira's blog, Surya Gayathri hasn't received a personal apology from Yahoo! Furthermore, there are more instances of content and image theft by several Yahoo portals. So, these bloggers have decided to up the ante. Visit their discussion board at Dining Hall to join them in their protest.

I support the Blank Noise Project

2007-03-07T20:38:00.000Z

I heard about the Blank Noise Project last year and was real impressed with the idea. The concept of the world's bloggers getting together to say NO to bullying, eve teasing and other assorted perils that affects an average Indian woman on a regular basis struck a chord deep within me. Which is why, I decided to voice my support of the project this year.

This year's topic is "When did you become an Action Hero?" My answer is Right now, this very minute, when I chose to voice my views on this out loud. Too often, we tend to hide these things in the innermost recesses of our mind and never let them see the light of day, for fear of ridicule or the 'shame' that might befall us. But the blogosphere has given me the courage and the space to air my old grievances out, so that I can move on. And by speaking out, inspire others like me, who have lived through experiences far worse but haven't yet achieved any closure as they are yet to open that Pandora's box.

So I say, on this day, let us speak out. Let out all those inner feelings of shame and anger that have lived within us all these years, while we silently sat through the jeers, the taunts and the teasings of the bullys that abound. Voice out our feelings and let us recognise that we are all heroes for, having suffered the ignominy of the eve teasings and the like, we did not let it get to us and are talking it out this day, thereby helping others who have suffered a similar fate.

We are the Action Heroes - every single one of us. And this March 8, let us take action by talking it out and saying out loud 'you will not bully me anymore; you will not scare me rigid with your taunts.'

Read my post on my experiences here.

The Brits Are Not Racists!

2007-03-04T14:54:00.000Z

We gave P a big bday bash yesterday. We'd been telling him for quite sometime that for his 5th birthday, we'll throw him a big party and we did. We invited every one of his classmates plus a few of his nursery friends as well as some desi friends whose kids fall in the 4-6 category. The pains started fairly from the word go. I did not have a complete list of his classmates and made do with an incomplete birthday list compiled by a mom and random inputs by P. Still, I managed to leave two children and when his teacher pointed that out, I furnished extra invitations for the two.

Then there was the RSVP. I thought it was the desis who could not fathom the whole RSVP concept. Turned out, the Brits were too. Or maybe they just decided to ignore the invitation. When there were two full days to the party, I had heard back from 30% of his classmates. But text messages kept coming in till 3 hours to the party from mums of supposedly eager children. We never said 'oh no we can't take them as we've finalised numbers' as in typical desi style, we had ordered extra places.

Then there was the actual event. We arrived at the venue to find some parents already there. Though none of them had deigned to say more than the occasional 'hello' to me till that day, I still knew them all by face and welcomed everyone and tried to get the party started. None of them had a clue who I was. I am sure they must have walked past me most mornings. But none chose to retain an Indian woman's face in their posh brains.

When the kids were busy bowling, S and I went around asking if the parents would like drinks etc, generally trying to play our roles of hosts to our best efforts. The firang had all gathered together, like nails to a magnet and S and I and our desi friends were stood a distance away from them, as always. Every now and again, the two of us would bridge the gap to ask them if they were comfy, to which we normally got curt nods. Though I smiled till my teeth ached, all I got from the other mums was random stern glances but no answering smiles. After a while, I got tired of being sidelined in my own son's party, gave up the Brits as a lost cause, sat down with couple of friends and cousins and watched my son enjoy his party.

Then came the time to say goodbye. Other than P's best mate, whose mum is the only one who treats me like I am human, NONE of the others remembered who the birthday child's mum was. They ALL went to S's cousin and said 'thank you for inviting us to the party', to which she said 'thank you and there's P's mum, why don't you say that to her?'. I ask you! Is it that hard to be nice? I am no alien, I assure you but I swear, last night, any alien would have been welcome in that gathering, not me!

To everyone thinking of the Brits as racist or discriminatory, I say this: they are not racist. I am no Shilpa Shetty but I tell you they are not. Why? Because they can't be arsed. Intense feelings of any sort requires an effort and these lovely folks cannot be bothered to waste half that effort on the likes of me even to discriminate against me; so they just go on like I am invisible. Of course, our paths might literally cross again from Monday morning but they don't give a shit. Even if they collide headlong into me, I would never cause a blip in their radars.

Sod you!

Despicable Dowry

2007-03-04T14:51:00.000Z

Dowry - the very word conjures up some real ugly images in my mind. In this day and age, when we are advancing technologically in every which way possible, I cannot fathom why this despicable practice of dowry still exists in our country.

Every day, many fathers of the bride are put through the wringer, trying to amass enough wealth to buy 'suitable' grooms for their daughters. And many men happily sell themselves for a few lakhs of cash, jewels, vehicles and even property. That may sound real harsh but that is what dowry means to me. One can justify it any which way they want, but in my eyes, if you are going to marry a woman, then it should be for who she is and the last thing you should be accepting is her father's hard earned money.

The father of the bride thus pays for the wedding and all its accompanying expenses, reception and a hefty dowry whilst the groom's family give a sambhandhi virundhu or the in-laws feast. How fair is that? Why should marrying a girl off break her father's back? Of course, the giving doesn't stop then, does it? There's the first Deepavali, karthigai, Pongal, New Year, Kaaradaiyan Nombu and the other gazillion deities' birthdays, for which the poor father has to shell out new clothes and jewels and other appropriate gifts. Once the grandchildren start coming, they add another dimension to the spending spree. No wonder some dads let out a huge groan on the arrival of a daughter, if the arrival means a monstrous, life-long bill!

How does it all work out?

The dowry generally gets decided post-horoscope matching, when the families get together to 'talk'. Most shareef families do go through the rigmarole of 'Oh no, no we don't want any dowry', 'But you must!' etc. After a few minutes of arguing along similar lines, the groom's family generally finishes with a classic, 'well we do not want any dowry but we will not stop you from doing whatever you want for your daughter.' How brilliant is that! In one stroke, the Rs 15 lakhs cash, jewellery for Rs 10 lakhs, couple of plots of land and a car are all labelled as 'gifts for the girl from her loving parents' rather than 'dowry' and the so-called bitter pill goes down easy. Masterful!

It is not just the lower income groups that get mired in this practice. Dowry is rampant in the mid-level and higher income groups than the lower ones. One of the most shocking things I found out after my own wedding was the concept of dowry for the sister-in-law. That really takes the cake. Apparently, the girl's poor father generally gives the groom's sister a chunk of money, apart from the requisite clothes for the wedding for herself and her family. WTF? Now we actually pay them to bully us? Or is it to make sure the girl doesn't have to go through the 'traditional' bullying that the SIL is paid off?

What I don’t understand is, how do these ‘manly’ men justify this to themselves? Our men, who consider most things like a wife addressing the husband by his name as a slight, how the hell do they square it to their conscience so they are more than fine with the wife bringing in so much of money, jewels and property? Correct me if I am wrong, but wouldn’t you want to buy your wife what she wants and thus show her what a man are?!

In these days of feminism and equal rights, practices such as dowry and the other hideousness of sati etc, have no place in society. A woman should be able to become someone's wife and daughter-in-law purely for who she is; she shouldn't need anything else to oil the wheels. Think about it: if the only way you can ‘get’ a ‘decent’ son-in-law is by paying hefty sums, then he’s probably not worth it!

Desi Get-togethers: Why They Get My Goat

2007-03-01T21:27:00.000Z

Last Sunday, the three of us went to a fourth birthday lunch party. Typical desi get-together, with six kids and sixty adults gathered around a cake for a child's party. Invitation said '12 - 4pm', so we timed it so we reached the venue by 12.30pm. Host was there but there was no sign of the wife or the birthday child, for that matter. They were home, getting ready. Right.

S tells me this is quite common in their circles. He has rarely gone for a party in his Telugu community where the host was at hand to welcome folks. They generally join the party at least an hour after the time specified in the invite, dressed up to the nines. My roof-top 21st birthday, with the whole family in the thick of things, threw him off, apparently. Why? Because we were all there - at the specified time.

Correct me if I am wrong, but I thought it was generally part of the host's job description to welcome the guests and introduce one guest to another, get the conversation going and generally circulate so no one feels odd or left out. Wrong! If I go to a party, I am to entertain myself, make sure I introduce self to others if I didn't want to be a social pariah. Whilst I am not saying that I will stand there like a pillar of salt till someone is presented to me like I am the Queen or something, I rather thought the hostess would do her bit too.

Now S and I are from different communities; he's Telugu and I, Tamil. This poses no problem when we meet Tamilians as having grown up in Chennai, S speaks fluent Tamil but faced with traditional Telugus, we run into sticky wicket fairly straight off the bat. They cannot wrap their minds around our mixed-background concept - they start rattling in rapid Telugu to me and when I blink and say 'no Telugu, only Tamil, pliss', they give me a blank look and escape before I can say boo. Or if S is around, they stick to talking to him along, while I hang around like the handy fifth wheel.

What's with the habit of talking to just the 'head' of the family and leaving the 'tail' to fend for itself? That pisses me off so much! I am generally a non-person, hanging back with a silly smile on my face while folks talk 'matters'. Oh let's not forget, they turn to me every half hour to ask if I have eaten. What? Am I there only to stuff my face? (Is it that obvious?)

Then there's the whole segregation thing. As soon as we enter the party venue, S has to go and be with the guys whilst I have to do my sickly-smiley bit with strange womenfolk, who all, of course, know one another. Why should every desi party feel like a Muslim wedding*+, where the men and women are kept in different zones? Why can't we mingle as couples? I have noticed this just amongst the South Indians; North Indian men don't seem to have the need to leave their womenfolk around the same time they remove their footwear.

And the cliques! I tell you - women in cliques are vicious. Avoid them at all costs. I do. At every gathering, there is at least one coven of women, sitting with plates piled high with food and sharpening their claws on some poor socially inept souls like me. None would even dream of trying to take someone who doesn't know everyone there like they do and taking them under the wing. Why bother when you can have much better fun cackling about them instead? They might leave their pointy hats at home to confuse the likes of me, but I can't spot them nonetheless.

But what takes the cake about the whole shindig is, when I’d finally bid adieu to the host, hostess and the few who deigned to drop a few words in my direction, they would normally turn around and tell me ‘oh, you must visit us at home sometime real soon.’ That always makes me open my eyes wide in shock and I have to bite down on my tongue real hard to stop me from blurting: ‘For what? Another dose of this?!’

But, being the typical bharatiya naari, I grin inanely and say ‘of course you must visit us too!’ and run for the hills.

*No offence meant to any Muslims and their customs - just using the phrase as a way of explaining things.

It's Official: I Am Odd

2007-02-27T19:17:00.000Z

After years of dodging the issue, I am accepting it. What has prompted this revelation, you ask. Yet another blowout with S, after yet another crowded desi gathering and I’m throwing in the towel. Why am I so? Well, for starters, I do not get along with everybody. Who does, you ask. Good q. Nobody but they mask it better. I don't. I always thought I will not be a hypocrite and be false to someone when I think they are crap. By that, I do not mean I am generally rude to people or anything silly like that. I just remain a bit aloof - well I do that till I become comfortable around a person, before I let my guard down. And if it turns out that the person cannot be trusted, then I don't ever let my guard around them. Is that wrong? Well, I thought not but S thinks I intimidate people. How, when I try my best to mask that I am intimidated by most people out there?

To explain my case, let me tell you the story of this Telugu family we know. The child's dad works with S and we've been to their house a couple of times for lunch and they have been to ours once and though I wouldn't say we became bosom pals, I thought I was still quite nice and pleasant to her. S says I intimidate the female half of the sketch by speaking in English all the time. Give me a break here: I am a Tamilian while they are Telugu. They have lived in Madras for couple of years and though the girl's picked up some Tamil, it is way different from mine and I speak Tamil very fast anyways. As I don't speak any Telugu at all, I thought 'let's stick to English'. Well, hey, we live in England and all that. But no - apparently not. By speaking in English to desi folks, I intimidate them.

S also claims that I am socially inept. Why? Coz we do not have a major social life and a big group of mates. This sort of links to the point I made above and he says it is all a part of the social fabric. Being a hypocrite, I ask. Being friendly without trying to be a soul mate, he says. But I do not act nice and friendly to someone to their face and then bitch about them behind their backs now, do I? That's besides the point, apparently.

Some people also go off me mysteriously. Don't know why. Let me give an example - there's this fellow mum at P's school who was also in my dressmaking lesson with me. We used to get along fine then and used to stop now and then at the school gates to exchange pleasantries. Couple of months back, she told me she was thinking of looking for a job and I suggested my place of work. She said she will ring my mobile so I'll have her number to give her more details. She never did. When I asked her the next time I bumped into her, she made some excuse, said she can't go back to work just then and hurried off. We have been a strictly 'hi' and 'bye' duo since then.

I thought I at least belonged in my safe, cyberworld. But no. My social ineptitude followed me there too - when I met up with two of my fellow writers at DC, I thought things went swimmingly. But further emails have been unanswered and plans to meet up at a later date politely ignored. See, I told you it was me.

I always thought I was sort of like Howard Roarke, the rebel who refused to conform to norms and let society dictate terms. I will be a person by my own rights - not a fake smiling and back biting one; just a genuine one, in a WYSIWYG format. But nah, apparently not. I am wierd.

Close Encounter of The Horrific Kind

2007-02-26T18:03:00.000Z

I was flat out on my back in a dark pink, plasticky chair, powerless to move. Bright light shone down my face, making it impossible for me to make out the others in the room. I could vaguely make out two forms and whilst I was trying to slowly slide away from the chair, one of them came near me. I could just make out a white mask that covered its features.

'Would you like to move over here, love?' it queried in a disembodied tone.

I was too scared to act.

'Now, bite down on this and stay put', it continued. Something blue and hard was thrust into my mouth and the next minute, a huge white machine, sort of like the Scream Extractor from Monsters, Inc was placed next to my face. Before I realised what was happening, the two figures ran out of the room and there was this high pitched 'bzzzz', while the lights flickered out and came back again.

This happened one more time and this time, I noticed the radiation light come on. I was being subjected to radiation! ARGH!

While I was still trying to digest that fact, my two tormentors came back and this time, they closed the doors.

'Ok, now close your eyes and pretend you are somewhere far away', crooned the Voice. I was trying to do that anyway when I turned my head a fraction and espied the masked figure advancing towards me with a huge syringe filled with a clear liquid. Oh dear God! First they subjected me to harmful rays and now they are drugging me. Even while my slow brain was computing this, the syringe full of bone numbing medicine was pushed into my delicate skin. I couldn't feel. I was paralysed!

Even whilst my eyes were darting in terror, I was thinking what else they are going to do to me. That query was answered straightaway when I heard another strange noise - a high powered whirring sound, sort of like a power drill. Are they going to burrow holes in me now? Let me get out! Oh no! Too late.

Whilst one of them held on to my hands, the other one drilled away, chipping parts of me. She then poked me with another sharp instrument. Time and again, she brought out another instrument that made a whooshing sound, which made me bones turn into water.

Thus the torture went on for 15 minutes.

The masked voice looked up and suddenly went 'go and clean up'. I slowly got up to my feet. I was feeling a bit woozy from the blood loss and the shock. I freshened up as much as I could in the tiny sink. But before I was done, I was dragged back to my chair and part two of the torture began in earnest.

I closed my eyes and imagined myself far away from the drills and other scary noises. In my mind, I was lying down on a beach, playing with little P in the sand. Even as I was starting on a sand castle, a hand touched my shoulder.

I came to with a start.

'That's it, I'm done. You can go now. We'll see you real soon', said the Voice.

I grabbed my things and ran away from the room as fast as my wobbly legs could carry. The 'see you soon' kept echoing in my head. Not if I can help it, mate.

I am never going to my dentist again.

Ash & Abhi Romance: Enough already!

2007-02-25T20:23:00.000Z

You cannot browse the desi cyberspace these days without tripping over Abhishek B and Ash R related articles. If it isn't one thing, it is ten other gooey things. If I thought I had seen all sorts of rubbish related to these two, then I had another think coming double quick.

Two things caught my eye that made me realise that this nonsense has just started and the closer we get to their actual wedding day, more number of inanities will crop up. So, it is time we all developed a healthy dose of immunity to this 'Abhiwarya' phenomenon lest we get whacked senseless by it. And to get our grey cells to start their work of insulating our brains against further doses of this rubbish, here's two tidbits guaranteed to kick start the production of immunity granting matter.

I didn't actually travel far to get the two news items that grabbed my throat. Just a short walk upto sify.com did it. First one proved to me that something has happened to the happy Oirish lot across the pond. Why? They have just gone and issued an invitation to Ash & Abhi to make the lovely island their choice of destination for their honeymoon. They could travel to Ireland for free, thanks to the lovely Irish taxpayers and stay at Ashford Castle, where the likes of George V, Ronald Reagan, Fred Astaire have stayed. Impressive!

Oh, I lie - the Irish proved to be au fait with desi sanskriti and sent the invitation to the Big B, as it should be done.

Next up is that Gurinder Chaddha (of Bend It Like Beckham fame) is pregnant with twins, who are expected to put in an appearance in July. Now that isn't the news - she is planning to name her babies after Ash & Abhi, if she ends up having a boy and a girl.

Good grief! Does this mean that from now on, we can expect mums-to-be to go a little loco and name their kids after these two as well? Whatever next?

My biggest question is: why? Why are we getting so hysterical, so caught up in this romance? Who gives a shit if Ash is going to become the Bachchan bahu? Don't we all have other important things to do?

The next one that decides to name her twins after this way too famous couple will get beaned on the head with Maneka Gandhi's Book of Hindu Names.

As written in the stars....

2007-02-23T12:43:00.000Z

How much do you believe in things like horoscopes, astrology, zodiacs..? Though I have never paid much attention to the first two, I admit to glancing at the prediction of the week and seeing what's in store for Cancer. Though I'd never agree to being a firm believer, I really find I have so many characteristics of a typical Cancerean.

Whilst I do not walk sideways like a crab, I am rather afraid of getting hurt and tend to protect my easily wounded heart (hard to believe, I know!) with prickly layers of sarcasm. My dad used to tell me when I was in my early teens that if I don't watch out, I might come across as 'don't care Bobby' of St Clare's (it is an Enid Blyton thing!) whilst the reality is far from it. But I have never changed in that regard - I never show my liking for something, purely because I am worried that it could somehow be used against me.

I also love the moon and the water - a night time stroll along the beach is my idea of an ideal time. (somebody take note!)

With all these, you'd thing I'd embrace fellow Cancereans as twin souls and bond with them like a piece of 4x4 and UniBond. Truth is, Cancereans tend to be my 'most unable to get alongwith' sort of people. Funny, innit?

Anatomy of a friendship

2007-02-23T07:15:00.001Z

"You can't make old friends, you can only lose them and in losing them you walk around with a void inside that you can never adequately explain", says Beth Kephart in Into the Tangle of Friendship.

I recently read this in the Readers' Digest's 'Quotable Quotes' section and it made me think of my old friendships and those that still continue to this day. I am still friends with my oldest friend, who I met when we were in class II of primary school. And of course, I have lost touch with scores of people, even cut off ties with some forcibly as things warranted.

One of them in particular, doesn't exist anymore due to a difference of opinion between me and my then close friend (whom I shall call B). It has been three years now, since B and I had our spectacular, inter-continental, cyber fallout and though we do send each other one line missives regarding the most earth-shattering occurrences in the other's lives, the friendship that once existed has well and truly died a memorable death.

When I was a little girl, I used to think that, much like our movie heroines, once I hit my teens, I would also have this big group of chattering friends, who would do pretty insane things together. Slumber party, midnight feasts (thanks to Enid Blyton), movies, trips to exotic locations, the odd song and dance number, you name it, we'll do it. We will be the Notorious G.I.R.L.S and we will set the world on fire.

As always, reality was much different and rather than queening over one huge group of friends, I had two distinct groups of mates, which rather became a lifelong pattern. At school, our class was split into two different groups, according to our second language preferences. So we had the all Tamil groups and the all Hindi groups and I was the only one who ended up straddling these two groups - I was the only Tamil girl in a gang of four other Hindi girls. So I generally found myself occupying that unenvious no-man's land - not really fitting in 110% with the hindi lot and being an outsider with my tamil lot as I wasn't conoodling with them all the time.

Things didn't change much when I went to college though my all-hindi gang remained my closest mates. Though our gang had split up by now, with each of us going in different ways, three of us, moi, B and other one whom I shall call A, still kept in reasonable touch and hung out whenever possible. These two were there for my milestones - broken heart, graduation, wedding, P's first birthday (well one was - the other one was miles away in America) and life went on. These two were the ones I blabbed my heart to and though I met only A during my periodic visits home, I was quite thrilled when my trip coincided with B's first trip home from US.

As this would be the first time B will be meeting two and half year old P, I was real excited. But days and weeks of planning never bore fruit and before long, it was time for B to return. To say I was disappointed that she didn't meet P was like saying I am a quiet soul. I continued to feel the ire long after and A used to rag me about it. Months afterwards, when the three of us were in our different continents, I still couldn't believe that one of my closest friends couldn't even spare the time to see my child. The hurt went much deeper than most realised or understood. Even A used to rib me by saying 'you are the only one who can have a proper, full-on fight on the Internet'. But what I felt wasn't trivial or something I could just pooh-pooh away. It felt like a rejection; it felt like we did not matter to B anymore. She's got her new family and friends and the child of an old mate doesn't rank very high in the importance scales.

Looking back, I think the cracks started soon after I moved to the UK and B got engaged. I only found out by chance that she had got engaged in the first place, well after the event. When I saw the photos, I felt real upset as beaming at me from the pix was another one of our friends from school days who's still B's close friend. Never one to let sleeping dogs lie, I asked B how come she couldn't find time to even tell me about her engagement when obviously, she had enough time to get everything else organised and could take the other girl with her. Though we made up after I had finishing ranting and raving, I still felt inordinately upset. As I sat nursing my feelings after the fallout, I couldn't help but think of B making a trek to another city to visit this same friend whilst she couldn't spare a few hours to visit me when we were in the same city, after four long years!

Am I sad over the dead friendship? Hell yeah! As A once told me, it was a friendship that had lasted for several years. Do I want a revival of the friendship, even if B's for it? I am not sure. A childhood quote comes to mind:

Friendship is like a mirror:
Once broken, even if it is put back together
Cracks will always remain.

Global warming

2007-02-20T18:26:00.000Z

Ok, never known to mince any words, this blogger lets it rip with his view re global warming etc. As it is a topic real close to my heart, I wanna make a post out of it.
So, check it out!

Of standards and other assorted rants

2007-02-20T18:13:00.000Z

I’ve lost all respect for the Desipundit website now. Ever since its Chief, Vulturo made remarks like ‘not Madrasi chicks – ewww’, I have made up my mind not to patronise the site he’s incharge of anymore. I do know that there are loads of others on the panel of the website but if this is the way the chief speaks, what about all the Indians then? Being a Madrasi chick myself, I feel like I should make a stand. Not that one person staying away is going to put any serious dent to the popularity of their massive fan base but what the heck, I do not trust them or anything they say anymore. He prattled something about how he isn’t a racist as Madrasis or not a race per se and that is so inane, I do not want to elaborate on it.

It was at that moment of time that I was so proud to be a Desicritic – maybe we are not half so well known as the Pundits but hey, there’s no way Aaman Lamba would ever be caught dead uttering such words. Not too sure Dee would have let him breathe, even if he had! So I am real glad with my lot.

While I am at it, I might as well go all out and admit that I find their nominations for couple of categories for the Indibloggers award real suss. I mean, who’s on the panel? At least three of the jury are directly or indirectly connected to the site. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

(Okay, okay when I have gone off something, I make no bones about it, I admit!)

Abuse & Harassment in Today's World

2007-02-15T07:54:00.000Z

I read this old post in one of my favourite blogs and it brought back to my mind some incidents from my own past. Events that had completely unnerved me and left an indelible mark on me. Nothing really drastic that nonetheless have scarred me for life.

Some of the earliest instances date back to the time when I used to travel by bus and the 'studs' used to pass leery comments. Crude, obnoxious remarks that were not at all for the ears of a twelve-year old. And then there were the gropers who would pinch your bums and anything else they could get their grubby mitts on. Shouting for help never really worked as no one generally took a blind bit of notice. Plus there was the very real fear that they get caught because of you, they might come with the rest of their goondas and exact revenge on you on the morrow. Then there were those dhoti-clad ones who let their bits hang free and got their kicks by rubbing them against your behind. A hardening organ rubbing against you in a public transport is a very scary thing indeed.

I still can feel the panic rising in me as I remember this dark stranger who once followed me home from my computer class. He wouldn't stop staring at me in the bus and got off at my stop. Never once flinched, kept steady pace with me and short of taking off like the wind, there was nothing I could do to shake him off. Even when I was afraid of leading him to my home, I couldn't gather the courage to take a fake route and mislead him somehow. Ultimately, I dived into my friend's block and hid on the stairs for a long, long time till it grew dark and I had to go home.

Then there were the countless times I was taunted and jeered at the LIC bus stop by the roadside romeos from Nandanam Arts College who haunt our college bus stops. The 'men' who used to get such pleasure from scaring young girls brainless that one even ran into oncoming traffic to escape their clutches.

When I look back, I cannot help but think my parents were rather naive - or blind. In a world full of perverts, they innocently trusted their daughter to travel everywhere by herself and come back home unscathed. Though it was I who insisted on travelling solo by train to Mumbai, I shudder now when I think of what harm I could have befallen me. Or the time when I went to Trivandrum for a friend's wedding, without even letting her know I was coming as I wanted to surprise her.

My experiences, though thankfully not too serious, still made me rather jittery among men. They made me act out in rather funny ways one of the most memorable ones being this sudden hankering I developed for a big brother. Maybe it was the protectiveness I craved but I tried to fill the void by the only method I knew how by tying rakhi for couple of older guy friends.

At one point, I was rather suspicious of every male I came across even ones linked to me by family. I used to go out of my way to make sure I was never left by myself with any of them. I could also never make eye contact when talking with them and if one of them became genuinely friendly, it only made me suspicious. I even cut off all relations with S's close friend because me playfully pinched my cheek once. I guess those events have disturbed me a lot more than I gave them credit for.

******************
The year 2007 in Brentwood dawned with news reports of two girls raped at midnight in different parts of the town. Since then, I have read numerous reports of girls being molested, both here and back in India. I am sure the men who did it are under the mistaken impression that it was a sign of their manhood, that they have brought a woman to her knees. How will we make them understand that it isn't so - taking a woman by force and leaving a dirty footprint on her life is not macho, it is not something to be proud of. It is rather a shameful act; one so vile that no punishment is sufficient and no act possible to eradicate that event from the affected woman's life. What will it take for a man to understand that it is the ultimate act of cowardice to scare and scar a woman so?

One of the biggest misconception among most men is that having a dick maketh a man. Well, it ain't and the sooner the pervs of this world realise this, the better. A biological part does not make somebody a man. Scaring young girls and violating a person is most definitely not the mark of manhood and anyone who thinks otherwise is seriously deluded.

Now that I am a mum, I am even more worried about the sort of world I have brought my son into and how safe I can keep him. I so empathise with the blogger’s and her husband’s fears when strangers express a desire to take pictures of her little boy the world is not innocent anymore and it is a sad day for us when we have to view every single thing with suspicious eyes. But when the alternate is just way too horrible to contemplate, parents can be excused for wanting to wrap their children in cotton wool.

These fears are so real and prevalent in UK that we are banned from taking pictures of children in places like schools, in parties and other assorted gatherings. Most places have big notices saying ‘No cameras’ and you need special permission to take pictures even if you are having a party for your child in a public place. I couldn't understand this before I became a mum; now I am happy whatever measures are there in place to prevent perverts from getting a picture of my son.

I have filled little P’s head with dire tales of strangers and what they can do that he has equated a stranger to the most vile kind of monster a five year old can imagine. Then again, those that harm us and our precious children do not disguise themselves as strangers anymore, do they? Read the case of two-year old Casey Mullen, who was raped and strangled, in her own bed, by her own uncle. I am absolutely bereft of words.

I am sure my blogger pal and I aren't alone in this fear of ours scores of parents must feel the same way and some of the blogs I have read on this subject just prove my belief. A whole generation of children are going to be molly coddled and cosseted by their parents who are fearful of the harms that could come to their child that the children are in very real fear of being too afraid to do anything carefree and fun. Never mind the fearful strangers robbing them of their childhood, we overprotective parents might just end up doing it by stifling them.

The question on my mind now is, where do we go from here? With morality on a steady decline, what is the path humanity is meant to take in order to save itself? How are we to keep our children and ourselves, safe?

Hallelujah! The sky is falling!!

2007-02-08T08:08:00.000Z

It's snowing! Brentwood is filled with the white stuff - even now, thick flakes are falling off the sky. Check out the pictures and videos.

Swim, DG, Swim!

2007-02-08T07:42:00.001Z

After years of dithering, I finally took the plunge, literally, and signed up for swimming lessons. I had been wanting to learn for a long, long time. In fact, my school had this really fabulous pool and the water would look so blue and inviting. But after standing awkwardly in my pink swimming costume and feeling gloriously out of my element, I found other interesting things to do during my swimming periods.

But it has always been something I wanted to master, especially because it is a major dream of mine to go white water rafting. Since moving to England six years back, I have been quite keen to start lessons but when the push came to shove, something kept me back. I kept telling myself that once I rid myself of my podgy middle, I shall jump in the pool before anyone could blink.

Well, making my tummy disappear was easier said than done and I gave up trying to imagine myself in a costume but just decided to bite the bullet and do it. Signing up was the easy part. Getting out of the changing room to pool side on day 1 was the hardest journey I had ever done in my entire life, bar none. After shivering away for a few minutes whilst I waited for the ladies from the previous slot to make their exit, I finally waded into the warm teaching pool, all the while aware that the water level barely reached mid thigh. So scrabbling about like a crab was the best way to hide myself in the water.

First objective: to float, which in my case became try not to sink. Whilst I couldn't do any strokes or anything during my school swimming lessons, I could at least float competently. Fourteen years and twenty kilos later, I sank like the proverbial stone in a teacup of water. After swallowing about half the volume of the pool, I came up for air and thankfully my head hit the bobbling floatation device. Grabbing hold of it for dear life, I tried turning the various tricks my teacher suggested I did.

It was day 4 yesterday and whilst I still haven't learnt how to float from end to end without the aid of the brightly coloured pieces of foam, I am loving every minute of it. I will never be a threat to Ian Thorpe but for the first time in my life, I don't care. I have finally rid myself of a personal demon - of constantly comparing myself with the others in the class and coming up short. Last night, I really enjoyed my time in the pool and though I did swallow couple of mugfuls, I felt quite happy.

At the end of the day, that's what counts, right?

The Art of Giving

2007-01-28T11:35:00.000Z

Valentine Day's just around the corner and I remember how it used to be when I was in college. There was this huge outlet of Archie' s Gallery opposite my college in Chennai (Chinna ponnunga padippadhu Ethiraja...) and soon after the Christmas-New Year dhamaka finished, the store will get out its Val's Day stuff. There'll be red hearts hanging from the ceiling, syrupy love songs blaring out from the speakers and everywhere there used to be this profusion of stuffed toys, cards, cards and more cards.

It was very tough being single and unattached.

The past six years though, the season of 'giving' is the biggest date in the Christian calendar - Christmas. It took me a long time to figure out why the folks around me got into a tizz at the mention of th C-word; turkey, presents, trees, decoration, anything related to it used to drive them into a frenzy. My driving instructor told me proudly that he was so well prepared for the holiday season, he finished his presents-buying lark by Halloween. I was amazed at that. The whole concept of making a list of presents, the must-have toys for kids and the expensive thingummyjigs for spouses in favour all seemed a bit too excessive to me. There should be some actual joy in giving, surely?

The actual day, when it dawned, must seem really anti-climatic after all the hullabaloo but swapping presents must surely make up for it, I thought naively. But this year, one of my colleagues got a 'present' that made everything else pale in comparison. Her brother had got her a goat for Christmas - well, she didn't really get it, it was given to some poor and deserving folk in a far-off land in her name. I was about to say 'oh jolly good thought' but catching sight of her expression, I swallowed the words. I realised then that there is more to this present giving than I had paid any attention to.

From what I can see, the guidelines generally are as follows:
1.If you are buying for a girl, the price tag is the last thing you must check out. The more flattering, the more eye-catching, the better. This especially holds true if you are the boyfriend or a newly married spouse. If, on the other hand, you've made your bones in your marriage, then you might get away with a lesser 'wowie' gift.
2.Paying attention is a good thing - and women generally drop an inordinate number of hints when a present giving occasion (Val's day, anniversary of the first time you clapped your eyes on each other, birthdays, Saturday nights) comes near. 'Ooh isn't that bauble nice?' and 'does this suit me?' are the statements that should stick out like beacons as they are generally good indicators.
3.If you have failed at step 2, then window shopping is a good option. Keep that plastic handy.
4. Every women loves a surprise - as long as it is of the good variety.
5.For guys, if you generally get stalled after getting stuff such as leather wallets, after shave, cologne (esp if BO is a big factor!), grooming kits (for the scruffier types), then activity gifts are a brilliant idea. Most men love that adrenaline rush and provided he isn't scared of heights, a bunjee jumping voucher would be a fab idea. I got hubby a 30 min flying lesson voucher couple of years back - he still hasn't managed to top that!
6. Most of all, always, always make sure the wife's present is at least twice as expensive as the mother's and three times as that of the sister's. If you want to live, that is.
7. Lastly, though charity is a good thing, showing your philanthropist nature a la colleague's big brother is not the way to win the game. Get a decent gift and give this rather nice gesture as an extra addition, if you want to save your skin and still be a persona grata.

Happy shopping!

The Changing Face of Indian Marketplace

2007-01-27T10:26:00.000Z

I was reading this article about Reliance Fresh shops and the quality they offer. When I read about their rates, the first thing that came to my mind was what would happen to the regular kaikarikaran / sabziwala? They won’t be able to compete with such a venture, surely?

But on second thoughts, I realised that the door-to-door vendor’s market is safe as no one offers what he does. He turns up like clockwork, builds up a good rapport with his customers, chats them up and cajoles them to buy more than they intended and if you have a special do in your house, he could be relied on to bring you some extra special veg, at a special rate, of course! As no Reliance Fresh or any of their ilk could offer this, the vendor’s market is safe.

The one that is getting affected by this new chain to hit the market in Chennai is Pazhamudircholai. For the non-Chennaivasis, Pazhamudircholai is the name of an exceptional fruit and veg store that held sway near Kasi Arcade in T Nagar for many years before spreading across the city. This store had the freshest of fruits and vegetables available all year and though they were on a slightly expensive side, they were a very welcome addition to the market place.

Once you set your eyes on their fat, juicy, glistening wares, you cannot walk away without getting your hands on at least a few tempting fruit or that rare veg. They do not employ any ‘buy one get one free’ gimmicks and rely purely on the quality of the items they sell. At the front of each store there is also a man selling fresh juices and he is normally surrounded by hundreds of maamis and aunties, vying with one another to get their hands on the day’s special. The fact that they do takeaways made this hugely popular and highly successful.

This chain of stores quickly built a name for themselves and if one outlet opened in your area, it generally meant that you can now shop for good quality fruit and veg in relative ease. No Food World or Nilgiris could do much to stand in the way of this store’s success – after all, no one went to Food World or Nilgiris to buy their fruit and veg now, did they?

But this new kid on the block, this Reliance Fresh, with its real cheap rates and marketing gimmicks, seems to be changing the status quo. The Reliance Fresh outlet in Ashok Nagar, for example, is right opposite the Pazhamudircholai one and has already stolen most of the latter’s client base. I, for one, am much saddened by this, as I really liked that store and am against the big name brand stores changing the face of the arena anyway. Though this turf war could mean that the public may be well be getting some really good deals (Tesco, Sainsbury’s and Asda vie with one another here in the UK to inundate us with coupons and other enticing offers) the sort of aggressiveness they display is a big turn off.

Other big disadvantage of having these big name stores coming everywhere is that pretty soon, the local colour will get wiped out. Every market place or mall will have the same group of stores - Reliance, Music World, Landmark, LifeStyle, etc and slowly, the variety and the abundance that exists now will slowly get replaced with this sort of corporate uniformity. In Britain, for example, every High Street boasts of a Body Shop, Marks & Spencer's, Monsoon, Regis, Pizza Hut, Clarks and at least one Tesco or Sainsbury's or Asda store. The smaller shops are slowly going out of business and high streets across the country are all beginning to look eerily the same. It is surreal how familiar a Brentwood High Street looks to a small town high street in Yorkshire.

With every facet of Indian life undergoing radical changes, it won't be too long before we end up with a similar set of circumstances. Though with our population, the Nadar kadais will still have its patrons, I hope that the average Joe has a fighting chance against the big bad corporations. I sure hope so.

My battle with the bulge

2007-01-26T21:12:00.000Z

I just did something mad - I started a new blog to help me succeed with my weight loss attempts. Not only that, I decided to put pressure on me, thereby making sure I'd stick to the plan, by signing up for Just Giving. So for every pound I lose, my chosen charity should get a few pounds in donations. Provided I can interest the kind hearted denizens across the blogosphere to support me.

I have never done any sort of fund raising before so I probably suck at this big time. Nonetheless, I hope you can dig deep and help me with my efforts. Here's the plug - please click on this link to donate money to my chosen charity, Take Heart, India. You can keep track of my weight loss efforts via my new blog My Battle With Bulge.

Please encourage/support me.

India’s Economic Progress: Much Background Work Needs To Be Done

2007-01-25T12:32:00.000Z

For a long while, India was famous for its brain drain - we used to read about the myriad 'India Born's' who went on to become leading lights in their chosen field in their adopted countries. With the new IT boom, India is becoming the chosen destination of the First World countries to house their call centres and, in increasing number of cases, their development teams.

Now that the Western world is slowly getting convinced of the fact that we don't travel to our workplaces on our elephants, have pet snakes, do the rope trick every night before dinner and sleep on nailed beds, a lot of them want to sample the country's natural beauty. This is good news for us in terms of the revenue tourism would bring.

But the increase in our international profile also means that things that had so long remained in the dark now will be put under the global microscope. Lack of basic facilities in public areas, sloppy customer service, non-existence of emergency services and civic sense are things that every Indian knows and shrugs off - but these are the same things that are causing the well shaped Western brow to lift in alarm and/or derison.

Real estate in India is booming - land value has sky rocketed and there are malls and IT parks coming up everywhere. The picture that is being painted of the country is that of a prosperous nation on the brink of global leadership.News reports claim that the Indian economy would be much better than that of UK's by 2015 and by 2030, China and India would be among the world's greatest economic super powers, just behind USA. While this sounds fantastic, the reality might be a completely different thing. Political sociologist Amandeep Sandhu argues that "although it is often asserted that India's democracy allows it to manage diversity, a greater threat to India's growth can come from within. In the recent past, India has experienced or is experiencing conflict in Kashmir, Punjab, North East India, and it experiences regular urban communal riots between Hindus and Muslims."

One of our biggest problems is that India's accelerated growth is neither multi-dimentional nor is it well thought out. IT and manufacturing sectors are reaping the rewards of this boom whilst others such as farmers, artisans and the other regular folks are languishing in the wayside. Whilst throwing open our doors to international trades, we haven't safeguarded our own homegrown industries that are now bearing the brunt of the government's short-sightedness.

Our own police force has come under fire following the murders of Welsh charity worker Mike Blakey and Englishman Stephen Bennet within the span of two weeks. Their sloppy detective work, lack of professionalism and conduct has created waves here in the UK and are putting the country in a very bad light.

If our country is to really prosper, then a multi-dimentional overhaul is necessary. Our basic infrastructure needs to be vastly improved. Frequent power cuts, roads riddled with potholes, lack of emergency service facilities are not features of a successful economy, much less an emerging world superpower. Other industries such as the small scale industries, agriculture, tourism and other non-IT fields also need to be encouraged and their grown furthered. Ultimately, we need to slather a layer of professionalism over our good selves if we were to compete in the global market and emerge victorious.

All of this and more, needs to be done and needs to be done now. Otherwise, this boom will be more the bang with which our glorious future came crashing down.

Judgement Day?

2007-01-23T10:51:00.000Z

I am tired of Jade. Tired of seeing her carefully school face showing remorse peering at me from every street corner. Tired of hearing her well rehearsed apologies 'I am not a racist but I can understand why you would think so'. Her well oiled PR machine is working overtime to clean up her tarnished image and I, for one, am tired of being played like a banjo.

Jade is using the 'tu queque' argument someone accused me of, to excuse away her actions. She keeps saying what she did was wrong but is repeatedly pinning the blame for it on her upbringing, her social class, her parents and anything else she could think of.

Couple of other 'interesting' repercussions of the BB row are Danielle losing a £100,000 modelling contract and worse, being dumped by West Ham footballer Teddy Sheringham, the same man she slept with to win the Miss Great Britain crown last year. Of course, Danielle doesn't know that she ins't a WAG anymore. Jo, on the other hand, didn't have much of a career to speak of since her S Club 7 days so doesn't have much to lose and is carrying on as before.

Whilst I have had my fill of the Jade Baddy Saga, I feel Danielle and Jo, who have said more racist comments and have egged Jade on, deserve to take on the blame as well. It was Danielle who said 'I thought you were going to punch her' after Jade's pronouncement 'you are stuck up so far up your a**e that you can smell your own s**t' and even said 'your mother would be so proud of you' and even called Shilpa a dog. Jo has generally been nasty and while I cannot remember what pearls of wisdom she dropped, she has been coming across as the type of person I would cross the road to avoid, purely for my own personal safety.

I was watching The Wright Stuff earlier on Channel 5 (young P's down with chicken pox - hence am cooped up at home!) and today's panellist Yasmin Alibhai-Brown said something that seemed real sensible to me. Jade was the 'expert' on the show today and after 30 minutes of 'yes I can see how it will be construed as wrong, but I wasn't the only one' and many rueful shakes of her head, Yasmin adviced Jade to use the next three years to get a proper degree and.... well, we never heard what as Jade butted in, prattling about the same old stuff and made Yasmin gave up what she was trying to say. But I can see where she's coming from: one of Jade's biggest reasons for being such a bully is that she learnt those at her mother's knee. Well, she's in her mid-twenties now and cannot blame Mum for teaching her every wrong thing under the sun. It is time she learnt few good things on her own, especially with two young children to raise. Yasmin's advice strikes me as an exceptionally sound one, as well as her view of it will take a long time for someone to change their views (the racist or the bullying sort) and will not take place in the span of three short days, as we are seeing in Jade's case.

Education is the only way to open people's minds to the world out there. Respecting others' differences and not feeling threatened by them will only come with time. Britain today is as multi cultural as it gets, a fact that threatens many, many people. One of them decided to show their distaste by spitting in front of me as I was out for a walking with my little one and shouting 'Go back home!' Another one did his level best to push my husband on to the rail tracks by catching hold of his shirt fronts and yelling 'You bl***y Paki!' As more and more Asians come to the UK as skilled workers and as more and more jobs are being sent to the subcontinent, the ire of the locals who perceive us to have cheated them out of their jobs is on the rise.

Being different always makes us fair game and this is true none more so than in our own country, which is as widely diverse as it can get. State, language, religion, social / economic strata - we have innumerable things seperating us from another. Try to imagine the case of a Madrasi amongst a group of Hindi speaking Bombay or Delhi folk. Attire and accent are just two of the things that are causes for mirth. My telugu neighbour still speaks to me like I were from a planet many light years away rather than from a nearby state when she speaks of the 'customs and traditions of Nellore' (my husband is Telugu while I am Tamil). Couple of my tam-bram friends changed their minds about me in a hurry once they heard of my own mixed parentage.

While I do not rue the loss of their so-called friendship, I rue our own penchant to divide ourself so neatly. Even after paying with our own freedom for celebrating our differences hasn't stopped us from going back to doing the same. What is needed for us to look at one another as just people, instead of 'Jain, rich, gujju' or 'Hindu, Tamil, padayachi'? When will we stop judging one another? Isn't it high time we changed our outlook for the better?

What price humanity?

2007-01-18T07:10:00.000Z

What price humanity?

On Bhogi, an aunt of mine lost her life in a road accident. The car in which she was travelling lost control and she was thrown out. As she lay wounded and bleeding, my uncle begging passing vehicles to stop and help them. For forty-five long minutes, he did so, with folded palms but none did. Finally, one kind-hearted gentlemen did but by then it was too late.

A life that could have been saved, has gone. All of those people who travelled on that stretch of road in Thirupathur on the Bhogi morning have blood on their hands. Maybe that comes across as really harsh, I don't know. But how else could I term it? How could one justify not stopping to help a desperately wounded family? What sort of reasons does one give to assuage their conscience so that things like this don't stick?

Isn't this what being human is all about - lending a hand to someone in need? The mere fact that so many people have just shrugged it off and carried on with their lives galls me. I have seen scenes like this in movies, when car after car drives past a broken, bleeding man and have just shrugged it off as over-sentimentalism by the director. I always firmly believed that, when push came to shove, one cannot ignore such an event and turn a blind eye.

Was I mistaken in that surmise or what?

I know what most people think: why would I want to get involved in such a thing, as it will only mean unnecessary hassle from the police? True enough. Who needs it anyway? On the other hand, if you had the power to save a life, would you throw that power away? Had it been your loved one lying there, would you not do anything in your power to make sure they were saved? Or would you shrug it away as needless hassle?

As I think of what is going to happen to that fractured family, of my young cousins devoid of their mother at such an age, I am filled with so much rage. Impotent rage as sitting many miles away, safe in my home, I had carried on with my day as normal whilst my aunt was breathing her last. Chatting away on the phone whilst strangers were driving past her with no concern whatsoever. If it had been me in the car driving past a family needing desperate help, would I have stopped and done so?

If I had said 'yes' to that glibly before, I can now say with absolute conviction that never will I ever be able to see things like that in a detached sort of way like those uncaring strangers did. Because I now know, the price you pay for not heeding someone's plea for help.

And I know that never will I be able to look at Bhogi in the same light again. For it will always be etched in my mind as the day humanity died a violent death.

Celebrity Big Brother: Kya Scene Hai!

2007-01-17T19:49:00.000Z

A bunch of has-beens trying to give their sorry careers a kick up its backside so they can give it a much needed boost if they were to be rescued from oblivion - this is the state of the inmates (so they seem to me!) that take part in reality shows like 'I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out Here!' and its evil twin 'Celebrity Big Brother'. Most times, you never recognise any of the so-called celebs, save for the presenters and ratings generally plummet after the opening night. [Aside: Channel 4 must have paid the people bucketloads of money to stand outside the BB house and scream their guts out - I really cannot imagine any other way by which so many honest folks could be persuaded to stand in the cold in Herefordshire day and night and exhibit their lung capacity.]

This year is no exception - two former so-called singers from two bands best forgotten, an ageing filmmaker no one knows, a cheat beauty who slept with one of the judges to win the Miss Great Britain crown and couple of Americans were all part of the lineup - joining them soon enough was 'Big Brother's First Family' (as host Davina McCall pronounced them!) - former regular show inmate, loudmouth Jade Goody, her mouthy boyfriend and lesbian mum. In order to spice things up, they threw in our Shilpa Shetty in. In the beginning, it was said that she would be urged to flirt with the male inmates and be involved in a romantic situation. When fewer and fewer people turned in, they decided to ditch the softy-softy approach and pull in the ratings by pitting the catty Danielle, intelligently-challenged Jade and looking-for-an-excuse-to-release-a-single Jo O'Mara against la Shetty. Shetty was coming across as this beautiful, composed character and what more could incense a trio of thickos than that?

So they have been goading her, calling her names, Danielle showing her knowledge of geography by commenting something about China and India and ‘I am so dumb I can’t even spell my own name’ Jade carrying on in her trademark style. Their biggest advantage is that to a non-English person, they are virtually ununderstandable - they could be prattling in Yiddish, for all Shilpa knows, so strong is their accent. Maybe that's why la Shetty has taken to simply bawling her eyes out, waving the white flag at every opportunity and sobbing on Cleo's shoulders. But she showed everyone that underneath it all, she has some sharp claws when she shut Jade up with a well-aimed 'Your only claim to fame is this show. What does that say?'

This issue is seriously getting out of hand, with House of Commons entering the picture for some strange reason. Even Gordon Brown, gallivanting about in India, has commented on this ,Third world debt, greenhouse effect, inter-country relations, Iraq etc, aside. The only sane voice in the middle of all the brouhaha seems to be Shilpa’s mum, who's reported to have said, "I hope that she will be able to handle the situation. It is a game and there is a life beyond that. I understand her emotions but I really hope that she is not going to get too affected by this treatment that is being meted out to her." Well said, mum!

The only ones to come out of this laughing is Channel 4. From the brink of disaster, by means of some canny tactics, they've made their show the talk of the town - sponsors threatening to pull out, Ofcom's investigation, hue & cry about racism all translates into ratings; ratings that are slowly going through the roof. Welcome to the new era of 'anything goes' - where ratings is the only thing that matters and target ratings would be achieved by hook or by crook.

Shilpa Shetty? What the hell is she doing in the BB House?

2007-01-03T23:13:00.000Z

It is an institution in Britain (well, the housemates are more like inmates, anyway!) – every summer, it is customary to eavesdrop on twelve of the most moronic people you can find in the country, cooped up inside a swanky house, who have nothing more interesting to say other than “fuck” and “shite” and other assorted easy enough words. Then, a few years back, Channel 4 decided to make more money out of such a wonderful concept and came up with the Celebrity Big Brother.

Now, Celebrity Big Brother is like the last chance saloon for the so-called celebs before they hit Obscureville. Winners usually end up with a recording contract, millions of pounds and a couple of apes, ivories and peacocks thrown in for good measure.

Why am I prattling utter nonsense about Big Brother, here, in DC world? Well, ‘cos ladies and gentlemen, one of the celebs in this years show is none other than our very own Shilpa Shetty! When she sashayed down the red carpet, clad in a pink and green saree, looking every inch a glam Bollywood star, I almost fell off the sofa! What the hell was she doing here?

In her intro bit, she wondered how she was going to carry on minus her entourage; my question is: girl, have you got any idea what you have let yourself in for? The only thing worse than a BB house is the I’m a Celeb jungle, where ‘having grub’ takes on a new meaning. Every day, for the remaining three weeks, la Shetty would be watched, her actions judged and any gaffs splashed all over the media. Living with a geriatric movie maker, a wannabe punk rock star with Attitude, a disgraced model, a catty newspaper journalist, couple of former pop stars and a startled looking Jackson – no, not Michael, his brother Jermaine.

Now this bloke, Jermaine, he sure looks like he’s going to provide us with hour after hour of fun. Being the first one to enter the house, he had the unique opportunity to size up every one as they came in and you could see, as more and more nervous folks joined him, more and more bewildered he got. Being American, he didn’t have a clue who any of them was but looked so sure that they all knew him and was so surprised when one celeb went ‘And who are you?’ The looks on his and Ken Russell’s faces as Shilpa Shetty sashayed into the room were absolutely priceless!
And the glazed look on her face, as she was sat on a couch, watching all these people was like she was asking herself what the hell she has let herself in for. Well, the only thing she hopes for, apparently, is to keep her self-respect and dignity.

Good luck, girl – you’re gonna need it!

Life in Britain: 'Tis The Season To Be Jolly

2006-12-20T16:17:00.000Z

When I woke up today morning and peeked out of my window, the world was covered in a milky white haze. I could not even make out the block of buildings that were adjacent to ours. This was a pea-souper alright, with none of the ickiness attached to it.

Winter's finally arrived in the South of England.

As I started on my trek to work, I couldn't help noticing the spider's cobwebs. Instead of the regulation saliva based transparent thread, the spiders had somehow got hold of white woollen thread to knit their webs for the winter season. Closer inspection made it clear that it was merely the frost attaching itself firmly to the spider's threads!

For a long time, I had been moaning at the lack of winter with the rest of the Brits. 'Where's that first breath of frost that arrives to kill the bugs?', I queried no one in particular. But this week, winter arrived with a vengeance. There's a sharp nip in the air, you can see the puffs of white forming in the air from your breath and no matter how well wrapped you are, if you stood still for more than a minute, you can feel the cold seeping into your bones.

I love this! I love autumn and I love winter - with its cold, cold mornings and a mere handful of hours of daylight. I love wearing the thick jackets, woolly hats, colourful scarves and gloves. I love drinking hot, hot coffee or chocolate and stomping my feet to keep me warm. Of course, winter means its Christmas time - the town centre bedecked in colourful lights, Christmas trees covered in tinsel, baubles and pretty figurines, big malls decorated to death with Christmas stuff, complete with a 'grotto', which has a scrawny 'Santa' too knackered to even say 'ho' to a toddler, carols emanating from the street corners and the radio and of course, the mad scurry for presents for loved ones.

This year, I've been caught up in the festivities a bit more than usual, what with my son, who studies in a Catholic school wanting us to have a Christmas tree and all that goes with it. Thus, I've found myself collecting Christmas recipes, buying mince pies and Christmas puddings, mulled wine and gingerbread and that ultimate of Christmas mainstays, Christmas crackers! I am having so much fun that I am rather looking forward to wrapping up the presents we've got for little P and hiding them under the tree for him to find on Christmas morning. Of course, we had to surmount the problem of finding a route for Santa to enter our house, as we don't have a chimney - we solved it by working out he could chuck them in via the letter box!

Lugging the (fake!) tree home, along with a highly excited and a chatterbox of a almost 5 year old in a cold, dark evening is no easy feat but it was well worth it to see his face the next morning when we finished setting it up and switched on the lights. Though I agree with people who say Christmas has become more of a greed fest than one of cheer and goodwill, I still cannot help feeling great joy at the sight of the festivities and a positive glow, as we stand on the brink of a brand new year.

So, whatever lies in store for us around the corner, enjoy the present for now and have a very, merry Christmas!

The School Nativity Play

2006-12-12T16:49:00.000Z

“Do not cry – wave at him but do not cry!”, advised my colleagues as I left work early to go to my son’s school Nativity Play.

“Cry? Now why would I do that? I will be beaming from ear to ear, clapping away like mad – but cry? Bah!” retorted I and started making my way schoolward.

Two weeks back, my son came home one day from his infant school, told me that he’s to practice his “lines” and I am to help him memorise it. I was puzzled. “Lines? What lines?” I wondered. Gentle probing brought out the whole story – little P has been chosen as one of the narrators for the Reception class’s rendition of the story of the very first Christmas. Needless to say, I was really pleased. Hell, I felt on top of the world!

My little baby, a narrator, in his very first school play! Aww! We practised his lines diligently, that day and the next and the next and soon enough, P was word perfect. He could say without a moment’s hesitation “Inside the stable the wise men gave Jesus their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.” Even when I felt a pleasant glow at hearing him saying it so perfectly, I couldn’t help wondering how he would do when faced with hundreds of eager parents on D-Day.

After couple of weeks of practise, the Reception class’ Nativity performance was scheduled for the Tuesday. Taking the time off from work, hubby and I reached the school early only to find a mile long queue of identically eager parents patiently waiting to be let inside. At the appointed time and not a moment too soon, the doors opened and we filed inside. On surveying the Hall, every parent could be seen trying to look for the vantage point from where they could see the apple of their eye clearly. For the first time in school history, the front row seats were gone within a trice.

S and I took the middle seats of Row 2 and counted the minutes to 2 pm, when the show would start. Soon enough, the Head Teacher took centre stage and announced the children in. My heart swelled with pride to see my little man come marching in quietly, along with the rest of his friends. Dressed in his narrator outfit, he looked just the same as the other children but of course, we spotted him straightaway, long enough before his searching eyes located us in the audience and lighted up.

One by one, the narrators said their lines, whilst the actors went about enacting one of the best-known religious stories. There were loads of sniffles audible throughout, as mums dabbed their eyes when their babies lisped their lines. One little boy stole the show by singing about 10 decibels louder than the rest of the children and never mind the cue!

Finally, it was Pratik’s turn. He stood up, said his bit, waiting every time for the wise men to give the corresponding gift and then carried on with the rest of his line. He did not even falter when the second wise men chucked the jug containing frankincense with a huge clatter and the audience split its sides. He just carried on with “… and myrrh” and sat down.

Three other children went on to say their piece and sing ‘Away in the manger’. I did not hear a word – I was too busy crying with happiness and drying my tears!

Pratikism

2006-12-10T14:10:00.000Z

I've decided to start a blog for my son - http://pratikisms.blogspot.com -- visit and enjoy!

The Absense of Good Desi Chick Lit

2006-12-08T11:51:00.000Z

We have a mini-library of sorts in my team, at work. Well, mini-library seems a rather grand way of describing what it is, a collection of books, but we take it very seriously - we even have a librarian to monitor the traffic! Most of the books in this collection are light, even frivolous read - none of the blood chilling or brain workout-y type of books I'd like to get my teeth into, so I generally
stay away from it.

But one day, a random thought struck me and I actually went through these books. Most of them were written by women and covered subjects such as shopping, clothes, dating, partying, drinking, sex... 'chick lit', as I describe it. Not that I have anything against such things, I even borrowed one such book when the library was shut. As I was reading all about three enterprising women and their ideas to nab themselves a dishy guy, I couldn't help wondering how come we have no such books in the desi market.

How come us desis girls don't muck about such light material? Lord knows we could tell the world a thing or two. How tough it is to walk past a crowd of roadside romeos without batting an eyelid; how to cross the road opposite Ethiraj College (in Chennai) without getting run over by blokes driving outsized bikes; how to go on a date without grandparents and assorted relatives spotting you around the countryside. There's also the intriguing life of upstairs-wali Mallika and her shenanigans, the old boy next-door and what he gets upto when maami goes to the market, Flat Association President mama who makes sheep eyes at Lily aunty's cleavage at the committee meetings... well, you get my drift?

Why is it that the desi literature scene so heavy? Is it because us desis cannot read chick lit or anything half so flimsy? Do we need meaty subjects all the time? Why? Why can't we kick back with the tale of Meena and Seema as they try to plot their way around their workplace, trying to get past the letch Mohan or Ammu, as she tries to solve the mystery of who-put-the-salt-in-the-soup-and-ruined-her-dinner-party?

I say the desi lit world needs some input from the likes of us Desi Chicks. The Jhumpa Lahiris, Arundhathi Roys and Kiran Desais can have their hard core, heavy works but we need some fresh, new blood from some regular Janes too.

What say my gal pals?

Driving Miz Desi

2006-12-06T18:06:00.000Z

You know what I find really cool, really sexy? A bloke at the wheel of this powerful car. I know, I know, how much more cliched can one get. But seriously, put a bloke at the wheels of a regular 4X4 and I go weak at the knees.

It was a short distance to travel, from that to deciding I would like to be behind the wheel of a car myself. Be cool and all that. Tried my hand at it at 20 - my brother kindly pointed out that not possessing nerves of steel, I might be a bit of a dud at this driving thing. That put me off for about five years.

Last year, I decided to take another stab at it. I thought, 'hmm, the folks of this country seem quite civilised, they have rules and all, maybe it will be good to learn here'. And so it began, on one dark, wintry day. I had a vision of this demi-god with a driver's licence arriving in a cool set of wheels to teach me and was brought down to earth double quick by this old gent peering at me from the driving seat of a Corsa. Oh well!

That was how I came to be at the helm of this car one cold wintry afternoon. Slowly, I was initiated in the art of holding the steering wheel (at ten-to-two or quarter-to-three position), driving in a straight line (which wasn't exactly easy-peasy), bowling down narrow country lanes without mowing down innocent bystanders and driving in that death trap called dual carriageway.

Then there were the manoeuvres. Clutch control, slow car, fast as lightning movements resulted in the three-point turn, reverse around the corner and parallel parking. In the middle of all this, came the emergency stop. My grandpa-instructor turned devil that day and made me do such a stop on an icy road. Result? A skid, ladies and gentlemen, which I was told to steer into! Steer into a skid?! Why? When I want to move away from it?! My whole life flashed in front of my eyes for about 2 seconds, before the blessed car righted itself and ground to a grudging halt. Oh did I say this was on an uphill slope?!

Anyway, I survived that and eventually booked my driving test. Driving tests in UK are not like the ones back home, wherein you just 'do a figure of 11'(remember the movie 'Indian'?) - the dreaded test here lasts a colossal 45 mins, and short of jumping through hoops, one is made to do everything else. A week before my test, Grandpa decided I wasn't up to scratch and postponed it. A month later, he postponed it again. And again. After the fourth time, I got more than a little antsy and sacked him.

Ditching old males in favour of oldish females, I went with a diminutive bird this time. Oh, she was evil! When I told her, on the 1st of October, that I've to take my test by end-Nov, she laughed so much that I thought she would have a coronary. Well, that was the end of her!

These two geriatrics put me off driving and I went back to ogling at the hotties from the wayside. Six months later though, spurred by comments from aforementioned sibling, I decided I shall master this art or else! That was how, instructor #3 entered the picture. This one was middle-aged, typical British bloke and everything seemed to go off swimmingly.

As I had taken a sabbatical from driving for the better part of a year, my new instructor put me through my paces and I found my rthymn pretty quickly. But not before I scared about 10 years off him, another leaner driver in a Fiesta and her instructor by suddenly speeding off like the hounds of hell were after me and missing that poor L board and going off on the grass verge.

After this memorable first lesson, I behaved myself and drove rather docilely around Pilgrim's Hatch without giving its OAPs a heart failure and re-mastered reverse parking, turn in the road, reverse around the corner and other such tricks till I began to feel much like a performing flea in a circus. My banker soon started making noises as I clocked up hour after hour of lessons till one fine day I gave in and booked myself on a test.

I made lesson plans, hourly drives, test routes - you name it, I made a note of it. But implementation was where the whole thing fell apart. Furthermore, I managed to psych myself thoroughly by the eve of the test that jellies could have been taken to be rock solid compared to me that night. My helpful gran, as always, decided to petition umachi (baby talk for God) and burst a few coconuts as a bribe.

The day of the test finally dawned. By then, I was shaking like the proverbial leaf and walked into the test centre with huge 'R' and 'L' emblazoned onto the backs of my hands. After the third trip to the loo in under five minutes, my examiner finally emerged. He seemed so nice that I thought to myself, ‘there’s no way this kind-hearted gentleman is ever going to fail me’. He went ‘Hello I’m Joe, want to go for a drive?’ Well, not really but as I didn’t have much of a choice, I smiled weakly, made a croaking noise in my throat and went to my car.

First came the ‘Show Me, Tell Me’ questions normally this would make me dissolve into helpless guffaws but luckily that day, nerves made sure I didn’t crack any silly jokes and showed and told him, properly! And then I was off! Joe slowly started sprouting horns when he made me do an uphill start on a near-vertical hill. Praying to umachi that I wouldn’t stall the car, I did it whoopee! Then he made me do it again, again and yes, one more time, for luck! Then it was general driving for a bit. Umachi conveniently forgot the coconut bribe and I ended up going on the dreaded Brooke Street Roundabout.

It rapidly went downhill from there, whilst I drove around Brentwood rather like a headless chicken. At one point, I am sure the poor examiner’s life flashed in front of his eyes when I got my left and right mixed up and tried to go the wrong way! All in all, I wasn’t too surprised when he gently broke it to me that I had failed it. Oh well!

Next time, I better give a heftier bribe to couple of umachis - with 15 minor faults and 5 serious, I need all the divine assistance I can garner!

Tumble-down-skin

2006-12-04T19:12:00.000Z

Last Saturday, on my way to watching that crapola fest called Dhoom:2, I tripped and fell down the stairs. A combination of new tights, wrong shoes and well, me, meant as I was halfway down the steps, I took a short cut and rolled down the rest of the way. Banged my knee, cracked my shin, pulled a muscle in my arms as I battled with gravity - a whole plethora of woes, in fact. Of course, sod's law being what it is, I had to bump into this couple we rarely ever see and there were embarrassing looks all around. Not me - I was busy trying not to scream.

Having said that, this ain't new for me. This time, I came down rather like Ben Stiller in one of his flicks. On one previous memorable occasion, I did a Obi-wan Kenobi type of 'plop' and came down in a heap. That was on one of my very first dates with my new boyf and I was sure going out of my way to make sure he remembered me!

I guess you could call me a connoisseur of falls - a straight-forward trip, a more complicated twist, dodgem car-type maneuver, you name it, I've done it. I should stop doing it one of these days, I know. Till then, I should probably sell tickets and make some money while I was at it. Might as well make some money out of my 'chilrai varufying', if you get what I mean! ;)

Madras, namma Madras!

2006-11-28T07:40:00.000Z

In the past few weeks, quite a few people have written something about my hometown be it their brush with the humidity and the pollution or how diametrically opposite it is to the North Indian cities, such as Delhi. Reading about these have made me quite home sick for my lovely city and I thought I shall put pen to paper and write about what makes me love it so.

Chennai, or Madras as it was known then and familiar to me today, has always been the perfect amalgamation of the old and the new. It is a city, where the kancheevaram sarees and old maamis live hand-in-hand with the Mocha coffee swigging, tank topped teeny-bopper. It is a city where the December Music Season is the highlight of the year’s cultural calender. But it is also the city where multi-stored malls and ginormous technology parks are coming up at an alarming pace. Kapaleeshwarar Temple still holds sway while Dublin continues to rock the party, come Saturday night.

The old and the new have meshed together so well that one barely leaves a dent on another. The Geetha cafes and Saravana Bhavan clientele still continue going about their daily toils, the latest opening of Baristas notwithstanding. Pizza Hut still has a mile long seating queue outside its premises most evenings and the latest branch of Madurai Idli Kadai just a little over a mile away doesn’t put any pro-Italianos off their stride.

It is also a city of crazy traffic and diabolical drivers. Having a countdown at the traffic lights seems to have made these speed demons crazier than before, what with all the revving that happens even when the timer has a good 20 seconds to go! Latest model Honda Civics aside, the potholes the latest bout of rains have gifted to the repaved roads will give your bones a workout no Shiatsu massage ever will.

It is also the city where the humidity hits you like a wet blanket the minute you set foot in. The sweat running in rivulets, combining with the dust and grime will make you look rather like an Indian brave by the end of the day. If you are not used to it, it may well make you weep!

Though Tamil is the language of the state and the DMK fervour had made sure that there is a bit of ziddi in speaking the language, the people are not averse to learning a new language. Proof of this would be the hugely popular language programmes run by the Alliance Francaise and Max Muller Bhavan, which teach French and German, respectively. But this trait is not to be found solely amongst the younger generation. My old vegetable vendor used to speak in highly fractured but extremely serviceable Hindi to one of my neighbours, who had moved to Chennai from Bombay a few years back. Though the lady had been a resident of the city for about 3 years then, she hadn’t picked up a word of the local language while the wizened vendor knew enough to sell her bhindi and baingan on demand!

Chennai, the city, is split into many zones, depending on its population. Accordlingly, in Sowkarpet, you will find Sindhis and Marwaris whilst in Parrys Corner,you will find lot more Telugus than Tamils. (Aside: Though the Sindhis and Marwaris have settled in the city and generations of their families have been calling Chennai home, none of them could speak a word of Tamil amongst them. This was a highly irritating factor during my college days. )
Eastern Madras is full of the brahmins whilst the South has folks connected to tinsel-town.

Though the city is now expanding in all directions at break neck speed and once shunned areas such as Velachery and Virugambakkam are now extremely sought after, the old demarkations still exist. The new perimeters haven’t erased the old they have simply, in typical Chennai fashion, become a part of the fabric.

It is also the city where education is supreme. Every year, during admission time, you will find anxious mums and dads queuing outside the city’s top schools, just to get an application form. The streets will be bereft of children come evening, as they will all be busy at the abacus classes, trying to master that ancient art, before taking off to the Bharatnatyam or singing classes. It is the same city where John Britto and Swingers dance schools flourish, helping wannabe Prabhu Devas turn their dreams into reality.

This is also the city where NIFT sits comfortably next to Co-Optex showroom. The city where the latest fashion trend is a saree with a pocket for one’s cell phone. The city where heels come with butti patterns to match the pallus. The city where hipsters jeans are worn with a zari top. This is the city where the paati’s Annamacharya keertans jostle for space with grand daughter’s James Blunt.

That is the magic of my city a city where the roads are full of potholes, the traffic snarls legendary, the water problem one of epic proportions, where sabhas are as important as the multiplexes but one in which a person can go for a spot of masala dosa and milkshake at mdnight, on the way back from a disco or a pizza and fresh juice for high tea, before joining the pattu saree maamis at Music Academy for a K J Yesudas kutcheri. A city where aalaapana and Air Nikes exist comfortably.

This is Madras, nalla Madras. We are like this only, saar!

BBC Children In Need: Charity Begins At Home

2006-11-22T06:44:00.000Z

Every year, in November, this spotted, yellow teddy bear with a patch over one eye makes an appearance in the UK. He goes by the name of Pudsey and is the mascot of the hugely popular fundraising event known as Children In Need. As its slogan goes, every penny raised will go to the needy children of UK.

Members of the public take up the actual fundraising. High Streets might be littered with people with the collecting pails. Teens wearing wacky outfits and standing in the cold with a bucket in hand are a sight that will be seen all over the country on that day. If your town is really lucky, Pudsey might even put in an appearance!

The actual scale of this has to be seen to be believed. I am not talking about a few kids here and there trying to collect a few pennies. Huge organisations donate large sums of money. There are events held locally, proceeds of which go towards Children in Need. Most offices have a 'come dressed in your regular clothes' day, whereby employees pay £1 for the privilege.

Schools tend to take it a step further, try and make a fun event of it, so it is enjoyable for the children as well. Little P’s school wanted me to send in a teddy bear or a stuffed toy with him to school today. Which is why, the good folks of Brentwood saw me lugging a life-size teddy bear up the cardiac hill that is Queen Street. I tried telling him that taking the teeniest bear will give him an edge over the other kids when he takes part in the ‘My teddy bear and me’ race. Would he listen? Nah!

He could also go to school, dressed in his jeans and tee, paying a pound first, of course. The Ursuline down the road had given the choice to the girls – they could just dress up in pink and have a fun time, letting their imagination run wild. As I was huffing and puffing my way past, I was swiftly overtaken by this huge pink bunny and a spangly outfitted fairy. Looking at her skimpy outfit made me break out in goose pimples!

The grand finale to the day’s fundraising drive is the live show that takes place at the BBC studios in London and in other big cities like Cardiff, Manchester, Liverpool, Edinburgh and Belfast. Pop acts, cast of local mega serials and other assorted celebs shake a leg or belt out a song, all in the name of charity. The lineup is usually impressive – popular girl band Girls Aloud opened the night’s proceedings in London followed by McFly, Ronan Keating, former Spice Girl Emma Bunton who pirouetted on stage, along with her other Strictly Come Dancing mates, putting their newly learnt dancing skills on display.

Cast members of Coronation Street, Holby City and Hollyoacks also donned the greasepaint and tights to perform live on stage as well as the cast of West End production, Sound of Music.
Terry Wogan was at the helm this year too, ably aided by Natasha Kaplinski and Fearne Cotton. Together they urged the viewing public to dig deep and donate. Throughout the show, hundreds of people were in the studio, manning the special Children In Need telephone lines and those willing to part with their cash could ring the line and pledge the money. The amount of money they manage to raise every year is staggering. Last year, it was around £18 million pounds.

What makes the people of Britian part with so much money year after year and take part in this event so enthusiastically? I have thought long and hard about it and all I can say is, the tag line ‘every penny goes to a needy child in the UK’ is the key. After the Oxfams and other assorted charity outfits that collect money for far-flung places, a homegrown one, for their own suffereing children, strikes a powerful chord in the people'’ hearts, making them give and give, year after year after year. And give they did, to the tune of £18,300,392 on the fundraising night last Friday.

Well, charity sure began – and ended – at home!

Beachkku jaana, beachukku jaana!

2006-11-13T18:23:00.000Z

One of the best things about growing up in Chennai, IMHO, is the accessibility to one of the best hangouts in the world, Elliot's Beach. All through my school and college life, this beach was the ultimate cool hangout. There was a hierarchy to the place and one picked up on it pretty soon.

The layout of the beach is such that, there was a low-lying parapet wall, running alongside the bike park area and sat on this would be the sight-seers of various age, shape and size. Where you sit depends on the degree of cooldom of your clique - the closer you are to the Cozee circle, the cooler you become. To be actually sat right at the Circle is the ultimate in cooldom - that normally signals that there are no heights left to scale.

The actual beach, with the sand and the sea, is generally of no importance whatsoever. Unless you happen to be a 'love bird', doing a spot of billing and cooing from behind the catamarans and assorted boats, that is. To the regular folks, Elliot's is the parapet wall and Cozee corner. There is no greater entertainment than watching the odd built bloke and the multitude of wannabe-Salman Khans strut their stuff, atop the latest motorbike.

That was then.

This Summer, when hubby mentioned 'beach', I responded with my normal derision. Coming from Chennai, these excuses of English beaches generally strike me as majorly funny and I never want to patronise them. The sole exception was when we visited the Isle of Wight - this being a tiddly island, one cannot escape the beach and I let the cool waters bathe my feet.

My snort was snuffed out when a shiny key was dangled in front of my eyes. Turned out, a female colleague had generously lent us her beach hut for the day. When I quizzed my work mates about Frinton and its beach huts, the resounding 'wah-wah's that came my way made me rethink my viewpoint of a Brit beach. In my mind’s eye, I envisioned a medium-sized cottage, something along the lines of those in Fisherman’s Cove and in jubilation we set a date.

On a fine summer's day, we set off to Frinton, armed with all the usual paraphernalia. The whole caboodle seemed overkill to me, who had gone to the beach for the sole purpose of viewing some eye candy. As that isn't the tack a responsible mum of a 4 year old is supposed to take, I gamely went along to buy the requisite sun block, Noddy kite, buckets, spade and other assorted gear. With the GPS in situ, we set off on a rare early note.

The miles sped by, as we bowled down the A12, aided by the disembodied voice of the Sat-Nav. After a hour long drive, we finally could see the coast in the distance and I felt an odd feeling of glee. As we neared Clacton, we could see a bit more of the sea and its bluish hue raised my spirits. Buoyed by the vista and A R Rahman, we finally entered the town of Frinton-on-Sea.

The salty air, the brisk breeze and the masses of sand (it was low tide) made me long for Elliot’s and those bygone days. Shaking off the despondent mood even as we drove around the town, I started looking out for cottage #776. To say I was disappointed was putting it mildly. I was expecting designer cottages but what awaited me were itty-bitty plank shanties on stilts!

Grinding my teeth, I looked at the instigator of this plot, who blithely went ‘M promised me there would be deck chairs and things inside so we can drag them out and relax’. Determined to enjoy myself, I started to get our things from the boot, even as hubby proceeded to the ‘beach hut’ to check out our home for the day.

Ten minutes went by, then fifteen and finally, a good half hour. By then, aided by my little man, I hauled out the kite, the hats, towels, spare sets of clothes and enough food to feed those at the beach while there still was no sign of the man. Leaving the thayir sadam to fend for itself, I dragged my son and we went looking for his missing father. To my mounting annoyance, I found him outside the hut, staring at the horizon, with a far-off look in his eye.

Even as I revved myself to come up with a few well-chosen epithets, he turned a curious shade of green. Swallowing the curses, I went with a milder ‘What gives?’

‘Er, Houston, we have a problem,’ he quipped. He finished with a sheepish grin.

‘It seems like I have forgotten to get the keys to the beach hut’.

A touch of nostalgia, on All Hallow's Eve

2006-11-01T20:38:00.000Z

Maami, Maami, Golu vecha sundal,
Illatti kindal!

I remember getting dressed in my pattu pavadai (silk skirts) and walking up and down our streets with my group of friends during Navrathri. Our job was to go to every house that had kept a golu, stand outside their gates and recite the above-mentioned chant. It normally resulted in the lady of the house coming out with a grin and inviting us in for that Navrathri staple. If the oldies of the house were present, then we were urged to earn the sundal by singing a song dedicated to Goddess Lakshmi, usually to their own peril.

After the resultant cacophony, we were given the thamboolam, with some steaming sundal wrapped in old newspaper. Objective accomplished, we used to rush out with the booty, devour it on the way, discuss the merits of that sundal with respect to the previous house’s efforts and then go to the next house. By the time we finished the street, it was usually dinnertime and we would all be feeling slightly sick. But that never stopped us repeating it the next day and the next, till Vijayadasami.

Why am I prattling about Navrathri and sundal now? Well, last night, when I was walking home from work, I came across many a wicked witch and evil magician walking the streets, armed with broomsticks and wands. The Jack O' Lanterns gleamed evilly on some doorsteps and the dark creatures were on the prowl. It was Halloween after all, and pretty soon, the ubiquitous 'trick or treat' filled the air.

'Treats' in the form of teeth rotters like gooey marshmallows, toffee apples and other assorted sticky sweeties that children so love were dispersed at every house. Most of these 'monsters' were too little to figure out what the 'trick' part of the threat entailed. One tubby skeleton was really confused when I asked him what trick he had in store for me and looked ready to burst in tears as he thought he wasn't going to get a fistful of chocolates for his trouble.

But the older ones preferred the tricks to the treats. More than a month beforehand, the Council had put up notices in shops, tersely warning the shopkeepers not to sell flour and eggs to 'suspicious looking teenagers'. To me, all teenagers look shifty-eyed at the best of times; how does one weed the 'regular' ones from those buying Halloween gunk? Seemed like the local teens agreed with me as some unfortunate souls got their windscreens covered in eggs, despite of the warnings.

Despite the hype and the hungama surrounding the whole Halloween thing, to me, it lacked the magic of our old Navrathri days. We dressed up in our finery and got yummy (healthy!) sundal from most houses. Belting out Carnatic music songs that bore no resemblance to the original in various sruthis was pure enjoyment. Though pain flit across several of our audiences faces, I am sure they enjoyed it too.

But the tiny terrors banging on the doors, creating a din outside definitely seemed to be having the time of their lives. Though they had the parents' nightmare, sugar rush, to contend with at the end of the day, the accompanying adults seemed to be enjoying themselves as well. Jack O' Lanterns flickered away and the loo rolls wafted madly in the autumn gust.

Maybe it is just I, getting jaded and old before my time. Trick or treat, anyone?

Rose Valley

2006-10-27T07:29:00.000+01:00

Yesterday afternoon, while I was on my lunch break, I decided to climb Cardiac Hill (our name for the rather steep Primrose Hill) and wander around the High Street shops, as you would. As I was standing at the junction of Primrose Hill and Crown Street, a car stopped next to me and this senior-ish desi man asked me if I knew which way Rose Valley was. For once, I did and I was only too happy to show him the way. It was, after all, just down the road and tiddly road that went off the roundabout.

But translating this into motorese proved to be tougher than I bargained for. I have a problem differenciating between my left and right. When I normally say 'take the left', folks go 'oh you mean the right - okay, got you'. Of course, this innocent stranger didn't know that. So, when I said, 'go down this road and at the roundabout, take the left and then turn into the first road on your left', he took my words to be gospel and proceeded to do so.

Even as I watched indulgently, he indicated left at the rounabout and proceeded up Queen's Road. That was when it hit me - I had told him left, instead of right! Typically, I saw the bloke come bowling towards me as I walked up Coptfold Road. I flagged him down, apologised profusely and said 'I meant right when I said left'. He gave me a 'I forgive you, lady' smile and asked me 'okay now which way?' So I started again 'you go down this road and then you take the...' I was waving my left arm like mad when he went 'right, right' and I said 'yeah take the right, and then take the right at the roundabout'.

He waved me a cheerful bye, took the right and proceeded towards the direction of the High Street. That was when realisation dawned on me - I had meant left and when the bloke prompted 'right, right', I had got confused and sent him the wrong way - again!

So, all you good folks of Brentwood, if you see a poor, harassed man, with wilted flowers in his passenger seat, asking you the way to Rose Valley, please point him in the right direction. And do not, I beg you, do not tell him where I live!

Map of Brentwood - with Primrose Hill and Rose Valley

What a merry life we lead!

2006-10-24T23:43:00.000+01:00

Popstars on an adopting spree, veiled Teaching Assistant and the Macca v Mucca battle - Britain was never such a fun place to be in that the last week. It was like being in the thick of not one but a myriad of newsstorms and we didn't know which way to turn! Whilst the celebs seemed to be hell-bent on making sure our attention was concentrated on them, the Muslim TA added more drama to our lives by making her views known far and wide. All I had to do was rub my hands in glee and sit back - this was pure entertainment!

Fairly on top of the ratings chart is the Battle of the McCartneys - when I read in the summer that the former Beatle was hoping for a quick and dignified divorce, I thought that was wishful thinking, even for him. Now, the shit has well and truly hit the fan and it doesn't look like it is going to be cleaned anytime soon. How eight pages of highly confidential divorce papers, detailing Macca's wife beating and other assorted antics (on one memorable occasion, apparently, he narrowly missed wearing the ketchup) mysteriously ended in the In tray of AP's offices is the million pound question. The dailies hazarded a guess whereby Heather, the "woman scorned", herself faxed the data to AP to get back at McCartney.

Macca is a British icon and one of my colleague's reaction on reading the headline that proclaimed Macca to be a wife beater was succint: "Rubbish! That woman is off her rocker!" Even if the allegations were true, it will take more than Heather Mills's words to pull the former Beatle from his pedestal. More likely, the mud will stick on her and once again, her past as a former glamour model and 'escort', who became famous championing anti-landmines causes after she lost her leg in a motorcycle accident, will come under scrutiny.

Middle of the week saw the furore kicked up by the Case of the Veiled Teacher as she accused her employers, a Church of England school no less, of discrimination as they refused to let her wear the veil in class. Aishah Azmi took on Kirklees Council when she was asked to remove her veil at school, sparking a nation-wide religious debate - yet again. To veil or not to veil became the question. Islamic women's rights were being downtrodden, claimed some supporters while Jack Straw's comments of the women wearing the veil separating themselves from society was aired once again and thrashed about the place.

Icing on this particular cake was, when Ms. Azmi was awarded £1100 as a compensation for her "hurt feelings". Well, I like that!

Even before I stopped spluttering over the previous news tidbit came the Madonna and Son row. Deciding to give her flagging pop career a boost, the Material Girl took a leaf out of Angelina Jolie's footsteps and visited the Dark Continent to get herself a new child.

One-year-old David Banda, who lost his mum soon after his birth was the Chosen One and after 'careful vetting', Mr and Mrs Ritchie were given permission by the impoverished nation of Malawi to adopt one of its children. But the meticulously planned operation hit two snags: 1. public outcry over what they considered flouting of Malawi's adoption rule that the parents should be residents of the country for 18 months 2. David Banda's father backpedalling and crying foul just days of hitting at the media to leave Madonna alone. Now, Madonna is reported to be bewildered at the lashing she's receiving from the media for her latest action. She's even going to go on Oprah next week to put forward her point.

Well, after the action of the past week, this week's fare seems quite dull - Prince Charles' tax probe, R. Amazon's direction changing feat, David Cameron's efforts to show himself as being 'hip' and 'with it', nothing has a zing to it. Come on, Posh & Becks - do something! Spice up our lives!

Schumacher's unforgettable swan song

2006-10-23T18:14:00.000+01:00

Oct 22, 2006, Sao Palo will remain forever etched in every Ferrari fan's memory as the venue for one of the greatest F1 races ever. There was no shortage of drama and whoever had tuned in or turned up in person at the venue had more than their money's worth.

I hate to admit but I was nervous as hell - Mikey had qualified at P 10 and Alonso was in P4. Though I wasn't too worried about Mikey's starting position, I was doubtful the upstart would oblige and crash his car. Anyways, I wanted Michael to win the race and the championship proper - not by default.

So I sat through ITV's pre-race waffle and by the time the klaxon sounded, my nerves had got the better of me and I beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen, to watch the race from farther afield. I am really nervous about watching my favourite men play - Sachin always goes out on a duck if I sit cheering him on; on one memorable occasion, Mikey's car blew up in the last few laps at Suzuka and that sod Hakkinen walked away with the championship.

On lap 10 of the Grand Prix though, my world crashed about my ears as Mikey's car threw a wobbly and swerved all over the place. Moments later, we could see why - his right rear tyre had had a blowout, thanks to the debris left over from Rosberg's car. Mikey drove like a demon with the punctured tyre to get back into the pits and get a new set. He rejoined the race at P19 and from then on, it was pure drama.

Once it was clear that there was no way Mikey could win either the championship or the race, he just stepped up a couple of gears and drove one of the best races of his career. He continually set up fastest lap times, overtook every car that came in his way and showed us what we are going to be missing in the years to come. He blistered down the tracks, made some brilliant moves overtaking and just shone! It was like being part of a masterclass in F1 racing. His manoever, when he overtook Kimi with just 4 laps to go, was a thing of sheer beauty.

Schumacher did not win the race; he certainly did not win the championship; hell, he did not even finish on the podium. But he emerged a winner on race day. He drove such a brilliant race that the camera hardly registered Massa’s laps, save for a few glimpses every now and then.

He sure made quite a lot of enemies over the years but no one could deny that he is one of the best drivers ever. He definitely would go down in the history books as one of the greatest drivers we have ever seen. Alonso might go on to win more championships, Kimi might set the tracks on fire, Button might just prove to be the best British driver bar none but no one can ever replace Michael Schumacher. Formula 1 has lost one of its brightest suns and it is going to be a whole lot darker without Schumey around.

Diwali mela: London ishtyle!

2006-10-16T22:10:00.000+01:00

A quick glance at a poster advertising Diwai celebrations while driving through Ealing Road last month led to us standing in a gusty wind at 7:00 pm on a dull autumn evening last weekend. Even as the crowds gathered around me, I couldn't help thinking that I might possibly be the only mug who has travelled 30 miles to stand
there in that spot so assorted garishly dressed people could parade about the streets.

After trying different methods to keep ourselves warm - stomping feet, swinging our arms about, scoffing hot samosas - we finally heard the faint sounds of, wait for it, bagpipes! I really thought I was hearing things when this van with a massive figure of papier-mache Ganesha came slowly, leading the procession. Following at its heels were a number of desi bagpipers, replete with tika and all! Do not make the mistake of asking me what it was all about!

Next came floats in the form of the many and varied Indian gods and goddesses as well as children dressed up as gods children dressed up as gods, butterflies, peacocks and some other far out creations. There were also various Swami somebody or the other and their followers, singing bhajans and my personal favourite, three jolly characters, dressed as Ram, Lakshman and Sita, showering blessings on everybody in sight! The rear was brought up by another 'band', playing amongst other tunes, 'Lajja Lajja' and an auto advertising Sony Asia Max!

As most of the people standing around me followed the last of the 'floats', I decided to follow suit. I learnt along the way that we were en route to the park where the fireworks display was to be held. On we went, singing and dancing (well, in my case, prancing about trying not to step on my neighbour's toes yet again and earn one more hot glare) and finally entered Barham Park and therein, bedlam.

There were at least a squillion people there, everyone one of them hell bent on squashing my foot to dust in order to get two and a quarter steps ahead of me. Inside were the usual Fireworks night extra fittings - slides and rides for the little kiddies and the older ones as well as the cotton candy and hot dogs stands. But clearly audible well over all this racket was this stage.

With bass volume almost three times louder than the treble, music was pumping out of the massive speakers that flanked the stage. A handful of skimpily-clad teenage gyrated to the beats of Dus bahaane kar ke leh gaye dil while the assembled crowd seemed to go mad with every thump. When the MC announced that the next performer was to be Jassie Sidhu, the girl next to me, who was till then merely content with jogging my elbow and screeching in my ear to Nach Baliye, went catatonic and did her best to push me out of her way to get herself as close to the stage as possible.

I have to admit this was the first time I had even heard of this bloke and when he started belting out a bhangra number, it just sounded like the other songs of the same genre that I have heard before. But I am sure he was glad that the crowd didn't agree with me. He continued to enthrall them and then finally, at about 9pm, the fireworks display started. Bright sparks, in a myriad of different hues, took over the skies amidst shouts of 'Happy Diwali'.

Happy Diwali indeed!

Confessions of a Laundromat virgin

2006-10-09T17:58:00.000+01:00

I hate to admit it but I was a teensy-weensy bit scared. The scrawny guy in the corner looked mildly menacing. The blonde at the table looked in control while the Oriental lady a few feet away looked positively territorial.

I was petrified.

I have never seen the inside of a Laundromat before. I have walked past it a million times as it was a few doors down from my workplace but never ventured inside. I was, after all, the smug owner of a working washing machine, with a dryer, I might add. I could do my laundry from the comfort of my own home, at my own sweet time. And I did so for five long years till the day my pipes got blocked with some mysterious substance and the water from my washing machine came flooding into the kitchen.

To say it caused panic in my heart is like saying the tsunami was a wee wave. What if the water seeped through my floorboards and into my neighbour's ceiling? What if it got soaked right through and fell on their heads? I would never be able to sell this place and make a whopping profit!

S put on his 'man of the house' hat and peered down the pipes as if he could unblock it with his laser vision. When that didn't work, he emptied the steaming contents of the kettle down it. Well, that didn't help one jot as the water stayed put - only now I had a sink full of water to deal with, as well!

As he went to root out the plunger and Mr Muscle's magic concoction, I loaded an Ikea blue bag with the dirty clothes and made my way to the laundromat. The minute I opened the door and stepped in, it was like I had gone behind the laundry world's version of the Iron Curtain. There seemed to be some sort of code to this place and I didn't have a clue what it was. Wrenching the door open, loading the machine, putting some coins in and getting it started, I found later, were the easy bits.

Not wanting to waste the hour it would take for the machine to chomp the dirt out of our clothes, I headed home to check on the progress being made. (And what a mistake that turned out to be!) By then, hubby dear had discovered that Mr Muscle was no match for our pipes and gone onto another stronger product, which promised to burst through the clog and make the pipe's insides look like brand-spanking-new.

Leaving him to his cartload of pipe-clearing products, I went back to the Laundromat, only to learn that these machines took a lot less time to do the washing than my one at home. While I was listening to the relative merits of Cillit Bang vs Mr Muscle, my wash cycle had ended and some one had emptied my sodden clothes into a basket and collared my machine.

Worse, two of the four tumble dryers sported 'Out of Order' signs. So I had to queue behind either a blonde with four bin bags full of dirty clothes and a dangerous looking individual with a bulging tote bag or a tough looking Chinese lady, who looked like she had a never-ending supply of clothes. I decided to go for the Chinese (fellow continent-woman and all that!) and thereby, made my second error of the day.

What I had assumed to be four bin bags full of dirty clothes, turned out to be four bin bags full of clean clothes. Even as I stood slack jawed, the blonde tipped out bag afte bag onto a table and neatly folded the clothes into her humungous hamper. She varied this routine by opening the dryer every once in a while, taking her family's smalls out and folding them into a different basket. By this time, the Chinese lady was joined by her husband and son, who went to a machine each, emptied their loads onto baskets and joined Mum. Mum then proceeded to open the door of her dryer, tipped the contents of the two baskets inside and put about half a million quid worth of coins in. As I stood there gaping like a fish, the timer went up and up, finally stopping at 85 minutes.

Eighty-five bloody minutes, on top of the twenty I have already put in! Someone's having a laugh and it certainly wasn't me!

I decided to put my years of Chennai living to good use (if you have stood outside your house, waiting for the water tank to come and dispense water, you would know what I am talking about!) and join the party. Tugging and shoving in turns, I moved my bag of clothes so it stood directly in front of the dryer. Kin or not, I was not budging for anyone anymore! I casually flipped my book open, lounged against the wall and maintained my position.

While I was deeply engrossed in the antics of Malachi, Gideon and Rebecca, the blonde finished her job and the bachelor with the tote bag dumped his load in, waited around for 20 minutes and cleared the way for the quick-footed brunette who had stood behind him! All the while, I waited like a lemon for my machine to finish drying all the wet clothes in China.

There was mild panic when the machine was still half-way through and Mum pushed my bag rudely out of the way. Even as I was wondering what I would do if she chucked in more clothes, she calmly took some of the dried ones and wandered away, while I breathed out a sigh of relief.

After a mind-numbing, mammoth hour and a half, the machine finally did its job and Mum slowly started emptying its contents into her bags. I stood behind her, hiding the machine and trying to look as menacing as I could armed with a paperback and a sack full of wet clothes. Mum took off, thankfully and I heaved my stuff in, praying the machine won't give up its ghost now that it was my turn. That would have been really the limit!

I nabbed the chair vacated by Mum, plonked it in front of my dryer and continued with my book. Soon enough, the deed was done and a call to the landline ensured the plumber downed tools and doffed the chauffeur's hat, carting me and my clean, fresh-smelling clothes home.

I arrived to see the kitchen in chaos – there were bottles of bleach, assorted chemical products and even a bottle of vinegar, some salt and soda bicard on the floor (well, we do watch How Clean Is Your House?) and assorted bits of pipes. S had finally thrown in the towel and started thumbing through the Yellow Pages for a plumber. Of course, no self-respecting plumber would come immediately and the only one whose diary wasn't booked till the next century offered to come in during the following weekend.

Even as S spluttered down the phone, I went back to my book without a care in the world. After all, I could do my washing at the laundromat down the road. I am not scared; I'm not a virgin anymore - I am a pro!

Tag: now I'm It

2006-10-08T01:10:00.000+01:00

Whoever came up with this cyber tagging, I wanna know? Kishore tells me that he has tagged me and what's more, is gonna put some wacko questions to me that I have to answer. *sigh*

The 'theme' is 'me me me' and here I go!

I am thinking about… how best to avoid the day of chores that awaits me and lounge with my new Nora Roberts instead!

I said… let me be, but no one's listening!

I want to… break free! I want to breeaaak frrreee!

I wish… I could get the hooks and shooks sorted and my novel starts flowing freely.

I hear… thunder, I hear thunder, hark don't you? :)

I wonder… at the miracle of Nature.

I regret… the lost opportunities.

I am… what I am and what I am needs no excuses!

I dance… the merry dance of life!

I sing… in my mind, in the loo, in privacy - for the good of all mankind!

I cry… when I am hurt, when I am moved by a good book or like Kishore, while chopping onions!

I am not always… a nice person!

I make with my hands… some of the world's greatest artworks. Pity they are visible only to folks blessed with X-ray vision!

I write… cos it makes me happy.

I confuse… acquaintances with friends.

I need… the space to be just me.

And finally… Apu, Saks, Sowmya, Qalander and everyone else who has read this - you're tagged!

Call centres: The Great Data Theft

2006-10-06T00:24:00.000+01:00

'Good morning ma'am, my name is Vandana Narayanan, could I please speak to Ms. so&so please.....' If I had a penny for every time a Vandana or an Anil or a Kumar called me from a call centre, I would be a very rich woman. There is no escaping these call centres, they have got us covered. Morning, noon, night - they are there to rouse you out of bed, interrupt your tea, crash in on your family dinners, time after time. That was all they were to me, a nuisance.

Sue Turton has changed all that. On Thursday night's episode of 'Dispatches: The Data Theft Scandal', she brought to the fore what we all fear deep down - some faceless person getting their grubby hands on our personal and financial data and using it to their own means. To find out more about this, Sue visits various places and people across the UK and in India. And what she finds out is fascinating - and more than a little scary.

Turton goes to India to try and find out how easy it is to get the confidential data we innocent people give over the phone on a regular basis, to these nameless strangers. To her own surprise, it turns out to be a not-too difficult task. Posing as a businesswoman who is interested in getting the financial details of UK customers, she soon makes contact with a Mr Arora. He turned out to be a fount of information, this Arora, as he shows her page after page of data 'leads', detailing a caller's name, bank account number, bank sort code, credit card number, the CVV security number etc. Turton tries to disguise her shock by enquiring if this isn't illegal but Arora flatly states 'not at all'!

Then onto Calcutta, where enterprising Mr Chandak goes one step further and proves the authenticity of his 'leads' by playing the voice files of actual telephone conversation between his call centre agent and the unsuspecting caller. All this info for just £8!

In the UK, she talks to a convicted felon who tells how difficult it is to get the data from the call centres. Furthermore, he tells of the number of people who join these call centres with the aim of getting their hands on such data and making money out of them. While in the UK, one has to go via the underworld to get such info, in India, it seems much more easier to lay one's hands on extremely confidential data.

There are brokers whose 'job' is to play the role of middlemen, between the call centres and the buyers, who pay tens of thousands to get hold of these 'hot leads'. What's even more shocking is the role played by the technicians, who come into such places to maintain the hardware and walk away with millions of data stored in the pen drives. 'You wink and it is done', boasts one such middle man.

Then there are these high-class brokers in Hyderabad, who charge upwards of $50 per lead - why? 'Cos theirs is fresh and unused!

Sue Turton, over the course of a year, has managed to open a massive can of worms. The repercussions of this investigation will be manifold. Here in the UK, there's going to be a great deal of panic amongst the public and this would undoubedly be fanned by the media and others disgruntled by the shifting of operations to countries like India and China. Indian government is also going to be under some pressure to put the foreign investors' minds at rest and assure them of data protection. The great boom in the Indian economy owes a great deal to the call centres, BPOs and other associated industries - which could come down like a house of cards if these companies decide to up sticks and move out, en masse.

Will our government step-up? Will we see a marked decrease in call centre-related crimes? We'll know soon! Until then, keep safe!

To Bengal, via the British Museum!

2006-09-29T12:03:00.000+01:00

Last Sunday, self and family decided to make one of our infrequent trips to the metropolis (i.e. London) and see what's happening in the world beyond Small Town, UK. We got off the tube at Tottenham Court Road, neatly avoiding the dodgy laptop salesman-type blokes, Subway markers, bag ladies and other assorted features of hamara London and made our way down Great Russell Street. Of course, before any actual exploration can occur, pit stop is a must.

So, we parked our collective butts at this dinky little cafe and proceeded with the main event. I was less than half way through my falafel, when I heard these beats. At first, I thought I was hallucinating and it was merely my tummy making louder than normal rumbling noises. But very soon, realising that I wasn't the only one hearing things, I decided to explore things further.

Walking towards the British Museum, I realised that the drum beats sounded louder and louder. Peering in through the bars, I almost fell of in surprise - the blokes banging on for all their collective worth wore dhotis, Shiv Sena-type kurtas and had huge tikas on their foreheads - desis!! Now my interest was really piqued and I ventured further, with family following closely behind.

That was when we came face to face with this massive banner bearing the words 'Voices of Bengal' with an orangish Bengal tiger next to it. On closer scrutiny, we learnt that there was an exhibition-in-three-parts happening here and the dhakmen were all part of it. So we stood with the multitude of desis and phoren-looking people, all set to enjoy the show.

The dholakmen had gathered in the huge forecourt in front of the museum and from the look of things, had been going on at it for a good while. But they showed no sign of stopping or even slowing down. Bam, bam, bam they kept on, prancing up and about, pirouetting and generally creating magic. The beats were really beautiful and made it impossible for your feet to stay still. After listening to them for about half-an-hour, we felt compelled to move on but they still carried on.

As soon as we entered the museum, we saw this black bust of Rabindranath Tagore and went in to discover Tagore's sketches. I never knew till that minute that Tagore was an artist - the sketches on display were really good and in pristine condition. They were also showing this short tele-film on Tagore, made by Satyajit Ray. Entitled 'The Art of Peace: Paintings by Tagore', the exhibition was a very personal insight into Bengal's illustrious son.

After roaming past Egypt, Rome, Greece (with a brief halt at the Parthenon) and Africa, we made our way to the fourth floor, where the Myths of Bengal exhibition was being held. This was also a mini-exhibition, giving details of Durga Maa and her various avatars, navratri and so on. The content wasn't too heavy so as to turn the patrons away and not too light that it was airy-fairy. As I went around looking at the dolls, I was introduced to Manasa, the Goddess of Snakes. There was a Satyavan-Savitri type story written on the walls, where the Goddess kills someone only for the wife to bring him back. I never knew that we had a Manasa, Goddess of Snakes! So, it wasn't just the angrez who learnt new things about the desi culture that day!

Finally, we desceded on to the main Great Hall where a pleasant surprise awaited us. There was this massive image of Durga Mata that was being constructed from straw, clay and other assorted stuff, right before the very eyes of everyone passing by. When I saw it, it looked 95% complete - I learnt that it will be completed on September 27th, after which it will be passed on to the Bengal Association where it will be the chief part of their Durga Puja celebrations.

Apart from these, there were also events such as regular talks and discussions being conducted everyday on a wide variety of topics such as Tales of Bengal, Curse of Kali, Making Shola Pith decorations as well as short films on the Devi.

The 'Voices of Bengal' exhibition is organised by the London Camden Bangladeshi Association and is on for most of October. It is definitely worth a visit.

The Hamster is hurt!

2006-09-23T00:14:00.000+01:00

Wednesday, 10:30 pm BST: I was just lounging on the sofa, after a 'welcome back' new season episode of 'Wire in the Blood', when the news anchore of the Late News said the words 'Top Gear's Richard Hammond was injured in a car crash earlier today'. To say I was shell-shocked would be an understatement. I simply could not believe my ears!

My first thought was 'Oh no, the poor bloke must have been driving on the M25'. Later, when fresh details emerged and I learnt that the accident happened during a Top Gear shoot, I was like 'don't tell me they were doing something hair raising again!' And so he was! Trying to break the British land speed record in a dragstyle-type car, Hammond's vehicle 'veered to the right' and flipped even as he was travelling at 300 mph. He was 'critically injured' and emergency services had to cut him out of the car. He was rushed to the Royal Infirmary at Leeds, where he remained in a critical state for two days, before improving enough to be labelled 'stable' by his doctors.

Top Gear is one of UK's favourite motoring programmes and Sundays at 8:00 pm, you would fine self and family glued to the telly, trying to absorb Clarkson, May and Hammond's latest antics. These guys really know their cars and present a show that is informative, entertaining and pure fun, all at the same time.

Richard Hammond, popularly known as 'the Hamster' is a great presenter with a 'try anything once' attitude. Together with Jeremy (Clarkson) and James (May), he has made Top Gear the most delightful show to watch on the telly. The bonhomie, gung-ho attitude and the three contrasting personalities make compulsive TV. Just how popular he is with the British public can be inferred from Jeremy's remarks, ""I would just like to say how heartened Richard will be when I tell him just how many motorists and truck drivers on my way here wound down their windows to say they were rooting for him. Both James and I are looking forward to getting our Hamster back."

Hammond first became introduced to the British public in 1998, when he presented the show Motorweek on the satellite channel Men & Motors. He then did a variety of things before landing his 'dream job' of that of a Top Gear presenter, in 2002. The show, which enjoys an almost cult status, is not new to controversy. In fact, this latest trouble has cast a shadow on its future. Top Gear had received criticism from MPs about its 'obsession with speeds'. Its high octane stunts did not exactly endear itself to road safety campaigners, who claimed it "glamorises speed".

But for motoring enthusiasts like me, the show is a must-watch. Who can forget the time of the Supercar Challenge, when James, Richard and Jeremy crossed the Millau Bridge in France in a Ferrari 430, Pagani Zonda and a Ford GT? Or the other time when they tested remote control cars in a disused quarry? I can still remember Richard just creasing himself, as James tried to manouver the car inside the tent, breaking every single breakable item in it!

Even as Richard lies in his hospital bed, messages are pouring from all over the country, from his fans who are anxious for his recovery. His impish smile, his cheerful persona and sheer delight in his job have made him the darling of the public. I hope to see him back on Top Gear again, just so we can all hear him go one more time, 'I haven't had my teeth whitened!'

Just another manic ....day

2006-09-20T07:12:00.000+01:00

Alarm goes off - brrrr! brrrr! Shit! Forgot to take it off the annoying vibrate mode. Grope under the pillow to locate it before it starts waking up the neighbourhood. Aha! Found it! Shut it, you stupid thing!

Trudge to the loo. Bang into the bedstead, slip over a stray Tesco bag, curse, close the door and sit on the bog for blessed peace. Brush teeth, try to get a semi-kip whilst brushing. Got to change the bettery on the bloody toothbrush - I am doing most of the work, myself.

Stand on the scales, on the balls of my feet, a little bit to the side, squint at the needle. Damn! Still the same!

Start loping off towards kitchen, sidestep a nasty looking Thomas the Tank Engine and switch on the perculator. Soon enough, the fragrant whiffs of coffee slowly prise closed eye lids open. Sip first mouthful of coffee standing at the worktop - ahhh, heaven. Trudge back to the sofa, step on a lego block - damn, it hurts! Wince, hop and sit gingerly on a book, trying not to upset the coffee on the carpet.

Finally! A moment to enjoy that surrealistic experience of the morning coffee.

Thud! The postie is early today. Oh well, better get cracking. Change into running gear, where's that bloody sock gone, gosh this shoe stinks better clean it before it clears the room. Ipod - check.

'Roobarooo... Roshini.....' well, good morning to you too, ARR. Oh! go away, sniffy, mangy, doggy! Look at that bloody time! Argh! Puff, pant! Where's my keys gone? Drat! Oh good morning, nice neighbour.

Whew!

Where's that shirt I pressed last night? Drat! Was there a spot on it then? Oh hell! Well, this one here looks reasonably uncrumpled. Do I have time to steam it? Natch! Would get crumpled en route anyways. Trousers - black or grey? Blue. BOut five minutes early today - cool! oy is the boss man going to be pleased with me today or what?

Doddering old man, out of my way, please. Why did I pick this silly shoe out of all the silly shoes in the shoeniverse? The bloody thing's hungry all the time. Chews my poor feet to pieces every time. And why does the light change to green the minute I go near a crossing? Jab the button, please change, please change to the little green walking man.

Hmm, traffic is light today. That's rare. Oh well, more space in the road for me. 'New York Nagaram, urangum neram...' man! do I love that song or what. Puts a nice spring on my step, that song does. Whoa! Why are you cleaning the pavement today, man? That's what the weekends are for!

Finally! Made it - ooh! Where's the stupid security man gone? I ain't that early - they haven't even opened the bloody joint yet. Gawd! Well, I might as well trot off to the newsagents and get me a paper. I feel like Daily Mail today.

Smile at the lech at the tills - where's the stupid paper when you want it? Daily Mail, Daily Mail.. Why are there silly Mail on Sunday everywhere? There's just stupid Sunday papers in every.... Oh no! Oh no no no! Don't tell me - it's bloody Sunday today!

My book: To Kill a Mockingbird

2006-09-16T23:06:00.000+01:00

How many times have I picked up this Harper Lee classic? I have lost count. The first time I chanced upon it was in 6th standard, when I ventured into the 'Seniors' part of the school library by mistake and picked this gem up as it was lying on the table. Thus, Scout, Jem and Atticus entered my life.

Since then, I have read this book many a time - my own copy was so battered that I bought myself a new one once I landed in London. At many different times of my life, the book has meant different things to me. That first time, it was completely Scout and her viewpoint that occupied me. I laughed at her attempts to bring out Boo Radley, cheered her on when she fought with Jem, wondered about that first kiss when she kissed Dill, thought of my own first (disastrous!) school stage show as I read about her no show as a ham.... well, I could go on!

Couple of years later, it was the adolescent Jem Finch who spoke to me. His tolerance of his pesky kid sister, his turmoils as he was caught between his childhood and the world of the adults, his quiet understanding of the changes that were happening in his once safe world... it was like I knew Jem intimately.

Once I hit college, the book sort of took on a new facet - that of the ultimate parent guide. (Now don't read too much into it!) Atticus Finch, I still reckon, is the best dad ever. His way of dealing with his children, though unorthodox, is fair and just and I tell myself 'if only I could be so with my own child'. The conversation with his brother when he chides Jack for sidestepping the issue when Scout asks a question, is brilliant.

One of my favourite 'scenes' from the book is when Atticus gives them the gun for Christmas and tells them he'd rather they shoot at tin cans than birds.

"... shoot all the blue jays you want; but remember it is a sin to kill a mockingbird, because mockingbirds don't do anything but make music for us to enjoy. "

This book has it all - humour, sarcasm, thrill, social issues, community, class system - there are so many different angles to this book, I feel I still haven't figured it all out. Each time I read it, I discover something new about it. As a wannabe writer, I am in awe of the author's ability to bring across the difficult concept of race, through the innocent eyes of a child's.

An extremely touchy and heavy subject, portrayed in such a beautiful way that it remains in your heart long after you finished reading it.

No moooore milk?

2006-09-13T07:38:00.000+01:00

About to drink your afternoon cuppa? Don't! It may well contain more chemicals than your favourite cola brand. Surprised? Well, I was too, after reading this article in TOI.

So our friendly neighbourhood cow is more harmful than the coloured water. Hmm, I have to admit, I really cannot accept that as a fact. Detractors could argue that it could purely be because of all that is associated with milk - milk is almost a synonym for purity, isn't it? Milk-teeth, innocent as a babe smelling of milk (well, paal manam maara kozhandai, in Tamil), milk of human kindness..., well you get my drift.

The author, in his piece, states that humans are the only beings that drink the milk of other species long after they have been weaned off their mother. While this is true, the statement cracked me up. In my mind's eye, I could see a tiger cub standing in queue outside a cow shed, patiently waiting his turn. Of course no other species drinks the milk of other animals - the whole argument is ridiculous!

The very idea of giving milk a bad press seems quite crazy to me. So, what is so wrong with milk anyway? If it is the concept of antigens and what nots, then what would happen to all the meat eaters? These days, one can eat anything from a garden variety chicken to zebra or kangaroo meat. Doesn't that bring in the baddies present in those beings into the human chain? Is veganism the answer then?

When I went on a holiday to Amsterdam a couple of years back with my family, my son happily guzzled down bottle after bottle of yummy cow's milk (the cows there were huge, let me tell you!) and was happy as Larry! He didn't touch a single solid food item, barring a few McChips but was none the worse for it cos good ole milk kept his tum full. Now I have this geezer telling me that it is a big no-no!

Let me unravel this yarn and see how far it goes - we say 'bye bye' to milk. OK then - next to follow would be curds (I can imagine my granny's reaction if her daily thayir sadam is taken off the menu!), cheese, chocolates, cream, cakes, doughnuts, pizza.. in short, all that is nice and good in this world! What does that leave out for poor ole vegetarian me? Grass! Great!

But what worries me is not the men, women and children guzzling down milk by the gallons - Lord knows, living in our towns and cities, they would have immunity against almost all of the known and most of the unknown germs as well. I am worried about our Gods who drink milk - they wouldn't have any protection against pesticide-laced cow juice, now, would they?

Schumey says 'arrivederci'

2006-09-10T19:18:00.000+01:00

Amidst the sea of red, the prancing horses were flying high. The clarion sounded loud and clear while the Ferrari streaked past checker flag. Michael Schumacher had won - for the 90th time! There were the jubiliant crowd scenes as always, popping champagne corks, Jean Todt, cheering mechanics - but something was amiss.

Within couple of minutes though, it became clear as the great man announced that he would retire from motor sports at the end of the year. Though there were rumours going round that Michael was going to announce his retirement soon but things came to a head on Saturday, when he told a packed audience of reporters that he would make a proper announcement after Sunday's race.

It was Eddie Jordon who spotted the raw talent in Michael and signed up the 21-year old unknown at the 1991 Belgian Grand Prix. Soon enough, he moved to the Benetton team and won the 1994 and 1995 world championship and moved to Ferrari the next year.

Ferrari were an uncompetitive team in 1996; their last driver's championship was in 1979, with Jody Scheckter. But Michael turned the team around and won his third world championship on a Ferrari in 2000. From then on, he was virtually unbeatable - his best year was 2004, when he won 13 of the 18 races. In fact, he had won the championship in July, after Silverstone!

Schumacher was never far away from controversies. F1 fans will remember the Damon Hill years, when Schumey and Damon went almost head to head more than once. And who can forget the 'team orders', when, during the 2002 Austrian Grand Prix, race leader Barrichello was forced to step aside and let Mikey win? There was none more embarassed than Michael on the podium, as he tried to make a stoic Reubens take the podium.

Michael has been called many things and one of my favourite Mikey nick names is 'rain master'. He is an absolute wizard at driving under wet conditions; though Ayrton Senna had an uncanny ability in this aspect, Mikey's own is nothing to sneeze at.

His flamboyant style, the trademark jumps in the air post-win, the national anthem conducting styles... all of these will be missed sorely. Though his detractors have called him a poor sportsman for his ruthless attitude on the track, his affection for his mechanics is visible for all to see. Every single time, including the last, after he has won a race, he makes a beeline towards his team of mechanics and hugs every single one of them.

There has never been such a charismatic ambassador for Motor sport and there never will be another Schumacher. And I, for one, would be sad to see him go.

But I hope he goes with a bang, as he deserves to. Here's to your 8th championship crown, Mikey!

"Today, we celebrate our Independence day..."

2006-08-15T23:44:00.000+01:00

August 15 - whenever this day comes around, it always brings to my mind, the song "Fanaa" from the Mani Ratnam movie Ayutha Ezhuthu (Yuva in Hindi). Sid and Trisha are bouncing up and down on the dance floor and Trish quips "this is my last August 15". This bought a huge bubble of laughter to my throat when I watched the scene for the very first time.

Never once in the 23 years that I spent in India did I actually acknowledge August 15 - certainly not by celebrating it at the local disco! But that's in the past. Being gazillions of miles away from the homeland makes the well of patriotism rise up and swell periodically and August 15 is recognised with the cry of "Happy Independence Day" at the sight of every desi.

At the height of irony is my location - celebrating Independence Day, sitting comfortably in my chair in merry England. Well, what does that say? I suddenly realised this yesterday when I blurted out to my colleagues "Well, hell, tomorrow is Independence Day" and one of them went "Isn't that on July 4?". To which I parried "Only if I am American, which I sure ain't!!". This brought the question, "Who did you get your independence from then?" I just looked at everyone and went "Well, you lot!" and there was absolute silence for two minutes after which one went "oh, yeah" while the rest just grinned.

All this brings to my mind the question - how to commomerate our Independence Day? I do believe it should be celebrated in some way, at least as a way of appreciating and recognising the sacrifice of the millions of freedom fighters who cheerfully gave their lives so their future generations could breathe the free air. (Quoting Rakesh Mehra here!) We all know who Bhagat Singh is now, thanks to RDB - but how many know Vanchinathan, who was strung up in the rail station of Maniyachi? There are so many unsung heroes, who deserve to be remembered.

In that sense, should Independence Day be more of a Thanksgiving Day?

Of Paper Tigers and false bravery

2006-07-27T21:02:00.000+01:00

Dedicated to my fellow (disgruntled) DC writers in recognition of their literary efforts.

A phrase used by our own temporal in response to one of my comments stuck in my mind - paper tigers. This was with reference to all those 'critics' who jump on a blog author's throat no matter what the blog is about and generally do a 'Mexican three bean dance' (another one of t's gems!) over the tiniest issue. No matter if the issue in question is a random innocent remark - it would still get jumped on by these paper tigers like vultures on carcass.

That set me thinking. Why? Why would you rip the throat of a nameless, faceless stranger who's just sharing some blog space with you over anything? Why such intense, strong reactions, such caustic attacks? Would you behave the same way face to face?

The answer, simply, is no.

Face to face, you are forced to put on a mantle of civil respectability and manners, and behave like a civilised human being - not like a gorilla on Speed. But from the safety of your own home, hiding behind the anonymity of the computer, one sort of breaks free of the shackles of society-imposed propriety and lets loose the inner animal.

The first time I came under a direct attack, (well, as direct as one can get in cyber space!) I was taken aback! Such vehemence, such venom - not what you expect in response to an opinion you have expressed, surely! But after the first couple (of hundred) of insults and random attacks, I got used to it - in fact, have even come to expect it! It's a sad, sad situation and its getting more n more absurd.

How do you identify a paper tiger?

By its growl. No, this is not a PJ but pure fact. These paper tigers cannot but help growling - they do so freely, without any qualm, at every single thing that might or might not come their way. They also are a lot more vehement than the average Joe. Rather free too, with curses and swear words.

They come in all shapes and forms - some of them are part-time doctors ("DesiGirl, better take your Ritalin"), while others are a bit confused on the gender issue ("NYMOM uncle or auntie"; "Desigirl uncle or auntie"). Some of them are blessed with Sight ("watch out! Once 498a becomes a reality, then pop goes the weasel"). But all of them share one common trait - complete and utter inability to follow the plot. Navigators they ain't, coz they are prone to go off on a tangent, far and away from where the post in leading.

So, what next?

Well, you can deal with this in couple of different ways - the most sensible of these would be to just ignore them and carry on as normal. Easier said than done, I know. When you have bashed your head against the wall, trying to turn out a post that means something to you, it cannot be exactly soothing to your soul to find that a few paper tigers have come and made mincemeat of it in your absense.

That's when you go with option 2: counter-attack. Nothing is more satisfying than this, I should say. I know it is not as sensible as turning the other cheek - but sometimes, this sane action can get interpreted as cowardice and cause much jubliation in the tigers' midst, which in turn makes them even more rampant. Going on the warpath might just dispel this feeling of euphoria amongst the tigers.

Option three is a version of option 1 - to try and see the funny side of it. Again, easier said than done, I know! But this makes sure your blood pressure doesn't shoot up or you end up chucking your PC in the bin. At times like this, friends come in handy - Saks and t came to my rescue recently by composing songs / poems and cracked me up, thereby forcing me to stop seeing red.

All in all, these tigers are part of our fauna - deal with them, we have to. Funny part of all this is that some of these tigers profess to help those in despair from killing themselves or doing something else equally extreme, in their regular guise - what they fail to see is that, in the meanwhile, in cyberspace, the land of the brave and home of the free, they are driving us poor souls to therapy!

Let it not cost the Earth!

2006-07-16T20:30:00.000+01:00

Today was a scorcher. The weather forecaster on last night's news predicted 28°C but I suspect it was more than that. I found out just now that elsewhere in Britan it soared up to 38.1°C(100.6°F), making it the hottest day EVER! To my mates in Chennai, it might seem like I am kicking a fuss over nothing or I am becoming a firengi, if I am moaning about a warm day like today.

The thing is, I am concerned - no, strike that, I am worried! I came to the UK five years back and that year, it hit 23°C one solitary day in July and that was the only day I dared to go outside without the company of my overcoat. But over the years, warm summer days are becoming more and more regular and over the course of the following week, it is supposed to become more and more hot. 38°C in Brentwood on Wednesday - 10°C hotter than today - my mind boggles!

Most of my angrezi friends here can't be happier. They love the sunny weather and most of them were lying about in their lawns today, getting all nice and brown. How come no one is worried that it is becoming hotter and hotter? In Chennai, where it used to hover around 38 during the agni nakshatram (loosely translated, fire star - the hottest part of the year), it regularly tops off at 45°C.

And it isn't looking likely to change for the better anymore. Cos global warming is here to stay. We are changing our planet's geographical makeup slowly but surely, not understanding that we are heading towards the point of no return, beyong which the changes would be irrevocable.

Almost every step we take forward in the form of technology, has a negative impact on our planet. Take something like flying, for example. India is devoloping on all fronts and we now have low-cost, budget airlines much like the rest of the world. Like one of my friends in India put it, it costs less to fly to London that to Delhi. All this equals great news, isn't it? Your mum can fly out to see you in Timbuktu couple of times a year now!

Wrong! Low-cost airlines, while equalling comfort, more starkly mean we are exponentially increasing our carbon footprint. With the world becoming smaller, our carbon footprint becomes bigger and bigger as the day goes by. Pretty soon, a torrid day and the price of mineral water going up yet again would be the least of our worries.

It is time we started making major lifestyle changes to make up for raping our planet of its delicate balance. First on that list would be to switch off the TV, computer and other assorted electical stuff around the home, just before we hit the sack at night. Leaving things on stand by is just as bad as having them on all day long.

Another way of helping things is to reduce the usage of cars and bikes. While it is not feasible to take the train from Washington to Bangalore, you can do something to negate the bad effects of air travel by carbon offsetting. What is that, you ask? According to carbonfootprint.com, carbon offsets enable people and organisations to reduce their carbon footprint. Carbon Offsets allow carbon dioxide, one of the main green house gases, to be either taken out of the atmosphere or reduced in another part of the world.

This can be something simple like planting a tree to changing to a green energy supplier for your electricity. Whatever the method is, we have to start doing something straight away.

Or, we could carry on as before and not do anything. Planting one solitary tree isn't going to help much, is it? What is the worst that could happen, anyway? Well, nobody knows one could predict exactly how bad it could all end up being - but of one thing I am certain - it would be one heck of a show!

It's Time to Stop Being the Victim

2006-07-12T20:23:00.000+01:00

Less than twenty-four hours after the first blast and the mud-slinging has started. All the political bigwigs are at it again - pointing fingers at everyone else and trying to pin the blame on someone for yesterday's atrocious acts of violence and murder.

For that is what is was - cold-blooded, calculated mass murder of innocents who did nothing but take that particular train for their journey home. Home to their children, parents, pets - but never got there. Hundreds of lives were rudely cut off because some fanatics got it into their heads that they would kill, maim and murder some innocent people of Mumbai. Why? Just 'cos they could do it! In the name of God, religion, righteous beliefs - nah! This is about power and nothing else. Everything else is a front, a façade to give their 'image' a boost.

Saddened though I am by yesterday's happenings, the chief emotion in my heart, that fills my very being now, is anger. Anger that this has been done to our people again! Lots of talks in the media about the blasts of 1993, more recently the IIS-B attacks - what is the point? What has been done since then to a. prevent such an event from occuring again b. form an effective emergency services in the form of police, ambulance and fire services?

One word - zilch!

All the news clips that have been shown till now have images of people lying broken and bleeding and police officers strutting about the place, talking to media. Nowhere did I see an EMT tending to the wounded or an ambulance speeding away. But there were lots of pictures of the general public lending not just a solitary helping hand but jumping headlong into rescuing trapped survivors. (Aside: Readers' Digest - is this the rudest city? May be they didn't hold doors but they came to their fellowmen's aid when it was needed. Now put that in your pipe and smoke it!)

Will our so-called leaders ever learn? Will they stop looting the country and stuffing their pockets and actually do something good for the country? I was reading a book the other day, which was set in Mali, Africa. The country's economy is described to have been 'raped' by the powers that be, that the poor are languishing in the streets. Well, that may not be the scenario in India (not completely - yet!), our country's prospering at a rapid clip inspite of the buffoons that claim to run it. If a country can do so well inspite of our bevy of corrupt politicians and officials, how well can it do if we actually cleanse our systems of them?

This might be a load of baloney but something has to be done. We cannot be bombed in our homes, trains, roads at any time of day or night and carry on doing what we were doing before that, for ever. Like Sukhi's famous line from Rang De Basanti, 'even an ant reacts if you step on it, but we don't'.

True enough!

It is time we reacted. We have been targets, victims long enough.

It's time.

My favourite World Cup moment

2006-07-10T18:36:00.000+01:00

Well, that phenomenon called the World Cup is almost over - hard to believe it after months of anticipation and tension. After England were booted out of the competition, I have to admit that I could watch the matches without chewing my nails out.

Even though the glory of the Finals await us, I had my favourite moment of World Cup when France played Portugal. Cristiano Ronaldo in tears made my day! After his antics on the ground, during their game against England have turned me firmly against him. If I saw red when he bounded out of nowhere to egg the umpire against Rooney, it was nothing short of apoplectic when he winked at his team mates after poor Rooney was shown the red card.

His comeuppance came against France when Portugal lost and he was booed every time he moved a muscle. Ah it was a joy to behold! He is reported to have said that the booing never bothered him - in fact, it egged him on to play better. According to him, people boo 'cos he is a dangerous playing and he is just that - a dangerous player.

Well I have news for you mate - they booed solely because you played dirty!

Meanwhile, some enterprising souls have taken it upon themselves to decorate his house in Manchester - the exterior of his house is papered with the St.George's flag! I can imagine the look on his face when he lands in Manchester and sees the new decor!

But what interests me greatly is, how he is going to fare at Man U. He seems to have burned his bridges here and his actions have turned every single English / Man U fan against him. These fans are not going to forgive and forget so easily. Being able to pooh-pooh the crowd's negative reaction when surrounded by your own countrymen in a neutral territory is one thing, playing for an English club, in England, with Englishmen is going to be a completely new ball game (pardon the pun!). The welcome party Man U fans are planning would make the booing and the rude calls seem like picnic.

Good luck Cristiano, ole chap - you are going to need it!

The day I became my own critic

2006-06-04T12:52:00.000+01:00

*** SPOILER WARNING: While I have tried my best not to give the plot and the ending away, you might come across some surprising bits from the movie Fanaa, so please be warned ***

Last night, I went out to see Fanaa with my family. After a long time, we went to a movie hall to see an Indian movie, rather than waiting for the DVDs to arrive and catch the flick sitting comfortably in our lounge. But this time, I wanted to make up for missing RDB on the big screen so I decided that we shall make the trip to the cinema and catch Kajol & Aamir in action.

I 'prepared' for this outing by listening to the songs so I can get into the groove. It gave me an idea of what the movie is going to be - you can guess that there's a kid in the movie after listening to the song 'Chanda Chamke'; 'Des Rangila', the typical NRI song (which makes our expat hearts beat fast with its strains of Vande Mataram), is bound to be an on-stage number - well, you get the picture.

After the movie, my first thought was 'hmm, not a bad movie - good timepass'. There were bits were the implaucibility of the plot was almost laughable but I thought, well, let's not nit-pick here. Let us excuse poor Mr Kohli of his minor misdemeanors and rise above it. Kajol looked amazing; Aamir looked super cool as he strolled across the airport and the locations were pretty fab.

Of course, by then, the songs were buzzing non-stop in my head and I was playing them in my iPod on the way home as well. Had a discussion about the movie with the half a dozen mates I bumped into at the temple and the restaurant we went to afterwards and heard favourable noises from most.

Then I logged onto the 'Net today morning and one of the first things I read was the review in Rediff. Suffice to say, after reading it my enthu levels dipped. I began questioning myself - did I really enjoy the movie last night? Was it worth enjoying? None of the reviewers had said much in favour of it. They had taken it apart bit by bit and it wasn't a pretty sight.

Am I such a bad judge of movies?

Then I sat thinking of all the times I had gone to the movies and come back to find that none other than me liked it much. After that, I didn't like that movie either and this trend has continued pretty much on and off over the years.

But what is the point of a movie anyway? Is it to take you to a different plane, a different zone as such for 2.5 hours? Is it to make you forget the marital squabbles, exam results, work deadlines and all the other strands of reality for the span of the movie? And what makes it a 'good' one? A great storyline, fantastic plot execution, brilliant cinematography, a fab casting, feet stomping music - or should it leave you with a feeling of not just having spent £6.80 on tickets plus £10 on popcorn, fizzy pops in return for a thumping mad headache?

I think from now on, I shall decide if a movie is good or not by checking with my internal monitor - do I like it? Yes? Then it is a good movie. Was it a bit of a blah? Then I shall give it a 10 on the headacho meter. And bully to the critics!

Live it up, girls!

2006-05-31T09:00:00.000+01:00

Last Saturday, when I was well into my weekly marathon yakking sessions with my mum back in Chennai, she gave me a piece of news that jolted me. One of the girls from my old school, a girl 7 years younger than myself, had just committed suicide.

I was like 'WHAT?' She also said a friend of hers killed herself the month before. What is happening to our youngsters? What prompts a 21-year-old, one who's on the threshold of her life, to just end it, when the whole life is out there, just waiting to be lived?

The girls in question were just making their mark as playback singers in the Tamil movie industry and I am sure, had their lives not been so rudely cut off, gone on to make it big. So what would prompt them to just give up on everything and take their own lives?

Is it a rash action of a moment? Is it a pre-meditated act? Or is it just a cry for help?

A few years back, I remember reading about the death of former beauty queen, model and VJ, Nafisa Joseph. I think her fiance jilted her and she killed herself or something. I remember thinking, if a worldly-wise woman, who must have seen a few things in her modelling career cannot hack it, what sort of message does that send to the younger ones. Now it is 20 and 21-year olds that are going down that route.

I hear words like 'love failure' too often these days. Maybe it is cynical of me, but I cannot help thinking 'so what?' Your own life should be worth more than the so-called love of the person who jilts you, shouldn't it? Who knows, one might be well off not being with such a person - a few tears now is better than a life sentence, surely.

At times like this, I think the Western concept of casual dating is a good one. You date a couple of guys (or girls) - hang out, go out to dinner, disco and if you aren't compatible, then break it off and get on with your lives. The desi concept of dating, wherein if you go out with a person, then they are 'it' might not be such a great thing, especially if the bloke turns out to be a cad.

The problem with this idea though, is the mentality of certain young men out there. If a girl has a couple of boyfriends, then she is considered 'loose', as in, morally (not mental!). I have seen loads of guys who 'road-test' by dating a few girls before settling down with a proper girl as chosen by their mums. Aren't they loose as well? But we all know it is predominantly a man's world out there, don't we? So what is the solution then?

I feel that dating shouldn't be a taboo concept any longer. I know times are a'changing and we see loads of couples hanging out in the metros these days but in Chennai, it isn't as prevalent as it maybe in other places. No more 'chup chup ke' stuff please. Going out with a girl / guy isn't exactly something to be ashamed of, is it?

More importantly, it isn't like the end of the world if you are jilted, thought it might feel so at that moment. Finally, here is my plea to the young 'uns out there - please love yourself a bit more than you love your 'beloved'. It just might save your life!

Can also be found at Desicritics

K(T)ollywood gripe

2006-05-30T15:52:00.000+01:00

I have got a number of gripes regarding the Indian music industry and I am going to list them here, so I may try to get some answers for them.

Gripe I

Has anyone noticed the increasing number of Hindi singers belting out songs in Tamizh and Telugu movies these days? Even as I type this statement, Adnan Sami and Sadhana Sargam are belting out 'Boom Boom' in my ears, so that sort of segues well into the point I am trying to make here. Though I love the song and it always makes me do a (mental!) jive, I still cannot understand the reasoning behind it.

What reason, you ask. Let me elaborate. I am all for the North-South unity, mera bharat mahan and all that, make no mistake. I really love our desi filmi music and fully support A R Rahman's aim to bring the country together through music. But when I hear Udit Narayan trying to wrap his tongue around the difficult Tamizh sounds, I cannot help wondering why the music director couldn't a Tamizh speaker to sing the song. I don't think there are many people around the country who can speak Tamizh or Telugu, unless it is their mother tongue. These languages aren't like Hindi, which being the national language and all, is fed to one and all across the length and breadth of our nation.

Time was, when it was considered quite hip to speak the language if it was an alien tongue and the mauling it received at the hands (tongues?!) of the perky teen VJs of the various music channels was absolutely horrible. But of late, thanks to the new breed of singers like Karthik, Harini, Tippu etc, whose pronounciation is excellent, it is slowly becoming safer and cool to admit that you can speak the language after all.

So why do we still get people who 1. do not understand what they are singing about 2. cannot pronounce the words properly?

Gripe II

English words in songs - sometimes, whole sentences - why? Take the song Dating from Boys. If you listen to it on its own, you might have a tough time believing it to be a song from a Tamizh movie. Tamizh words in the song are few and far between. How can it be labelled a Tamizh song then?

In this aspect, I like the way Bollywood music directors think - if you cannot speak Hindi, you cannot sing. Maybe I have lived a sheltered life, but I haven't heard a singer muddle through a song and come back to sing another song the next day. Listen to Shaan singing Chand Sifarish - the beauty of the song is heightened by the way in which the singer sings it. If, on the other hand, he had bit his tongue trying to pronounce the words, the song wouldn't have been half the hit it is.

So, Tollywood and Kollywood music directors - from now on, can we have singers who can actually speak the language sing us songs please? It is not only cool, it actually is quite melodious.

It also has the added advantage of making it easy for us to teach our young ones our languages as well!

Also appears at Desicritics

That unique hybrid called a NRI

2006-05-19T12:28:00.000+01:00

I have been living outside India for five years now and I haven’t forgotten the advice one of my close friends, who was living in America, gave me. She said ‘the NRIs are the worst kind of hybrid people you can bump into – and bump into them, you will. They have shed all the good qualities of our culture and have grabbed hold of the not so nice ones of the Western culture. The resultant mix isn’t a pretty sight.’

I thought this was just my ole cynical mate being her usual, you know, cynical self. But in these five years, I have come across some people who have really made me think about those comments made by my friend. From what I have seen, these beauties can be slotted into the following categories:

The Queen Bees: these are the women (ladies?) that have been settled in the foreign country for at least a year more than the earliest emigrant. They tend to act quite hoity-toity to the newcomers and have an affected accent. Getting invitations to their parties would be quite hard.

The Gatherers: These are the women who make it a point to make new friends. It is almost like a mission – they’d rather have 1000 entries in their address book under ‘Acquaintance’ than one under ‘Friend’. What’s more, they shed old friends like old clothes – once a new face comes in, old ‘friends’ usually become stale to them.

The Uppity ones: These are the grand-dames. They will never talk to anyone unless they are addressed to first. Even if you literally walk into them on the streets, they will pretend not to have noticed you till the minute you say 'hello’. Their offspring are usually reputed to emulate Abhimanyu – whatever the apple of your eye has done, theirs has done at least a year before.

The ulta-desis: These are the ekdum desi women. When they go home for the holidays, they preen about in jeans and talk with a false accent about Tesco and Sainsbury’s to the complete awe of the village. But when they land at Heathrow, out come the salwar kameezes and the tika bindis.

Apart from these, there are also the normal, seedha-saadha ones like Yours Truly, who doesn’t fit into any of these and has a grand time observing the antics of the various members of the above mentioned groups. 

[This is not an attack on anyone out there – just a satirical look at some of the unfortunate beauties I have met so far in my life! Get out your bottle of Humour potion and take a hefty dose of it before you delve into the blog. ]

Tom Riddle and Anakin Skywalker: a parallel

2006-05-18T20:56:00.000+01:00

I started re-reading my battered copy of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince for the nth time yesterday. Yes, I am one of those sad 'adults' who reads Harry Potter for pleasure. But I feel that the magic of J K Rowling (pardon the pun!) has been slipping for a while now. She hit top form with Goblet of Fire. With Order of Phoenix she seemed to have fine-tuned the art of waffling. HBP - well, I have to say, was a huge disappointment of mammoth proportions. Agreeably, the subtle nuances of the story hasn't penetrated my think skull yet but I am yet to see the sanity in killing Dumbledore off.

But as I delved deeper and deeper into Pensieve and saw Tom Riddle as he slowly metamorphosed into Lord Voldemort, I couldn't help thinking how similar this was to Anakin Skywalker as he slowly walked down the Sith way of life. They were both young enough when they changed from what they were into the extremely powerful beings they end up being.

But therein ends the similarity. While Tom Riddle seems to have been bent on turning Dark (was he ever a good wizard?), Anakin didn't start out liking the Dark side. Tom didn't believe in what Dumbledore calls 'the oldest kind of magic' - in fact, he scoffs at it. On the other hand, it is love that makes Anakin Skywalker let in fear and fear is the first step towards the Dark side.

Tom Riddle is the quintessential leader; he doesn't let anyone tell him what to do nor does he let anyone in too close to him. Anakin Skywalker, on the other hand, is easily influenced - first by his master, Obi-wan Kenobi and later by Senator Palpatine. This continues to the very end, until young Luke Skywalker comes in and breaks the link.

So, is Anakin weaker because he let in love, therein fear, which ultimately caused his downfall? Is this not against Dumbledore's tenet that love is the greatest magic of all? When you look at it, Lord Voldemort seems lot more competant and together than Anakin Skywalker, who seems more a mass of confusions, fear and hate.

But who really is the stronger, meaner and ultimately powerful of the two - Lord Voldemort or Darth Vader? You decide!

Can also be found at Desicritics

Of rose-tinted views and evergreen loves

2006-05-18T08:02:00.000+01:00

Some of my most favourite songs in Indian movies are those from the Tamil movie 'Alaipayuthey' (Saathiya was a very diluted effort in Hindi, IMHO). A R Rahman's music was fabulous, as always, as he elevated even the wedding mantras that are oft repeated by the purohits in a bored monotone, to the heights of cooldom, with his 'Mangalyam' number.

But today, as I was listening to it while washing the dishes, I couldn't help but wonder about the whys and wherefores of the lyrics. The 'hero' character sings about his beloved in such poetical and glowing terms that it is guaranteed to make the knees of any desi girl go weak. It is either 'endless smiles forever, I was born a hundred times just for this day' or the 'love kabaddi' (a la 'Shikdum'!) where the girl is to taunt and tease him with her various antics. There is also this evergreen song where he compares every single colour in the spectrum to his lady love.

All this is great, just dandy. What I do not understand is, what is the inspiration for all this? These big-time declarations of 'luurve' that are nowhere to be found in our society. All these men who woo their dilbaras, whatever happens to them once the objective has been reached? Boys who supposedly chased the girls till she gave in seem to give up on them once the mangalsutra is on her neck. I have never seen a husband voluntarily hold his wife's hands, especially in front of family. In fact, the norm is pretty much to pretend that you don't really know each other all that well. Why? Ma won't be happy, will she?

My friend recently forwarded a 'joke' to me about the difference in a romance at various points in life - 6 weeks, 6 months, 6 years. The change, of course, is quite dramatic, from 'Hi honey' of 6 weeks to 'hey you!' of 6 years!! What a shame!

Last night, I watched this Telugu blockbuster 'Nuvvostanante Nennodantana', starring RDB's Karan Singhania, Siddharth, in the main role. The things he does to win the girl's hand is unbelievable. This boy, a rich NRI kid from London, chucks everything away and settles down in his sweetheart's village, where he suffers untold agonies in the form of eating really, horribly spicy food (he is afterall, an NRI yaar, go easy on him!), cleans the cow sheds, milks the cow and gets doused with its wee while he's at it - and the list continues. As I saw himtry to catch a good night's sleep on the hard ground, my heart bled for this young man who so carelessly gave up his Down-stuffed Silent Night mattress.

Okay, okay I know movies and reality can and should never be clubbed together even in the same sentence. But the moviemakers cannot be extrapolating things to such a degree that the result is a 180 degree ulta of real life, can they? Not to a nation where the menfolk aren't exactly pampering their wives silly by getting them flowers everyday and romancing the be-jesus out of them?

So why are our lyricists and movie makers still feeding the poor girls of today such overwhelmingly beautiful scenarios wherein the man of their dreams will woo them to the ends of the world? Aren't they setting everyone up for a rather steep fall?

Or is it just my cynical self coming to the fore?

PS: Can I just say this isn't an attack on the desi men around the world so please do not slag me off too much. I just would like to understand the fundas of the masala we are fed on a daily basis, that's all!

Also available at http://desicritics.org/2006/05/18/143846.php

My Pet Peeve #1

2006-05-16T12:44:00.000+01:00

Last Spring, I happened to spend about 8 days in Switzerland with my family. As we went on our own, we did pretty much our own thing. This meant that we managed to see most of the things in Switzerland the way we wanted to – plus we also had a glimpse of the Swiss way of life. Marvellous experience, though it almost blew the bank away!

As we traipsed up and down the snowy mountains, drove by lakes, gawked at rusty armours in archaic castles, all I could feel was anger – and a little bit of despair. And those feelings were directed at the state of tourism in my own country.

India has a phenomenal number of national monuments, castles, lakes, caves, beaches – you name it, we have it. The Himalayas are some of the most beautiful and the tallest mountain ranges in the world. As I stood on ‘Top of Europe’, I couldn’t help thinking ‘this mountain is like a third of Mt Everest!’ The land is littered with castles and forts left over from the days when kings and queens ruled us. They have also left behind some fantastically carved rocks and caves in Mamallapuram (or Mahabalipuram), Elephanta, Konark, Ajanta and Ellora.

We can boast of the world’s second largest coastline –but filthy and unkempt isn’t the look to aim for if we want to attract travellers from all over the world. From Kashmir to Kanyakumari, we have an abundance of beautiful spots, to attract every single type of holidaymaker. But does anyone know of them? No. Do we market any of these fantastic spots? Not really. Is any of it maintained attractively enough for people to say ‘You know, I would like to go to that place again’? No way!

Why? What is our Ministry of Tourism do anyway? What are they promoting? How are they selling the beautiful gems of our country to the world?

Marketing and merchandising are two words that don’t necessarily exist in our dictionaries. Well, merchandising certainly doesn’t. You go to any place in the world, you will find shops selling stuff from fridge magnets, key rings, scarves, carvings, stuffed toys, masks – you get the picture. What sort of tourist merchandise have we got?

Last month, when I went home for my holidays, folks at work wanted me to get them some fridge magnets that depict India. Try as I might, I couldn’t locate a single one. I finally settled for a small carving of Lord Ganesha’s face, which had a piece of sticky tape on its back!

When is our Tourist industry going to wake up?

Also appears at http://desicritics.org/2006/05/16/115355.php

What am I doing?

2006-05-15T15:27:00.000+01:00

I am seriously wondering where I am going, what I am doing.... I mean, does anyone really know or do they just pretend to? I was reading something in the papers the other day about this 25-year old bloke who chucked about 14 lucrative jobs to follow his dream in an entirely unrelated field. That takes guts, I think - or sheer bullheadedness, take your pick.
I wish I knew exactly where I want to go. Time was when I thought I did - those days are long gone. Now it is just a daily muddle from one day to another, which is pretty much the same. If you ask me what I did about 215 days back, it must have been quite similar to today. That's depressing, eh?