iissarayu

Stereotypes

2012-01-22T11:09:00.000-08:00

Of course I speak good English, you moron.

Several people here have expressed surprise (I can only hope it was pleasant) that I speak and write 'well'. Really? In this day and age?

Stereotypes are handy - they are a great way to predict and respond to behaviour you find alien (e.g. eating a tub of ice-cream after you break-up) or amusing. It is nice to see people not be stereotypical; just don't say it.

And while we're at it, I didn't have an arranged marriage.

Karma

2012-01-18T03:25:00.000-08:00

Karma catches up.

Home

2012-01-18T03:15:00.000-08:00

Free baggage carts. Idlis on demand. One-ways and reverse honks. Businessman. Fab India kurtas and slippers, though it is winter. Mor kozhambu + rasam + beans and carrot curry + raw banana curry + papad + dal + rice for lunch. Cadbury's Silk.
Warmth.
Home.
Oh, India, I miss you.

Inventiveness and a Poetic afflatus

2011-11-15T19:34:00.000-08:00

When you don't have a Kirana store down the road, you have copious amounts of parsley, and are generally lazy you become innovative. As have I. Out of green chillies (and thoroughly irritated with the non-spicy chillies available here), I decided to substitute red chillies for green. And add parsley instead of coriander in a dish. To some amazing and visually delightful results.

I made akki rotis with chilli powder. And added some parsley because I had very little coriander. Unlike the usual akki rotis where you have to search and pick out the green chillis, here, you don't have to do that. The roti is uniformly spicy. And the parsley gives you an extra zing.

And the rotis are red.

As a tribute to my inventiveness and the tastiness of the roti, I composed this ditty:

The akkiroti made by iisarayu

Was so nice, that, despite its hue,

It was quickly devoured,

The pan was scoured,

And the praise, well, it isn't undue.

Poetic Afflatus - 6

2011-10-29T21:02:00.001-07:00

I hear that Kunal is dating Naina,

A girl she is quite fine-a,

But my beating heart,

Was ripped apart

To hear he could no more be mine-a.

And I've given in...

2011-10-29T19:37:00.001-07:00

to garam masala and onions. New York, what have you done to me?

Poetic Afflatus - 5

2011-10-29T18:49:00.000-07:00

It seems the study of statistics,

Has some wondrous character-istics,

The normal distribution,

Has a unique constitution,

That allows the use of some heuristics

Poetic Afflatus - 4

2011-10-10T18:19:00.000-07:00

In order to maximize your utility,

Remember tangency, feasibility,

Equate MRS and OC,

Substitute in FC,

And the result is happy affordability.

Some 'alone' time

2011-10-10T18:15:00.000-07:00

Elegant women in sneakers refusing to brave the walk from the subway to work in heels, hundreds of restaurants of all types and for all budgets, arts, culture, science, prettiness, and oh! so much more. New York! The noise doesn't die down, nor does the buzz.

Yet, today, as I hurried to the station to catch my train, I saw a little old lady with her shopping cart, her sweatshirt read ‘a little ‘alone’ time’. A poignant reminder that even amidst such bustle and happiness we can still be quite be alone.

Poetic Afflatus - 3

2011-05-06T04:50:00.000-07:00

If the IPL list you do scan,

At the bottom are the Chargers, Deccan

Of the IPL story this is the gist,

Not much hope, except a kahani mein twist!

***

There was a man called Obama,

Who announced a death without comma,

Questions of legality

Sovereignty and sanity,

Were forgotten amidst the drama

***

There was a man called Osama,
His death caused so much drama,
That Will's shy kisses,
To his dear new missus,
Were forgotten, as was Alabama

***

The atheist strongly insisted,
On his views that were consisted,
Of much disbelief,
In the church's brief,
That god in heaven existed

***

There was a man called Agnostic,
His views they were quite drastic,
Of God skeptical,
To miracles, inimical,
He remained unchanged, inelastic

***

Called Big Feet there was a girl,
Her hair, it used to curl,
Of her own motion,

She used a lotion,

And her hair, it began to unfurl!

Shikakai Experiment - 6

2011-01-26T21:20:00.000-08:00

My affair with shikakai is over. The allergy increased with each use (has that happened to anyone?) and finally, last week, I had a rash all over my face and back and was breathless. Had to be avil-ed and inhaler-ed. And the shikakai destroyed. I tried every thing (Soaking overnight, not soaking overnight,various mixes, but it appears to be the shikakai)

On shampoo now, until I feel ready to experiment, this time probably with reetha alone.

Shikakai Experiment - 5

2010-12-13T21:10:00.000-08:00

Hair feels awesome. Slightly allergic to shikakai - my eyes turn red for about 20 mins. But otherwise feeling awesome. Hair feels really clean (no feeling of residue) though I still have to wash every 2-3 days. Yoga/running makes my hair sticky.

My fine wispy hair feels voluminous and nice. K hasn't made any comments yet, but I've received compliments in ofice about how healthy my hair is looking.

Does anyone out there know how to use rita/reeta for hair? I got some powder and made it into a thick paste and tried to use it - the soap nut doesnt feel soapy at all. Hmmm. I think I need to persist on this one - I'm afraid the shikakai allergy mayget worse, and soapnut/kunkudukai/rita/Reeta is probably the best alternative. (Please don't tell me to buy soap nuts and boil them, strain the water and then use - too lazy for that)

Anyway, in sum, hair feels awesome!

Won't you spend two minutes more for your hair?

Shikakai Experiment - 4

2010-11-28T03:12:00.000-08:00

Many more days on shikakai. Nearly a shampoo relapse, but didn't give in.

Why use anything else, I say? Hairfeels shiny, as soft and as 'conditioned' as with shampoo, but with a natural feel to it. You know what I mean? No? Like salon hair is so easily discernable- flat and fakely shiney and nicely sedated. I can see that coat of chemicals.

Move over to shikakai - get rid of shampoo.

Poetic afflatus - 2

2010-11-21T08:55:00.000-08:00

There was a man called Singular,

Whose face, it was perpendicular,

So strange this geometry,

He studied optometry,

And from the world he became insular.

Why I love yoga, or rather, why the gym sucks

2010-11-21T08:39:00.000-08:00

So, I recently started doing Yoga. It's been just 3 months, and I don't go regularly (work travel!), but I feel like a new me. I can barely touch my toes and my hamstrings feel like the thick dentist rubber-bands that barely stretch and you have to pull so hard they sometimes snap in your mouth.

Since I've re-lived that ugly moment in excruciating detail, lets move on - to why

yoga... it just feels right. I actually feel mellow and happy after the class. My muscles don't feel like they've contracted, and I leave class smiling. Okay, okay, I sound like an evangelist, but I'm really considering it! Well, you might argue that what I do isn't really 'yoga', and is really the exercise part of the comprehensive discipline that is yoga, but, hell, who cares. If the acrobatics alone work so awesomely, I'll do the whole thing. (In fact, I've taken the first steps in the directio

n by buying BKS Iyengar's Light on Life. Note this Big Feet.)

Anyway, maybe this yoga thing is just so shiny and happy and awesome because of my gym experience. No no, not just because of the baby face and the other guy, but because it plain sucked. Yes, I liked that I had to prove myself to no one, my time was my own and all that, but I also felt like a scrunched up ball of paper. Maybe that's what the gym does - you don't really lose weight, but everything just contracts and you feel tight and compressed, like this...

The other problem I have with the gym is the need to make conversations and be social. Now, apart from the bizarre conversations with baby face and his ilk, I also run into people I know, and am forced to talk about gym performance, how much I'm enjoying it and also, yes, it is apparently good practice, crib about how hard your trainer is pushing you. Now, that's the next issue. I had a trainer. I find it impossible to make him wait or skip class because he has this mute, judgmental look that makes me feel terrible. Come rain, shine, period or pain, I went to the gym, including a miserable 3-month period when I went from 6am to 7am. He didn't really push me too hard, but I didn't do it at my own pace, and that was terrible. In comparison, yoga seems wonderful. You're focusing on your breathing so much that you don't have to make conversation and the declared way to progress is 'finding your own path'.

Not really suitable for conversation. No?

I left gym after workouts convincing myself how awesome it was and how lovely it felt. I hated the repetition, the absolutely-zero mental challenge, and the sweaty smell mixed with air freshener. To tell you the truth, it sucked. Anyway it's over now. (Though I miss watching Rakhi ka Swayamwar on TV while on the treadmill.Now I watch random podcasts on my iPod)

I tried to sell of the remaining 2 months of my membership, but I must admit, it lasted 10 whole months. I may get pained with yoga sometime, but I try balance it with running, so the 'cool' side of me is happy too. Maybe I'll do Bikram yoga (really, if you do yoga in any Indian city at 11am, it's Bikram yoga no? Chennai beaches are perfect - humidity and heat). Also, maybe the yoga delight is because K joins me these days.

P.S.: I'm running the Hyderabad 10k next week. Hope you'll cheer for me!

PPS: I'll write a more 'analytical' blog on why yoga vs. gym., but had to get this out!

PPPS: I may gym again though, who knows.

Shikakai experiment - 3

2010-11-19T00:11:00.000-08:00

My third wash. Hair feels lovely, smells lovely. I also think my hair is falling out less. Not as glossy as with the shampoos. Hmm, also less itchy this time around.

This experiment will continue.

Shikakai experiment - 2

2010-11-15T21:53:00.000-08:00

So yesterday ( 2 rounds of exercise since the wash) my hair felt flat and wispy. So I decided to wash today and did. My scalp did feel a little itchy for about 30 minutes (I need to work this out), but my hair feels and smells lovely. My mom, and kesha rashi expert says it will take a month for my hair greasiness rate to settle down, and that I should persist. Let's see.

Shikakai experiment

2010-11-13T21:44:00.000-08:00

Big Feet, Mem, Quarakoz - pay attention.

I've never had great hair, and a kesha-rashi (heap of hair) is a distant dream. However, I do aspire to have some basic hair things in place: hair all black, until it is cool to go gray+black, hair covering all parts of my head and basic hair-coolness. Now hair-coolness isn't about advertisement like hair which has the boys lining up for me - my aspirations are small - it is just this: not having negative comments made about your hair. That includes references to a sudden widening of your forehead.

This has been happening a lot lately, and and I decided to do something about it. I didn't do much research, nor, in consultant-style, speak to experts, or even do the mandatory google search (I would have found this - most of the search suggestions are re hair, if you'd notice, and I had to click through to hair cuttery which is some salon).

Anyway, thinking about my past experiences, but not thinking too much, I decided to switch to shikakai (for the uninitiated-into-South-Indian hair care, shikaki is a fruit that is used to clean hair. It can be powdered and dried or boiled in water and the water can be used as a shampoo. See also this). I forgot about the allergy I had as a child and just used it. To my surprise, the allergy has completely gone away (or Meera Hair Powder doesn't contain any shikaki!)

In any case, I will try real shikakai powder, once I stock up on that (and the precautionary Avil) and determine if the allergy's gone. This natural, herbal, happy things for my hair plan will continue. No more shampoo. For 6 months, its either Meera or shikakai powder.

I'm also thinking that this will be one of those popular beauty blogs that will get thousands of hits. I'll become famous and be interviewed in Hyderabad Times. People will ask me how I did it. I will have a kesha-rashi. I don't know if all of that will happen, but I will report back.

A 'poem' to sign off:

A girl with hair so fine,

So fine, she used to pine,

She switched to shikakai,

No, no, no, not acai,

A stitch in time may save nine

A poetic afflatus

2010-04-18T22:57:00.000-07:00

On Sania Mirza's marriage:

There was a tennis star called Sania,

To be married she had a mania,

So Shorab she ditched,

To Shohaib get hitched,

‘Tis nothing but megalomania

On Shashi Tharoor, the IPL and his resignation:

Once there was a minister called Tharoor,

His discretion was indeed quite poor,

He demanded sweat equity,

From Lalit K Modi,

Who his fall from grace made sure

On the Iceland ash cloud, (and a prediction):

Over Iceland there was an ash cloud,

It covered Europe like a shroud,

Originally volcanic,

It created quite a panic,

And then to the banking crisis bowed.

Nonsense verse

2010-03-20T08:57:00.000-07:00

So every once in a while, a poetic afflatus seizes me and I pen some rhyme. Mostly the offerings are slightly more poetic, though less rhyme-y, this time though...

---

This girlie lost her cirploxacin,

Which was her feel-good toxin,

Made her feel lost,

So, despite the cost,

She went out and got ciprofloxacin

***

There was a fat woman from Lucknow,

Who was a political bow-wow,

To garner some votes,

She wore some notes,

But instead got taxed and how!

***

There was an old man from Shipsy,

Who felt extremely tipsy,

So he had some wine,

Until he felt fine,

And his fingers, they felt crispy

***

There was a team called KKR,

In IPL they didn't go v.far,

So their team to coach,

A delivery boy they poach,

He make their fielding above par.

***

Twitter it makes me confine,

My thoughts I have to consign,

To lines three,

Into space wee,

Hey, ra, whaaatay minus sign

***

Tweeting has gotten trite,

It has ceased to be delight,

Thoughts so shorty,

Letters one forty,

So in rhyme I shall now write.

Fashion-cide at the IPL

2010-03-16T05:20:00.000-07:00

Now, I'm not a fashionable person, and I say that again and again. But even my basic-basic aesthetic sense has been mercilessly assaulted by this edition of the IPL. My only serious fashion objections so far have been to nighties and cream-coloured tights, and I quite enjoy cricket and the IPL even, despite the advertising OD and some other irritants, but this is getting a bit much to take :

1) Samir Kocchar's hair: Why on earth does he have gelled hair with curls on forehead that look like 50s B&W heroine? It is pricelessly ugh. Saira Bano with somewhat similar curls looked gorgeous, but he just looks like a band-walla from Jhumritalaiya turned posh. Please Samir, take that 3 Rs. plastic comb out of your pocket, look in your bike mirror, and comb your hair back.

2) Preity Zinta's salwar kameeze - Yes, there is a need to take IPL and merchandise from the educated elite to the rural masses (do the math, $$), but a salwar kameeze in Punjab Kings colours made of dry-fit material is plain ugly. Try a better cut - what Zinta mam? (oh yes she calls her self that) - your dress the other day made me wonder if the Nike tailor was drunk and this scissors went awry.

3) The Rajasthan Royals costumes: Why on earth are the arms skin-coloured? When I first saw them this season, I thought Shane Warne had turned up in sleeveless clothes. Now, Warnie is a venerable bowler, but him wearing sleeveless is a bit much for me, and for SS too, a loyal Royals fan. Sangakkara in sleeveless on the other hand...

I B(r)ow

2010-03-02T05:02:00.000-08:00

So I've decided to stop doing my eyebrows. Why? Because it's a bloody pain. It hurts like the devil, and does not have a healthy pain-gain ratio. And because I have to do it every two weeks. And also because it seems to be for women only. I believe having to thread eyebrows and the emphasis on women doing it is one notch worse than sunscreen and age-defying creams targeting women only. Here you have to undergo pain AND spend money to chase an arbitrarily defined notion of beauty. So, I gave it up.

For someone whose eyebrows don't really need shaping, but wouldn't be harmed by it, you'd think - stop doing it, forget about it. Right? Wrong. Ever since that momentous decision (and momentous it indeed is - if I were to go back to threading now, it would hurt much more than the fortnightly tweezings), I have had so many people say so many things to me, I'm actually reconsidering it!

Sample this: My father, one most stoic about girl matters, one who didn't notice when my mid-waist hair was chopped shoulder length, walks in for a weekend stay. Takes one look at my face and declares: "Do the eyebrow thing". What?! Miffed at that, and at my mom's gentle goading ("Eyebrows lend structure to the face"), I contemplated giving in. But, I lost courage on my next salon visit. But the salon visit itself was something to remember:
I walk in. Ask for service 1 and service 2. Lady at the counter looks at me and says, "Ibros? No?" with one perfectly plucked eyebrow raised at me. I can only call her response to my no a snigger. Wrong place to make a statement about fitting in to notions of beauty and all that? But ordeal over I thought.
Happily, I headed into the Sevice Room to receive Service 1. Service provider comes along and starts. Middle of the process, she jumps close to my face, gently strokes my eyebrows and says "Ibros also?". Sigh. Go to a different parlour next time - yes. So eyebrows - still not sure.

A Skype conversation was the final nail in the coffin:
"Hi, are you really in St. Vincent and the Grenadines?"
"No, I keep changing my location to amuse myself!"
"You couldn't also be 108, could you?"
"Ummm. Again to amuse myself"
"Ha, thought so, you look about 14."
WTF
"Yes, older women have plucked eyebrows usually"
Apart from the fact that this is a professional conversation. And women who don't have plucked eyebrows look 14.

No harm, I s'pose, but want to look my age right now. Heading out this Saturday - wish me luck, because some of you know what happens when my face hurts or I anticipate pain - Big Feet, Conta Bonos Mores, Ruma.

So random

2010-02-25T00:14:00.001-08:00

This is a post to test where photographs can go.

KA car and AP policemen: Open letter

2010-02-18T09:51:00.000-08:00

Dear Policemen,

Instead of catching me or K for driving a car with a Karnataka registration, which by the way IS NOT against the law, why don't you go after the Audi dudes that drive on high beam with fog lights, the dudes on bikes that try to squeeze into two inches of space, the honkers who honk and all autos?

These are far more dangerous to road order, safety and discipline than a car that has just come in from another state. And what a pathetic figure you cut when I explained I came in less than a month ago, and you asked me just to pay the fine, because you had got some others to pay it. This has happened twice, not once.

And puh-leeze, just because I don't look frightening, doesn't mean I wont fight if you fine me for doing something that's well within my rights - driving a Karnataka car!

iissarayu

My name eez

2010-02-15T07:44:00.000-08:00

with inputs from SK, MK and RM.

Kaan: Kaan from the ear, not from the epiglottis. I have Asperger's syndrome, which means I should be have significant difficulties in social interaction, along with restricted and repetitive patterns of behavior and interests. I have none of these problems, except that I have my head cocked to my side sound like Stephen Hawking/his computer and am scared of yellow and loud noises.
After our son Same died, my beloved, Madira tells me to speak to the President, because it was her fault she married me, a Muslim, and tell him I am not a terrorist. Since Madira and I sing Hum Honge Kaamyaab out-of-tune and all the time, all of America does too - including an African American momma& son in a remote village in Atlanta. Oh yes, the whole country understands Hindi. (I haven't tried Punjabi)
When a hurricane came to Atlanta, I went there to help momma Penny, a nice African American lady who helped me when I was there.

Madira: I am the reason Kaan's heartbeat races. I am the reason he has a son who doubles up as Kaan's best friend. I am the reason my son was killed in an attack by bullies. I am the reason Kaan (from the ear, not epiglottis) went on his journey. When our son Dam died and I heard that he was murdered by people close to him, I felt it was because of my marriage to Kaan. So I shouted at Kaan, though he does not like noise, and told him to go speak to the President because I made the mistake of marrying a Muslim.

Maa: I am the reason my son does not have Asperger's though he does. I was in denial something was wrong, and that helped. You see, no doctor could tell me even in twenty-odd years that my son had some form of autism. In modern, urban India.

Dam: I am Madira's son born from an earlier husband. I was regularly abused in school after 9/11.
I used to hang out with Geese, a white neighbour boy whose father was killed in Afghanistan, but he stopped talking to me after his father's death. I confronted and harassed Geese, bullies intervened to stop me from paining him, I failed to keep my gob shut and they beat the crap out of me. I died.

Porka Dott: I know you prefer in field action and screaming from the site - the background noise dulls ny shrillness and the hysterics. Maran, the director didn't pay for my ticket, so my voice came from the studio and wasn't dulled by the storm in Atlanta.

President No-bama: I know Kaan for how he has brought the country together. So when I went to Atlanta after the hurricane, I invited him to meet me. I wish we'd sung Hum Honge Kaamyaab, but I didn't know the words.

Maran Ho-jaa: I directed this film about Kaan. The actor, whose name is also Kaan, is a good friend, and I admire and love him deeply. Since I couldn't get a room to express my affection, I spent Rs. 38 crore to make a film that is a tribute to Kaan (the original).
I wanted to make a real film about how Muslims in America felt after 9/11, so I created a man with Aspergers who goes on an unlikely journey. Since it was a real film about a real disease, I couldn't cure him of Asperger's. You know - bullet through the brain creating a neural pathway to overcome aspergers or something. So I stuck to America singing Hum honge for no ostensible reason.
I focused my energy on story-writing, which is why Madira had such good reasons to dump Kaan. Actually, she had great reasons to marry him in the first place - he won a bet. I focused my energy on a tight storyline, editing and facts. I took the chemistry between Madira (Kojal) and Kaan (Kaan) for granted, so he mostly expresses love by asking her to have sex with him at designated times - how autistic!

Hair-oic me

2010-02-13T04:02:00.000-08:00

Oh yes. This is about my hair. Having inherited my mother's fine, scanty hair and my father monkey curls, my hair has been the source of amusement to many. Not least of all K's family, where everyone has lush, long, thick, dark, shiny, healthy hair that doesn't ever fall off, gray out, thin out or suffer from any sort of problem. Ever. My hair is considered such a problem, such an insult to good Diga-Tamness, such a priority problem, that even my father (yes, my father) - a paragon of un-vainness and stoic-ness re' women's issues' has problem-solved this issue.

Clearly, this much problem-solving must mean many many experiments have been done on my hair. One summer evening, when I was about ten, and I came back in sweaty and dirty after playing all afternoon and evening, my mother decided to talk to me about my hair. It's thin, like mine, she stated. But we'll do something about it. Before you know it it will be thick, long and you will have a kesharashi - mass of hair. Yeah right. Unfortunately, or fortunately, the internet didn't exist back then, otherwise, the serachers would have found this.

Umm, no hot video or hot girl without dress for my parents. Thanks. That would have distracted them from my hair.
Ideas were restricted to tips from the beauty section of Deccan Chronicle, which once helpfully suggested banana and mint. That could have tasted awesome, I'm a big fan of mint, but that in my hair? Well, you never know - it was supposed to produce a 'tingling effect' which would make hair grow. Dutifully, for the next few weeks, my mom ground bananas and mint leaves applied it in my hair. I don't know if my hair imporved, but the shine on my mom's face only grew with each examination of my hair.

Delighted it was working, she decided to add more hair food to the banana mint thing. Hibiscus, neem and even curd. The concoction smelt, well, strange, the first time it was readied. I was made to sit down with a lot of ceremony and my mom's 'much-improved self-invented' (she pointed out) remedy was applied on my scalp. To disastrous effect. There's something about bananas and hibiscus together that don't have a very good effect. For days on end I was picking out hibiscus leaves and neem powder - yes, the neem had had a peculiar drying effect. My hair looked like a bird's nest. Well, whatever. That was abandoned. Quite clearly it had to be.

Not one to give up, amma consulted her advisor, another sufferer of thin and mousy hair, her mother, who advised using shikakai instead of shampoo. The chemicals. They damage your hair. Ajji was allergic to shikakai, but amma was aroused by the idea. It was all chemicals, she realised - they harmed, they inhibited. Shikakai would do it - gentle, natural, kind shikakai. Visions of me with a keshrashi (a heap of hair, literally) must have popped up in her head.

So the powder was procured. My hair was oiled on Saturday evening (again, over the generous amount of oil that was already in my hair), and Sunday morning was awaited with much excitement. And it happened. I came out, hair fragrant with shikakai, looked at my mom, who jumped away from the advertisements before Mahabharat, and came to examine my hair. And then - Achoo! Within minutes, my etire body had broken out into a rash, my eyes started watering, I was sneezing and I started wheezing. Wracked by guilt, amma took me to the doc, Avil was pumped into me and I slept for two days straight.

My hair was neglected for a couple of years, and then Amma got bold again. Appa was involved this time. Maybe he was starting to worry about me being a bald bride, and having to pay a huge dowry to compensate. This time I was a compliant party. I was about 15 now, and starting to get mildly vain. (At least as vain as someone with glasses, braces AND bad hair could get. So, this time, the theme was oils.) Appa asserted that six months of Cantharidine would make my hair grow thick and strong. Amma maintained that it was Nilibhringadi a magical ayurvedic oil. So the oils were blended and applied. Religiously. Sunday was the only day my hair was left unoiled. I don't know what effect it had, but when I looked back at photos of my seventeen-year old self, it becomes evident to me that my hair was at least twice as thick as it is now.

Scarred into over-worry about my hair, I have also experimented during college and later. Never with hairstyles, or colouring or perming - I'm way too boring for that, and very,very scared that the few strands I have now will fall off - but with oils, therapies and shampoos. I've gone through Citriodora, a fragrant, lemony citrus oil from the Nilgiris, Parachute's therapie, a commercial over the counter, a hair-miracle thing - nothing's worked. I've consulted doctors, taken homeopathic tablets and even tried Biotique's hair tablets. Nothing's worked.

My hair steadily gets thinner - and finer. History tells my I wont go bald - both my mom and grandmom never did, but the kesharashi remains a dream. I can only compose limericks to drown my sorrow:
Called Sarayu a girl there is,
Her hair is somewhat amiss
It barely grow,
So much slow,
To hair duty it be remiss.

Restaurant Review: Ruci & Idoni

2010-02-05T04:19:00.000-08:00

This is my first Hyderabad restaurant review. I am really tired after a long day and a sleepless night last night, and I hope the writing isn’t as uninspiring as the restaurant. It’s called Ruci and Idoni, is really a café, which is a part of a luxury department store and is on Road No. 10, Banjara Hills, opposite Karvy. You can’t miss it – the overly stark red, black and white décor screams out to you. Despite three staid-ish colours, the branding comes across more strongly than the rainbow colours of Rainbow Hospital opposite.

So after a nice workout at the gym (yea! Gyming happening) I went down to R & I to buy some groceries (it’s also a grocery store – more on that later). I saw there was a café, and thought I should grab a bite to eat. Bad decision. I ordered the very standard penne arabbiatta, the simplest dish in Italian cooking. The pasta was tough, there was no garlic (I think a basic ingredient of the arabbiatta sauce) and they forgot to put the sundried tomatoes. The pasta took 20 minutes to come though I was the only customer in the café, and the bill another 20 (I finally walked over to pay and realized it’s a cafeteria, not a café.)

Now all of that is almost fine. It is an addition and may, may be some healthy competition to Little Italy and Fusion 9. It scores high on location – it is on Rd. 10 amidst lots of offices. Its salads may even be an after-gym good snack for the exercisers at Talwalkars. BUT THEY DON’T SERVE WATER. I have never seen a restaurant in India that does not serve water and you have to buy it. Even the fecking Taj serves water. Now, this place is cafeteria-esque, so why not put a water cooler where people can drink water, and have a choice not to buy.

The usual comments on the ambience and the décor. Somewhat industrial (the pipes all not covered, etc.) but seeking to be warm and welcoming. Seems somewhat of a canteen located in a factory in East Germany that became a café but ended up as a cafeteria. And the place smells of fish. Avoid, unless you want fancy chips and bakes, but QMart still rules!

zim zoo zoo

2010-01-10T03:02:00.000-08:00

I've started to go to the gym, or zim as my Gult brethren call it. Forgive me SS and some others, but I really enjoy my time in the zim. Probably because I feel that no one is really invested in my success or failure there, unlike dance where the familial involvement in every aspect got singularly frustrating. (Don't get me wrong, even my 'activities' in the gym are questioned and then analysed, but with no expertise, and that's very relieving)

My gym is fun for more reasons. Just the other day, a baby-face gentleman came and plonked himself on the cycle next to me and took a not so discreet look at my cycle's display.

Without preface or warning, "Are you in college?"
Surprised and mildly offended at the presumption, I replied "No".
It appears he did not like the answer, so he switched topics. "Are you Marwari?"
Surprised again, because I thought the caste/region question came third for women after name and marital status, I replied, "No".
To which, he got off his cycle and walked off to continue his weights workout. So it was weights day for him, and he had come to the cycle just to check if I was Marwari. Well.

In my desire not to let my non-Marwariness hurt him, I have smiled on occasion and even wished him a happy new year, only to be looked through and gloriously ignored.

As I overcame my hurt at being rejected on such arbitrary grounds, I befriended a bouncy 16-year old boy. He smiled at me one day and without peeking into my display congratulated me at how fast I ran. Because of the compliment and because he respected my privacy enough not to peek, I have gotten friendly with him. We share notes on progress and talk about the state of the state, and he's just happy, good conversation at the gym.

All of a sudden, though, he has been staring at me quite hard. All through my workout, he just looks. And looks. And looks. Now, this is very easy in the gym, thanks to all the mirrors, which are presumably to check posture. Now, like most people, I look my worst in the gym, and my worstest (if that's possible) when doing weights. This has not stopped young boy. So there's something deep in there.

Being somewhat experienced (having been a recipient more than once) in the moony stare department, I anticipated some kind of declaration of admiration. And I was right. Somewhat.

Boy approaches as I'm cycling (I think that the cycle is most conducive to conversation) "Hi".
"Hello! How are things?"
"Great. Actually I wanted to tell you something".
Uh Oh. "Yeah, sure"
"You are a specimen".
My not-so-furious pedalling stops. My cycle slows down and starts flashing "Pedal faster". For a moment, it seemed that even the peppy gym music beat slowed down.
WHAT?!
"Yes. You are a specimen. Like a chameleon. You adapt".
Imagine some slo-mo stuff here.
WHAT?!
"I am admirer of you. You are truly a specimen".
My turn to walk off. With hastily muttered thank-you (I assumed it was a compliment), I ran.

It wasn't over though. When I came back, I found that boy hadn't taken offence at my brusqueness. He sat waiting for me. To tell me this.
"Actually I wanted your advice"
"Sure", I coughed.
"I am going to get braces on my teeth (where else, I wondered). How can I talk to girls if I have braces?"

What I said in response I don't know. But my crazy gym stories for that day weren't over. My trainer helped me to the cross-trainer. Now at Talwalkars, the time to use equipment is fixed at 15 minutes thanks to the number of people always waiting for machines. Typically the display shows time remaining. Believing my need for a sense of achievement would be better met if the machine showed time elapsed, I changed it.

At 10 minutes completed, my trainer come by.
"Arre, I put you on 10 minutes ago, and your display still shows 10 minutes. How? DId you stop between?"
"Ummm. No. The display if of time elapsed. I have 5 minutes left. See.". I pressed the button to change the display.
"Oh No! Never mind. Don't change your time. If you have 10 minutes left, go for it".

Huh? Did you not understand at all?! Since then, I've restricted my trainer to counting for me, suggesting exercises and smiling (sigh! cute dimples). No talking.

Despite the craziness and the crowds, I enjoy my time at the gym very much, and I almost look forward to my time there. Probably it is the happy hormones, and partly also because no one really cares if I do well, particularly the family, and most of all me. I mean, I am competitive and I'm trying to beat gym records on the cross-trainer, but I don't care if I don't. Is this what being-externally motivated means? i.e. if no one expects me to perform, will I just not? Probably, but I'm having more fun this way.

New look

2010-01-06T08:45:00.000-08:00

So K took over my computer and changed the look of my blog. I love it! Do you? I found this and other styles here.

Have fun, and do comment!

Edit: I got the idea from Abhiramous at Abhiramusings.

Nose ring

2010-01-04T09:15:00.001-08:00

So I finally did it. I am wearing a nose-ring now. For those of you who know my nose-piercing history, this is momentous. I'm talking Big Feet, Contra Bonos Mores and Ruma.

Movie Review: Avatar

2009-12-29T20:31:00.001-08:00

So, I did it. I finally watched Avatar in 3D. Unfortunately because all of Hyderabad wants to watch this movie too, we only got first row tickets. The craned neck undid everything the massage a few hours earlier did, and I can barely turn my head now, but it was worth it for the 3D experience.

I'd recommend you go for the movie, and leave the theatre in 45 minutes. In that time you've seen it all. All varieties of speciall effects are seen, and then its broadly repeated in cycles.

The story itself is rather simple (spoilers): Pocahontas meets Harry Potter meets LOTR meets Star Wars, all on marijuana. So, there is an evil corporation trying to mine pretty, flouroscent, luminiscent, verdant, lovely, humanoid-called-Navi-occupied Pandora for a substance called unobtainium (how imaginative!). They interact and steal stuff through human-Navi hybrids called Avatars. (humans get into a CT scan like machine, and then their avatar comes alive on the planet). Macho marine comes along to the laboratory, becomes an avatar, and is accepted into Navi clan because of his pure soul. Passes all manner of tests and is ordained into the clan. Hi-tech humans get pissed because he's cavorting with the clan rather than grow their profits and attack. Some back and forth, finally Navi win because of well, no particular reason but that the hero's avatar does some cool stuff. Oh, he falls in love with and becomes mating partner with navi princess.

Why are the Navi relevant to us? Because they bear a deep, deep connection with nature (both animals and plants). They have some special hairs that connect with similar special hairs in animals and plants and then they can communicate with each other. They are a network. Unobtainum, which sells at 20 mn$ a kg and of which they have tons is worthless, but their network, their connection, their system and the fact that trees communicate with each other is why they are so wow.

Anyway, you should leave the theatre after 45 minutes. Reasons:
1) Purely practical: the 3D glasses give you a headache and they leave marks on your nose. In most theatres you need to pay a deposit for the glasses, and you have to wait in line to collect your money back. Its a pain. Skip the queue by going early.

2) Special effects repeat: 2 types of things which look cool in 3D - the tech screens, which feel like they're in front of you and the luminiscent creatures on Pandora. Both of these are shown within 45 minutes, multiple times, so why stick around. The fighting is strictly ordinary, and in fact, I actually thought it would have looked better in 2D.

3) The creepy Navi. The entire planet looks like its full of the radium stickers we got as kids. The Navi have some stickers on their body and move in a curious reptilian way. Their eyes are a dirty yellow and they wear weird jewellery. I felt some more market research on the look of the avatar would have been appropriate. The kissing and make-out scenes in the later half are very creepy and slimy, and so if you're out in 45 mins, you wont have to see any of it.

4) Bad acting and dialogue: Res ipsa loquitor. 5 notches worse than Independence day, Very American macho - not slightly dark, funny or inspirational. The Navi's masaledaar netowrs are discussed for a glorious 30 seconds and the staunchest advocate for the Navi other than the hero mostly is saying how great a scientific marvel the navi are without saying exactly why. In substance, both substance and style missing.

5) The navis are too human: They have kinship and governance structures very similar to humans. And heirarchies too. And sexsim too - the males inherit, take decisions. Thankfully even women are warriors and they don't show who does the cooking (not hard to guess). So its not really an interesting humanoid society from the sociological perspective. So why stick around?

So cut in 45 minutes, save your sanity, nose bridge and get complete paisa vasool! Sneak into a theatre and watch 3 idiots - quite fun.

Going MENtal

2009-12-28T22:42:00.000-08:00

This is a collaborative post. I write with my friend SK with whom I am presently discussing irritating male fashion and behaviour. Below is a list of fashion no-nos. No, not fashion no-nos, but plain, simple, social, being-alive -in-this-world-as-an-acceptable-human-being no-nos.

1) Thick chest hair peeking out of a t-shirt/shirt - res ipsa loquitor. Please wear a tie, cravat or a stole.

2) Adjusting family jewels in public: Again, res ipsa loquitor. We are speechless, so no suggestions.

3) Marinating in cologne: Also, res ipsa loquitor. Use less. Since you're spending so much on it, please don't waste it.

4) Trainers with formal pants: It's simply ugly and not fashion forward. If you really wanted comfortable shoes, why not try crocs (which have formal-type shoes) or Birkenstocks (again, have some semblance of formal shoes).

5) Outline of baians under transparent shirts: Okay, thats not so bad, but balance is key here.

6) Wearing your pants under your chest to hide your paunch or sweeping hair across to hide a bald patch: Please stop pretending. It makes you look worse, and we aren't fooled.

7) Pissing in public: Its a health hazard, unhealthy, unhygienic and dirty. I know you have the convenience of whippin' it out, but please, please don't do it.

8) Honking at women drivers for no reason: This may be a particulalrly Hyderabadi habit. But its disgusting. Women drive, not so surprising. If you are surprised, learn to de-link it from the horn or your driving. Show it on a blog.

There are many more behaviours that get on our nerves and are fashion-cide and don't do the human race much good.

Sorry Sari

2009-12-28T22:27:00.000-08:00

I took a snap poll the other day on what I should wear to a meeting. Nine out of the ten people I asked said trousers and a shirt. I asked for reasons - “you'll look snappy”, someone said; someone else commented that it was “more professional”. (Than what, I immediately wondered) Only the Mister told me to wear a salwar kameeze. When I said I would wear a sari, he told me I'd gone me nuts and walked out scratching his head.

Why is the sari dying (or is it dead) as acceptable corporate attire? Why isn't a crisp cotton sari snappy, professional; why am I nuts to want to wear a sari? Who has defined these norms of what constitutes professionalism and snappiness? What is it about Indian attire, and the sari especially that could make someone think I could be unprofessional?

Could it be that the sari is typically worn with a few kilos of gold? I could testify to that. Being a part of a traditional Tam household, going out without at least a couple of gold necklaces, hair tied up with flowers and a few bangles when wearing a sari is considered abacharam. (Abacharam not against fashion, but against the unwritten Rules of Tamil Fashion.) So, the argument perhaps is if you're looking like a Christmas tree, you couldn't possibly be expected to do number crunching or make presentations. Okay, admitted – jingly bangles and flashes of gold can be terribly distracting to both doer and viewer. Well, then, why not eliminate all all the jingling and dress simply?

Looks like that isn't possible. Because definitions of professional dressing aren't around what crosses the line, but strictures on how to toe the line. How to fit in within the walls of corporate-dom, and for women – how to be at par with the men. Decided by an entirely arbitrary authority (without much fashion sense). How unfair is that?

Why am I ranting about the sari? You see, if I'm not wearing clothes my body is shaped to wear (or clothes that are shaped to how my body is) I look, ugly, fat, non-snappy. Worse, the discomfort of pants tight at the hips but sagging at the waist, the fear of a popping button make me unprofessional – I need to look down to check if the button has not popped, and I definitely walk a little like a duck in trousers. I sit at an odd angle and feel miserable. The sari is a sensible alternative – it drapes around my over-large Indian hips, makes even me look somewhat elegant and is versatile and elegant and beautiful. And comes in colours!

Besides the obvious benefits of comfort, the sari comes in more colours than trousers, hides more of the flab and is easier to maintain (you don't have to put a sari through the washing machine after each wear, but shirts smell, so you need to). Besides they are more conscience/guilt alleviation wear – if you buy saris, they could be feeding a weaver in some part of India. You can thumb your nose to that arbitrary authority that decides what professionalism means. You could even be making a feminist statement on masculinization of workplaces and such like.

Ideology, social impact, fashion – all achieved in one stroke. Go for the sari I say!

Tight

2009-12-28T22:19:00.000-08:00

This is a point of view on the latest fashion sweeping the country. The short kurti with a high slit and nylon tights. Most commonly, because many Indians believe 'light' colours suit them, these tights are in some miserable shade of brown or cream. The effect - these tights make it seem like you're wearing just the kuri. Actually worse, because it clings to your skin, it highlights the cellulite and the fat. Unsightly. Please avoid.

Shiny, happy people

2009-10-31T22:06:00.000-07:00

So. Another ad that gets on my nerves. Kaya's skin clinics go hair free ads. The ad shows women pulling down their trouser legs or their blouse sleeves because they had hair (not visible on the TV) which made them ugly. The ad shows a girl wanting to reach out to a boy through a bookshelf in a library, but hesitates when she realizes that her arms aren't hair free. After Kaya's treatment, which promises permanent hair reduction, she is confident and boy strokes and feels her up because she has silky smooth skin.

How revolting. It's terrible enough to be made to feel insecure about your looks with numerous ads that promote non-achievable standards of beauty, but to be told that you will face rejection if you have body hair, an entirely normal occurrence, is ridiculous. Of course, it is a woman who has to meet these unreal standards of beauty to be accepted by the man.

I wont even go down the 'but body hair is natural' argument. Or the 'why doesn't a man have to do something to be accepted by a woman' route. I just find it reprehensible that anyone needs to confirm to unnatural standards of beauty to be accepted and happy, and amusing that taking one through this beautification process is a fantastically profitable business. It is ironic that a woman is made to feel insecure, inferior and unhappy about her appearance and therefore her acceptance by A MAN in order to make her loyal to a product or a service.

Randomings

2009-10-06T09:35:00.000-07:00

I think there is something about being agitated or disturbed that helps me write. When I'm happy and content and life is going on as usual, there never really is anything to say. Now, how to induce this pleasant disturbance?

***
To all the drivers whose cars I held up this evening because of my stalled car, I believe in karma. I hope you do to.
***
I signed up to go to a gym - and I have a crush on my instructor, already. He looks like a dimpled Greek God statue. Never mind that he has the conversational ability of one. He is soooo sweet (sigh) - he's always enthusiastic about runnin' and liftin' and pushin, he's always smiling that smile of his, but, most of all, he smiles at me even when I am sweating and panting.

Insomnia

2009-09-30T23:45:00.000-07:00

I try to sleep,
My eyes close,
I yawn and stretch,
Count sheep.
But sleep is elusive.

Tears flow,
Thoughts collide with each other
And I can hear them crashing about in the
deafening silence
(no fan)

I doze off,
A relief,
to dreams of a boy,
from a forest,
on a plane

The phone rings,
incessant, shrill,
Six times,
till I answer
Has he come?

sleep broken,
and again elusive
in that silence
I hear the rain,
my thoughts

I see black emptiness and
my head throbs
from not sleeping
but I can't sleep
till he's here

He comes,I pour out
My confused thoughts, I am
re-awakened
by his comforting,
love and warmth.

I do give a hoot

2009-09-30T13:32:00.000-07:00

My new pet peeve ads is the Fiat Linea ad. So, in scene 1, two boys of different ages and sizes see hot woman passing boy. Bigger and older boy whistles in admiration, little boy struggles to whistle. Girl smiles indulgently. In scene 2, Fiat Linea passes by, and smaller, younger boy manages to whistle. Implications?
1. Woman=car=woman. Objectification.
2. It is okay to whistle at women. Women are cool with it. Dehumanizing.
Undertones:
1. If you want a whistle of admiration, buy a Fiat Linea OR become hot woman (we all know being hot has nothing to do with it, ask our loafer-creepies in Bangalore)

Most ads stop at objectifying women. Only some do not only that, but also dehumanize them. This ad is it.

My reaction, and I suspect that of most women in India when whistled at is one of irritation, humiliation and hurt. Whether it is two 'decent' looking boys like in the ad or a creepy- Brigade Road-dude types, I don't care. My immediate response to a whistle is not to analyse who whistled and what kind it was.

By portraying whistling as okay, the ad socializes all those who watch TV to believe that it is okay to whistle, that women will (and ought to) respond indulgently when one whistles. By portraying a certain non-natural response as appropriate (on the part of the woman obviously - society reserves the right to determine appropriate behaviour for women, didn't you know?), it not only portrays this negative behaviour as acceptable, it also socializes passive acceptance/indulgence of it as correct.

Yes, this disgust at whistling comes from my particular cultural context - perhaps in some parts of the world, admiring whistles are acceptable practice (like it is in India to ask about your health, wealth, family, career and caste within 3 minutes of meeting you). Whistling in India, in my experience, has typically been the precursor to obscene language and lewd conversation. Most often, whistling is a way of attracting attention. As in, "phhoooowww, aati kya?!". It is the beginning of an attempt to assert power over the woman, and always degenerates into ugliness if you respond in irritation or horrible, horrible, humiliating comments if you ignore.

Ah, I must say I have no fundamental problem with whistling per se. Please whistle away your happy tune, walk with a spring in your step, even whistle your admiration for that Fiat Linea car. Even at me, if you know me really well, and I like and respect you. Else, don't. Whistling at strangers is entirely unacceptable, so don't do it. Period. I am not a car. If you were kind enough to grant me that, I will also tell you my instinctive response to a whistle is to aim my shoe at your head, and not to indulgently smile.

To the people on my flight

2009-09-14T07:51:00.001-07:00

This is to record a big $)(& you to the idiots who were on the flight next to me yesterday for all those nasty comments you were making about someone in the office. Why was I offended? Not just because it was filthy all that you said, but also because it was loud. And you stank of beer. I was sick after the flight thanks to your disgusting company.

Some advice before a curse - India is globalizing. So, being on a Hyd-Blr flight does not guarantee no one knows Tamil, especially if you are speaking in such a loud voice.

For the trauma caused, I curse you to a similar flight, when you have a stomach sickness.

dont slow yourself down

2009-09-14T07:14:00.000-07:00

I was having this conversation with old and dear friends about Khaled Hosseini's 'A Thousand Splendid Suns', whose story in brief is here. The book moved me to tears. It opened up my mind to the horrors many women have to undergo and how they rise, strong and shining. It also highlights the idiocy of some viewpoints and proponents of them.

Did the book make me reflect my own struggles for my space as a woman? Yes, but it doesn't trivialise them. The common point of view was that we are fortunate women to have 'understanding' men in our lives. It irritated me no end to think that many women defined their space by the space other people, especially men, gave them, and were grateful the boundaries were drawn 'leniently' or 'liberally'. One lady said, "he encouraged me to work". These women were wrong on two counts - one, that they did not believe that the right to fulfilment and liberation came to them equally and at birth as citizens of a free country and second, that they allowed the limits of this liberation to be defined by the men in their lives. Now this is undeniably the case, and entitlement or not, generations of perpetuated idiocy have to be washed away.

What bugs me is not the reality of the (yet) long and arduous negotiation. Just that this attitude a hindrance to change. Why are we so conditioned to believe that the rights of women are a grant from society, a permission from a benevolent man or the progressive-ness of our laws? And not something inalienable and fundamental? Please let us stop slowing ourselves down.

I know that in many far corners, perhaps even next door, women are fighting more basic battles than me - the right to study, go out, marry a man of their choice and such 'simple' things for me. When you're fighting, don't seek a grant (though you may have to make it seem like that!). Remember, it is a right. You are born with it.

The internet administrator at office

2009-08-26T20:58:00.000-07:00

This is to record a vehement %^$^ you to my office internet administrator. Just on the day I decided to come in early, you decided to turn off the internet. And to compound things, you usually sit in the next building and do not turn up before 9.30 am on any given day. Worse still, you actually did not turn the modem off, but had disabled TCP/IP or whatever it is that connects to the internet, but does not prevent me from connecting to the network, lulling me into spending 45 precious minutes trying to figure out the problem with my laptop which I could have spent cursing you and making paper frogs.

I curse you to never be able to find a loo when you need it because this is the agitation I felt in re the internet this morning. Hrmph.

I haven't blogged in a while...

2009-08-19T20:33:00.000-07:00

...and may take a while to write something up, but this is to record a brief but strong FUCK YOU to the silver Santro driver who splashed water on me this morning. I hope you realise that you are a singular asshole of the first order. I curse you to a permanent boil on your bum, and repulsive body odour. I also hope you get splashed sometime in the rains when you are travelling by auto after having been woken up at 3 am by no electricity, no geyser, mosquitoes, the sound of rain water and an unfriendly lonely guest house.

Desi kahin ke

2009-07-03T00:21:00.000-07:00

Rakhi Sawant in Rakhi ka Swayamvar told one of her suitors, that though she may dress modern, she's really Indian at heart and loves to make tea for her man. Sophie (that VJ-singer), has actually said here, that though she may appear modern, she is Indian at heart and will never date a married man (Peter Andre).

Fun! Does either of them know what they are saying? I mean, I don't associate modernity and being Indian instantly, but there are many many forms of Indian-ness, and yes, even modernity. So how to say that being one is not being the other? (There has to be a reason modernity and Indianness are not automatically associated, and I wonder what it is.)

In case their 'values' aren't enough to make them Indian, they can eat Kurkure Desi beats. desi kahin ke! (watch fron 0:57)

too much of a good thing

2009-06-26T08:34:00.000-07:00

I'm no make-up wearer, and perhaps I'm in need of some. With my newly-lasik-ed eyes (and thereby perfect vision), I can make an attempt at being groomed and pretty.

But.

Even if I wanted to, buying make-up in India and Bangalore is the most excruciatingly difficult, painful thing to do. The helpful sales-girls are unbearably helpful - they grab you as you sidle into Health and Glow hoping to get away unnoticed buying your monthly shampoo or deo and offer you a variety of lipsticks and make-ups. What annoys me is the fact that these girls know little about make-up (pink is not brown) , are hoplessly convinced about their own aesthetically disastrous notions of make-up (lipliner that is 25 shades darker than the lipstick is SO out) and are tired and irritable after long days in excruciatingly painful heels (have you ever seen them sit?!). Not a good combination generally. And not for my make-up, because I don't have a clue!

That can be gotten over with some reading-up and fashionable friends. (Ha, you say. But I do know some of 'em gurlz). And maybe by going to a store where you can browse make-up in peace without being bombarded with information and 'insight'?

All that can be managed, perhaps, but how to get over the problem of much choice, but little variety?

Nothing official about it

2009-06-22T22:28:00.000-07:00

I applied for a tatkal passport some years ago. On the 9th day of the 10 day 'official' wait, I got a call from the local police officer - he offered to complete my place of stay verification if I could drop in immediately. Of course, he didn't say that the verification would not be done if I didn't go there. Desperate for my passport, I went to the station to complete my residence verification.

The policeman browsed through my file, looked at me. A mosquito buzzed in the still air. He swatted it impatiently. Then, looking worried, he leaned forward and said:
"I can do the verification for you."

Though worried about the worried look, I gushed my thanks. Abruptly, he rushed off and returned with coca-colas and biscuits for A and me. Glad for the cool drink, but surprised at the outpouring of affection, I decided to say:

"Do I need to pay anything?

"S, Big Police Officer, has verified your documents? Then what fees? You are related to an important person. No fees. I never take fees. I will waive the fees for you. Thank you for coming, thank you for coming."

That day, I was proud that I had discovered a euphemism to make me feel I hadn't offered a bribe - something official sounding. I've used it to good effect - almost instantly, officials feel at ease at the use.

I was trying to get some certificate at the RTO (Regional Transport Office):

"Sir, I want a copy of <--> document. What do I need to do, do I need to pay a fee?"
"No official fees are there madam. Only a personal fee. Anything is okay madam."

I ranted to K. "A personal fee? How could he say that? It's officially a bribe", I stated, emphasizing the 'officially'. "A personal dishonesty, yes", he said. "On both your parts", he preached. And then, with a loud cackle, "Nothing official about it."

Teflon envy

2009-06-15T04:10:00.000-07:00

As I was typing away at something furiously the other day, hard at work from home, I heard:

"iissarayu, can you come and help me with this?"

I appreciate that someone is doing all the housework and keeping house (a woman, mind you) - but, able-bodied man was watching TV in the next room, cheering at a fallen wicket. Yes, watching TV. At that point of time, as I tsked-tsked my way into the kitchen to help out (where undoubtedly help was required) I realised there were two sets of assumptions here - on the part of the caller (able-bodied man's mother), that I could (Could? regardless! would!) help out and on the part of the able-bodied man, that I would respond to the cry for help. It had nothing to do with differential ability, just a normative assumption on both their parts on a woman's role. It is the same story all over - the amount of time a woman can spend growing professionally is cut down because she has two full jobs - of managing the house, and work at her own workplace. Rich women, poor women, all of them.

A lot of men get away with doing little or nothing - and any help around the house is viewed with gratitude and pride. ("Look, he moved the teacup", she fondly told me the other day). Larry Summers got in a lot trouble for that comment on women and math. He assumed a fundamental incapability - ever wonder about a possible other explanation? That possibly, women have little time to study? That the glass ceiling and leaving work because of managing the home is a question of time? And the invisibility of the time it takes to manage a house?

We are all guilty of perpetuating these assumptions, stereotypes, norms, values - call them what you will - you and me when we laugh at the toing ad, the 'media' when it makes an ad like the one Chandu points out, my mother when she muses on my house-managing ability. The consequences are visible, obvious - there is a value-less ness attached to housework, a negativity with being 'only' a housewife (Homemaker is patronising - makes giving respect to household work seem like a concession) and guilt for the woman if she 'fails' the household.

The question I ask is not how I can make my life easier by checking out, but how to bring brothers, fathers and husbands into the home, kitchen. The question is how to bring responsibility and accountability, so a woman can not have to think about the clothes being washed when there is a PPT to complete, say. And isn't a 'failure' if the clothes aren't ultimately washed. And isn't less of a woman if she can't make chapattis.

And why the conversation about all this? Because clothes have to still be washed, tables have yet to be cleaned and houses have to be made homes.

Later that evening, as we sat around the TV to contemplate Bipasha's gravity-defying outfit at the IIFA awards and Qasab (yet again. yawn) I was called in to make tea. Though, as a lawyer, I know why Qasab should have a lawyer, I stirred the tea leaves violently as I heard the following:

"No terrorist should have representation." (What? Then deny every inconvenient category representation - women, tribes, 'lower' castes)

and, better still: "These lawyers will play tricks with the court" (Grow up! Please!)

And, though I spotted the little string holding up Bipasha's dress: "I think it is stuck on".

Multiple able bodied men lounged around discussing these inanities, and K smiled at me as he tried to balance the tea cups.

In any case, I'm going to bring up my son like a daughter (if I have either), and make it cool to do housework. Men can then move from penis envy to teflon envy. Quite cool that will be.

Skin stuff

2009-06-06T03:57:00.001-07:00

I keep resolving to go to the to a beauty salon frequently and look polished, and pretty and devoid of blackheads. But each time a resolution is made, like all resolutions, it is broken. This time, when K pointed out a significant incease in eruptions on my face (thanks to bad make-up. No, no, not grooming make-up. ANother story how the make-up got there. ) and I agreed I needed help.

Now dermatologists and me share a chequered history. The first dermat I visited was a smelly, creepy character who had very oily skin and hair laden with dandruff. So much for credibility, I thought. I was at his clinic because I had ring-worms. Common skin infection, something I had picked up in school. He looks at my hands with his oily ones (yuck! yuck! yuck!) and says:

"Ringworm. Even I get attacks frequently. Hee heee", pointing at his toes with a leery grin.

Thouroughly disgusted, my mom whisked me away to a clear-skinned, ringworm-free dermatologist. Before the ringworm conversation, OilyDermat had asked me what 'comedienne' meant, and when I said I didn't know (I was eight!), had laughed so much, it seemed like his face was an oil-soaked sponge squeezing itself.

Besides not being smelly and oily, I have come to the conclusion that dermatalogists have to have clear skin. Dentists should have clean teeth and heart specialists cannot die of heart disease. Ruma will agree.

Other horrific experiences include the dermatologist leerily who told me "A skin-disease is like sex, once it gets a taste of you, it just doesn't go away". I was quite confused by the vagueness of the analogy. How can sex get a taste of you - don't you get a taste for sex? My look of bewilderment caused him to lose interest. "Ah, so you can apply...", he hurriedly continued.

Anyway, full of skepticism this time, I crossed the road in search of perfect skin and landed up at a skin clinic. After some delicious apple and cinnamon juice, I was whispered into a consultation chamber. I was told I had pigmentation, acne, blackheads, oily skin, open pores and any other conceivable skin issue. Over a course of six months, and about 20, 000 rupees, I would look perfect - like an airbrushed photo. Being unwilling to part with that sum and disinclined to spend hours over the next few months being pretty-fied, I asked for something immediate. And was recommended an express glow facial.

If you thought facials were relaxing, think again. This clinic is entirely white - people's faces/skin colour included. Seems somewhat futuristic and out of a dystopian novel. As if that isn't creepy enough, the clinic feels it is necessary to explain everything that is going on. Like that apple and cinnamon juice is offered with this line, even when you are taking the second glass:

"Laya Special Drink made of apple and cinnamon, brewed specially by Raken Nanda for Laya Skin Clinc."

And when you enter the Facial room

"You are entering a special skin therapy room, designed to perfection and painted in white so it reflects the light of your toenails to your skin.

And the 10-second break between two actions on my face reminded me of Ravi Shastri, who describes the most banal, obvious in that leery drone of his:

"I am using a cotton bud to swab your face of the cream. Thank you for your patience." As if I cant feel what's going on.

Anyway an hour later and a few thousands poorer (I was conned into buying some cream), I was on my way out - well-advised to wear sunscreen and eat fresh fruits for good skin health. (Both of which I do, but not helping) When:

"We have scheduled your next appointment for May 15. How much advance would you like to pay?"

"Umm, what treatment is this?"

"The dermatologist has recommended a course of peels and facials. We would like to start."

"Umm. Thanks for the feeling of belonging, but I'm travelling for a while. Why don't I get back to you?"

My house maid, who is also a somewhat beautician, now does my skin stuff. Yes, stuff. No more, no less.

Megalomania revival

2009-06-06T03:44:00.000-07:00

So when aandthirtyeights posted his 25-thing, I remembered my own note. Quite the megalomaniac, I wrote and posted mine out as soon as someone tagged me. I thought I'd post it here for the Unkown Reader (not on my Facebook list) to see. I even composed a ditty:

Some nostalgia (?!),
but mostly megalomania.
Please excuse ya.

---
1) I wonder which megalomaniac started this. In the same vein, I spend a lot of time wondering why people act the way they do and what makes them happy

2) I wish I had been a professional dancer.

3) I love pretty, nice stationery. I will spend any amount of money to have nice stationery.

4) I am super-gullible when it comes to health fads. Green tea is today's favorite. (Green tea was when I wrote the note on FB. Now I'm trying Kareena's size zero diet.)

5) I love smelling cosmetics. I open every bottle I see and inhale.

6) I ponytail-unponytail-reponytail my hair at least 30 times a day. If not more.

7) I love earrings. I have at least 200 pairs.

8) I am always trying to lose weight. And grow my hair waist-length. Neither has happened.

9) I love GTalk and Skype and Yahoo and MSN and all other chat software. I'm on all of them and I think you should be too.

10) I think it is never too late to do or learn anything. I dislike people who think so. One just needs to reset expectations.

11) I think love and hate are two sides of the same coin. It's being indifferent that is harder.

12) I am obsessed with my nosering. It is my favourite fashion accessory.

13) I am singularly lazy. I am glad to just do nothing. Besides, I procrastinate. Except when I'm travelling. I cannot deal with lazy holidays.

14) I eat/can eat a lot. A LOT. I love food, food, food. I'm always thinking about my next meal.

15) I speak in long, clause-filled complex sentences. Sometimes logical, sometimes not.

16) I believe that markets work for the poor, primarily because there would be a free flow of information. I believe information is the means as well as the end for all of us - and the state should bother with no more than enabling access to information.

17) I love temple towns. The smells, the sounds, the touts, the religious fervour - I love it all.

18) I love travelling to cities. I like the crowds, the rush of people. I love wondering how life must be in those cities. See also 1.

19) I always ask questions with a purpose. It may not be evident right away, but there's a reason. And I remember your answers.

20) I have a morbid fear of being caught in a war-like situation. I actually go cold each time there's even a conversation about an India-Pak war. However, I love dystopian books and movies - the darker the better.

21) I love commercial art - music dance, drama. Art is a vehicle to achieve the divine, is social commentary and all that. Equally, it is entertaining. Why not be popular?

22) Of all phrases in foreign languages, Espirit d' Escalier is my most favourite-est. Ever.

23) I think Obama looks too smug.

24) I believe in stereotypes. They exist for a reason. Mind you, they are a frame of reference and not judgment.

25) I love playing badminton on the street with a plastic shuttlecock. I'm very good at it.

While I was arranging the home towels

2009-06-02T20:56:00.000-07:00

I just got this flyer from Westside offering discounts. Pretty neat actually - 10-15% discount on many, many things. As usual, they have a sale - this time to celebrate summer. Pity the weather in Bangalore has gotten most un-summery, K and I are thinking of fishing out the woolens.

While poring through this flyer, I couldn't help but notice this - the Men's special offers discounts on apparel, footwear and luggage where as the women's section offers discounts on apparel, footwear and home towels. Why the luggage and home towels differentiation? Inside-outside type thinking i.e. men travel, ergo luggage and women sit at home, ergo use home towels? (As an aside, what are home towels? I though a towel was a towel...)

Is this stereotyping? Or worse? I mean, if it were cosmetics for women, I'd get the connection - you know, historically, and even now women use more cosmetics than men, blah, blah. But items of utility - home towels? Luggage? Designating them as male or female reeks of sexism (assumption of home-ness for women and outside-ness of men) and discrimination (positive values such as excitement and work-relatedness attached with travel vs. banality and disempowerment associated with sitting at home). To my mind, this is stereotyping of the worst kind - that born out of stupidity. The inside-outside assumption is a little naive and poorly-thought out. No?

I would argue that this stereotyping is as harmful as annoying. Some child somewhere, little and impressionable, will pick up this flyer, and internalize this classification. When these oughts aren't complied with, there is excessive guilt for some or violence by others to ensure compliance. Along the way, these become 'oughts'. Perhaps none of this will happen. But the child could pick up the positive-negative associations with home and work. Leading to non-recognition of the economic value of the home and housework, and discrimination, and overall suffering.

All from a Westside flyer? Partly- any form of media has a part to play in how we regard ourselves and others around us. Calling for some responsibility in flyer-making. Equally, I call for more discounts. This is offer on the luggage is too good to resist, and I'm heading off there to buy a suitcase. My horoscope anticipates travel for me. :-)

Musings I

2009-06-02T01:30:00.000-07:00

"My son is so lazy", she smiled indulgently, as she went down on her arthritic knees to pick up a used cup of tea.

Paper letters

2009-06-01T08:31:00.000-07:00

I had the strangest dream this afternoon. It was a conversation between my child and me (No, I am not a mother). My child was called Julie, and was about 6.

Julie: Amma, I miss Appa. cries
Me: Oh my poor child. (gives hug, kiss, etc.) Why don't you write him a letter?
J: Yes! Yes! I will write Appa a letter! Yippee!
Me: Here you go- some paper, a pen. Now write to him and tell him you miss him.
J: Mummy, you're dumb. I want to write a letter on the computer. Give me your laptop (prances around in six year old style)
Me: (helpless and desperate to catch her)no no, you cannot write on the computer. you need a pen and paper for that
J: But how will the words go to Appa if I write on paper? On the computer, when I write, the letter goes.
Me: You're smart. But here the paper itself goes.
J: Ooooh! The computer will eat it up. When Appa opens his computers mouth it will give it to him?
Me: Nooo. You have to post it
J: What is a post?
Me: It is a red box. If you put papers in it, they will go to Appa. A post man will come and take them, put them in a plane and they will go to Appa.
J: These papers (holding up the paper I'd just handed to her) will actually go to Appa?
Me: Yes! These papers will go. Then Appa will hold them and see baby's handwriting.
J: So, if I kiss the paper, Appa can see the kiss?
Me: (isn't-she-smart-expression on my face)yes. You are so smart - just like your mother! Yes, yes, Appa will konw baby has been kissing him. You can use my lipstick so Appa can clearly see the kiss.
J: If I make holes, Appa can see it?
Me: Yes, you can make designs also. (she is so smart I cant handle her expression) Like you make with those hotel napkins, you can send the one you made yesterday to Appa
J: (obviously impressed) Paper letters are way cooler than real letters

No more restaurant reviews

2009-05-30T05:19:00.000-07:00

Why? I'm bored of them. I expect will write about food and eating - it occupies my mind most of the time.

Right hand rights

2009-05-28T23:35:00.000-07:00

We fought over which hand we would hold. We were going out for shopping to the exhibition. I was terribly excited. Amma rarely took me out shopping, and when she did, the shopping clinical and quick. "Okay", she'd tiredly say, "pick what you like, and let's get done with it. Thatha is waiting in the car." Now her pace at shopping is leisurely. She actually looks at what she is buying.

That day, seven-year old me was practically jumping. My mother tightened my pigtail, powdered my face and put a generous-sized dollop of Sringar liquid kunkum on my forehead. She pulled me into her arms and kissed me on my cheek and said, "Now, watch your gold earrings and don't be greedy".

As if. As if. As if I'd be greedy. I was somewhat offended. Anyway, I decided to ignore the hurtful advice. As usual, Amma had hit the nail on the head. I had planned to buy shoes, and skirts, and earrings. And yes, that pencil box. And eat that candy and popcorn and ice-cream. So many pretty, new things I would get. I rubbed my hands in glee.

We were ready to set out. Nayana was dressed up too. Her capris were a cool pista green, her top was a frilly white. When I saw her trying out my Bournvita sunglasses I whispered, "I have six of those at home." "I have three upstairs. It's evening so I wont need them." The blood rushed to my face at the insult. But then if I threw a tantrum now. No shopping then. I reiterated, "I have six", and smugly went on to put on my shoes.

Rita aunty, Nayana's mother came climbing down the steps. She always smelt good. Her silk saree shone in the morning sun. Her bindi matched her blouse matched her shoes matched her bag matched her kerchief. "I'm taking the kids out", she said to my mother, "shopping", she finished.

I raced out from near the shoe rack and held on to her hand. Nayana ambled out and said, "She is my mother. I have full rights to hold her hands. She is my mother. You cannot". I said, quite simply, "But I'll get lost". "Okay! Now, kids", Rita lisped, "Nayana can hold my right hand because she is my daughter. You. You hold my left hand."

We decided to go to the exhibition down the road. The evening summer heat was stifling, worsened by the lights which shone in our faces. I let go of Rita aunty's hand to scratch where my dress hugged my throat. And cover my mouth when I sneezed from the dust. I greedily gobbled up the ice-candy. I partook of the sugar candy that Nayana held. Though she was six months younger, it was her Amma that bought the candy, so she had rights. So it was okay.

And then I saw them. Those shiny red shoes. They shined like a shiny cherry. The little bow was jauntily placed on the side, and it shone from the shiny satin and the shiny gold dots on it. I wanted them. They were there in many colours. Each with a different bow which matched with the shoe colour. I struggled. If I showed them to Nayana, she would want them immediately. Rita aunty would probably buy it for the both of us. But I wouldn't have my own, own coloured shiny shoes.

I gave in. "Nayana", I whispered to her, "look at those shoes". She stared at them for a second. "Maaa", she turned to Rita aunty, "I want those shoes".

"How much?", Rita aunty demanded, pointing in the direction of the shelf. I hoped very hard Nayana didn't want the red ones. If she did, we all know who would get them. Nayana, obviously. "Hundred rupees madam", the shopkeeper answered disinterestedly. He went back to eating his lemon rice. "Hundred rupees, aa?" Rita aunty fought back. "Not possible. Look at the leather. Look at the stitching. Even this bow will come off." She was holding the pink ones and I heaved a sigh of relief. Rita aunty wanted the pink ones for Nayana, and Nayana was generally an obedient child.

After some bargaining the price was brought down to sixty rupees. I tried to conceal my impatience by looking at the giant wheel in the distance. I traced patterns in the dust. "So what colours?", Rita aunty addressed both of us. "Red".

Nayana had answered first. I immediately said red too. "Copycat", she hissed. "I saw them first", I argued. "I told first", she responded. Rita aunty thought it fit to intervene and do justice. "Both of you buy red. It will look very nice. Two sisters with the same coloured shoes." "Yes, that will be fun", I grudgingly compromised.

We tried to try them on. My size wasn't available. And they fit Nayana. Tears stung my eyes.

The pink was pretty too, I reasoned. So was the blue. I decided to settle for the pink. I told Rita aunty, "My size is not there. I'll take the pink".

"Why would you want to compromise?!", Rita aunty asked. "I'll find you those red shoes, better ones, shinier ones with better stictching. Look at these - so flimsy! Near home in that shop. Wait now." Afraid I wouldn't ever see them, I said I'd be happy with the pink. "Silly child", she chided, "I will buy the red ones for you dear. Naynaaa... hold your shoes carefully", she finished.

The next day Rita aunty and Nayana were vegetable shopping. I tagged along. When I sighted the shop, I peered, looked at the shoes. I even commented how pretty the shoes in the shop were. That evening, in a heap of tears, I asked Amma to buy me the shoes.

The death of the Sari

2009-05-28T09:00:00.001-07:00

I took a snap poll the other day on what I should wear to an interview. Nine out of the ten people I asked said trousers and a shirt. I asked for reasons - “you'll look snappy”, someone said; someone else commented that it was “more professional”. (Than what, I immediately wondered) Only the Mister told me to wear a salwar kameeze. When I said I would wear a sari, he told me I'd gone me nuts and walked out scratching his head.

Why is the sari dying (or is it dead) as acceptable corporate attire? Why isn't a crisp cotton sari snappy, professional; why am I nuts to want to wear a sari? Who has defined these norms of what constitutes professionalism and snappiness? What is it about Indian attire, and the sari especially that could make someone think I could be unprofessional?

Could it be that the sari is typically worn with a few kilos of gold? I could testify to that. Being a part of a traditional Tam household, going out without at least a couple of gold necklaces, hair tied up with flowers and a few bangles when wearing a sari is considered abacharam. (Abacharam not against fashion, but against the unwritten Rules of Tamil Fashion.) So, the argument perhaps is if you're looking like a Christmas tree, you couldn't possibly be expected to do number crunching or make presentations. Okay, admitted – jingly bangles and flashes of gold can be terribly distracting to both does and viewer. Well, then, why not eliminate all all the jingling and dress simply?

Looks like that isn't possible. Because definitions of professional dressing aren't around what crosses the line, but strictures on how to toe the line. How to fit in within the walls of corporate-dom, and for women – how to be at par with the men. Decided by an entirely arbitrary authority (without much fashion sense). How unfair is that?

Why am I ranting about the sari? You see, if I'm not wearing clothes my body is shaped to wear (or clothes that are shaped to how my body is) I look, ugly, fat, non-snappy. Worse, the discomfort of pants tight at the hips but sagging at the waist, the fear of a popping button make me unprofessional – I need to look down to check if the button has not popped, and I definitely walk a little like a duck in trousers. I sit at an odd angle and feel miserable. The sari is a sensible alternative – it drapes around my over-large Indian hips, makes even me look somewhat elegant and is versatile and elegant and beautiful.

Besides the obvious benefits of comfort, the sari comes in more colours than trousers, hides more of the flab and is easier to maintain (you don't have to put a sari through the washing machine after each wear, but shirts smell, so you need to). Besides they are more conscience/guilt alleviation wear – if you buy saris, they could be feeding a weaver in some part of India. You can thumb your nose to that arbitrary authority that decides what professionalism means. You could even be making a feminist statement on masculinization of workplaces and such like.

Ideology, social impact, fashion – all achieved in one stroke. Go for the sari I say!

Elections

2009-05-25T20:54:00.000-07:00

Isn't it sad we have voted for stability? And not for action, efficiency, change? No, no - I'm not saying we should have voted for someone else - the Congress may have been the best of all the options. Yet, that we are happy with our vote for 'stability' and the Congress is crowing about it too - it is quite tragic, really. To attribute to the Indian voter no intelligence beyond craving stability. Disillusioning, no?

Top 5 IPL irritants

2009-05-24T07:58:00.000-07:00

These things got on my nerves during the IPL, and almost broke my resolve to sit through the matches. But persist I did - I watched man, many hours of fairly mediocre cricket (sloppy fielding - dropped catches, misfields galore; dull batting - only one score over 200)

1) Ravi Shastri - Between his drone and his lameness, his looking at the camera from under his eyebrows and his lechery, he can drive me to murderous madness. Compounded by his need to articulate what may be going on in everyone's head. Worst is his has a singular inability to generate excitement in any situation - if only he didn't take himself so seriously.

2) The Rin ad: This is the one where the kid does a Gandhi (slap the other cheek business) on the guy whose window he breaks with a cricket shot. Not out of any Gandhiness, but because he thinks the next shot will also be a six. The kid's attitude, his expression and the sheer lack of connection with the product make me want to slap him. I would've if I were that uncle.

3) Team owners - Preity's hysterical jumps were particularly annoying. She made every single league match out to be some sort of final - needless excitement. Vijay Mallya's tantrum-ing was annoying and lacked dignity (Stay in Monaco!), and Lalit Modi's leeriness was leery and creepy.

4) The cheerleaders - Tired repetitive motions, little skirts, silly smiles - boring, I say. In a country like India, there is so much opportunity to do interesting things when cities play off - you can get a local superstar to play some music, just a lot of scope. Yet, all teams had identical looking cheerleaders who were supposed to derive their sexiness from their itsy-bitsy skirts. Since we get so much of the itsy bitsyness on TV and in the papers, these cheerleading efforts took away from zoo zoo time.

5) MS Dhoni: Now, don't get me wrong - I loved the guy. But through this IPL his Love song CD and his pocket Facebook got on my nerves. As did his permanent irate expression on the field, his blaming the bowlers and his own batting average-ness. Actually, it think it was the love song CD that did it.

Someone mentioned the zoozoos - they're definitely an irritant. They are rather cute - for a while. However, there is only that many times you can see egg like creatures screech in an impossible-to-tolerate pitch. Their semi-humanness (it is in the legs!) gave me the creeps when watching them and bad dreams when sleeping (I dreamt I was in a railway station and it was full of zoo zoos that would attack me). The zoozoos haven't reached the top 5 yet, but they will soon. Once my crush on Gilly fades and I fall back in love with MSDhoni, and I eliminate the Rin kid.

Someone mentioned Mandira Bedi - she's irritating, but no more commentators on the list, and I think Ravi Shastri is the worst. Fake IPL player's blog also irritated - partly from the arcane KKR gossip and partly from that righteous pontification at the end. Redeeming factor was you could get off the blog if you wanted to, so irritation wasn't force fed on you.

Thankfully, the elections weren't too much of an issue - no serious matters for conversation except Varun in jail and some budiya-gudiya conversation - it made for entertaining watching, but channels got repetitive. Had they been serious, and India hadn't 'voted for stability', there would have been some colflict.

fake IPL player

2009-05-20T20:22:00.001-07:00

So the fale IPL player turns out to be quite fake and so blah. I mean, seriously, what was that senti lecture on cricket? And to what end? After the masaledar digs and the Bollywood-style drama, I hoped the revelation was going to be fun. You know, some more digs, some more masala. Ah, also, what was that he said about anonymity? And the huge victim complex in that speech? (Exactly what is he victimised by?) Phsaw.

Mine or the world's?

2009-05-20T03:28:00.000-07:00

This is about women and women's bodies. This is a somewhat philosophical and rambling piece, perhaps entirely meaningless. If you aren't confortable reading 'this kind of stuff', shoo, go away. No, it isn't a feminist piece. I'll tell you why later.
---

Everybody in the world seems to have a claim on my body. No, no, not like what you are thinking - but even matters when it is seemingly irrelevant whether I am a woman are affected by my being a woman. Things over the few days have made me wonder whether my body is really my own - it seems increasingly that other's happiness, other's conflicts, other's sadness - are all going to be fought in the site that is my body.

Let me explain - someone argued with me that I need to have a child because it gives my parents happiness. Aunty persisted, you must have a child before it is too old because it is good for you. I argued about my choices, my freedom - all of that. Then she said, its also about the baby's health and happiness you know, the older you are... Hell, I don't even know this kid! And it has a claim on my body.

Forget that kid - the rest of my family and my country and the world seems to have a claim on my body too. My family's honour rests in my chastity, my husband's in my fidelity, my country's in my being cultured. Honour, happiness and the continuance of world order seem depend on my confirmity with rules laid out - don't have sex before marriage, don't smoke, don't delay pregnancy, do this, don't do that. In all this seems to be woven my happiness - or so I am made to believe. My happiness my country's peace and prosperity, etc and my body is the vehicle, the site for these to happen. And therefore everyone has an interest in how I deal with it.

My body is also the site of communal and international conflict. My body is used snuff out my race, I am raped if someone has a problem with the religion of millions of others. I am thrown me out of a pub if Western culture invades, I am honour killed if I play lemon and spoon with a white man. You fight on my shoulders, my womb, my feet. In both public and private spaces, my body is yours - my womb is the world's to rent, my body is yours to have your fight.

Many of us modern, educated, urban women are blessed (thank you for making me aware of how grateful I should be) - but do we have the freedom to do as we choose with an integral part of us - our bodies? Dress it like we will, treat it well if we want to, or not? Be free not to have ideals, rules imposed upon us? Be free not to live up to the ideals of womanhood? Be free not to feel grateful for being alive and educated and honoured?

Reader-who-is-annoyed, don't worry about all this talk of freedom and liberty and choice - - you have a stake in this too. You are interested in the continuation of the word order. And you can count on me - I will tell my kids to dress 'sensibly' while going to the dark alley, I will have a child and take care of it and my home. I will be happy, and normal, and chirpy. Chill.

NB:
I must say that nothing in this piece advocates any course of action to anybody, men, women or other; it is merely an attempt to articulate some thoughts about my context. If you ask me what I choose to do - I don't know. One aspect of my liberty is my freedom to choose. I would rather fight this as an everyday battle rather than getting declarations on my freedom which mean nothing. So I negotiate my space everyday - I straighten my dupatta to avoid the glares and stares of the leery men, call every ten minutes to assuage disapproval of my father for an occassional late night out - and I think I am happy.

This isn't a feminist piece because of just that - I will not advocate a course of action here. I make my choices, interestingly, about how I deal with my loss of freedom, but don't advocate courses of action and or lay down modes of reform to correct the 'wrongs'. Here.

P.S: Apologies to any RSS feed readers I may have - there were multiple edits, re-edits, and evolution of thought and language. :-)

Priyanka Gandhi in Outlook

2009-05-17T07:14:00.001-07:00

I saw this old issue of Outlook with an interview of Priyanka Gandhi. On the cover. You know the touchy feely type of interviews - her relationship with Rahul, Robert, the kids, marriage, motherhood, politics. I got really bugged with the interview and Outlook. For a newsmagazine that cribs (like in this week's issue) about how there were no issues in the election, this is surprising, silly and unnecessary.

What is PG really? Really? She has no political experience, or anything beyond a surname (which, by the way, is Gandhi on the Outlook cover and in the report, but is usually Vadra). Forget experience - what has that got to do with anything? - but even a willingness to be a part of politics? She expressly doesn't. and Outlook has a cover page on her? A cover story?

A magazine should push to help its readers form opinions. Analyse facts. Not project someone, that too largely a non-entity (she wants to make cupcakes for her kids; yes, yes I admit I read the interview!) in an entirely Cosmopolitan-meets-Simi Grewal in print. In an election where the biggest issue was the lack of issues, shouldn't newsmagazines, especially ones that purport to be opinion-forming focus on just that?

Rajdhani

2009-05-17T06:57:00.001-07:00

The Rajdhani thali. So on Saturday, four of us headed to Rajdhani at UB City for lunch. And this is at least the twentieth meal I have had there. I can't decide whether I am bored or the food has gotten bad.

Now, there are two kinds of reviews - either you go to a place many times, and you start to have an opinion on the food or you describe your first visit, mention what you had, and state whether you like or dislike it. This review (if you want to call it that) falls in the second category.

There isn't much to describe really - the atmostphere and ambience is very ordinary. The service is a touch like the Gujju-Rajasthani places (waiters urge you to eat, somewhat home style), but not quite. The waiters are stressed out by the crowds, and seem to always be in a hurry to dump food in your plate. No one, NO ONE smiles. This is an important aspect, I think, for two reasons - first, Rajasthani/Gujju restaurants are famed for their service (try Samrat or Chetna in South Bombay) and second, quite simply, it is nice. It is very MTR-esque, eat and you go. Something about the restaurant has started to strike me as arrogant, not quite elegant snobbishness, which is far cooler.

Now the food is good on most days. The variety is mind-boggling. On all days, you will find at least a couple of sabjis you like. The phulkas had got thicker this visit, and was fairly raw and una[petising. But that is not the case usually - they are paper thin and really phula hua. The sabjis, though a little oily, are reasonably tasty. Though they have about eight sabkjis they rotate, so you could end up with the same sabjis very frequently. What I don't see in Rajdhani is any real Rajasthani or Gujrati dishers - the dishes are nicely cooked ubiquitously north Indian dishes - where is the dal bati , gattey ki sabji?, the undeo and all? The kadis are the same all the time, and K and I play a guessing game on the sabjis. I've scored 3out of four a couple of times.

Rajdhani is convenient and close - and I'd recommend. Apart from the sudden steep rice once from Rs. 150 to 225, there has been no price rise, and its still reasonable at that price too. Everything in the thali, yes no catch here, is unlimited. The desserts, the chaats, everything. Starve yourself a meal to be able to do justice to that one.

Microfinance Network

2009-05-13T18:54:00.001-07:00

We're here! We're alive. Visit www.microfinancenetwork.org for more details!!

Look forward to hearing your thoughts - on everything!

Toe saga

2009-05-12T22:13:00.000-07:00

I know this may make me sound like a half-baked yoga teacher cum tantric cum Class V science teacher, but I came to a big big realisation today. Every body part, and by that I mean EVERY part, has its use. Even the base of your toe. Even the little finger. I usually gloriously ignore these parts of my body (especially the toe), even mistreat them with sad ballerina attempts way past the starting age, until my mother drops hints abut pedicures.

But now, I am a changed person. I hurt my toe yesterday, and really badly too - and I can barely walk. My leg aches because I can't put my weight on my toe, and I can't sit, because in trying to avoid hurting my toe more while sitting down, I pulled some muscle. The tetanus shot I took is causing my arm to hurt, and the antibiotics to keep away the infection have given me a feeling of malaise.

So, I have resolved: I shall never abuse my body, and I will try not to tread on people's toes. This has been one toe-curling experience - what with all the limping to the hospital and attendant drama. Toe-tal waste of time. Okay, no more toe jokes.

But seriously, all parts of the body are useful, and have some function. You'll only realise when it is not there. So take care of yourself - be good, do good, etc. I have even composed a poem for you to remember this principle:

Take care of yourself very well,
Down to your little toe,
If you're nice your toes will not,
Hurt you like a foe.

Being sick

2009-05-10T05:09:00.001-07:00

You know what is worse than being sick? The guilt. And I feel so guilty about being sick, throwing people's schedules into a tizzy and being dependent. Does everybody feel like that, or is it just me? Part of it is perhaps because I am usually independent and need no one to take care of me, when I am a little helpless I feel guilty. I think that independence contributes to the guilt - that people have to do things I otherwise do.

On the cold hospital bed, as I lay stripped of my dignity, I composed a ditty - a tribute to the drip:
Drip, drip, drip,
Drip, drip, drip,
If you drip it longer,
Yo will become stronger,
Drip, drip, drip.
(yes, it is 'inspired' by the Tata Tea Bag ad)

How to solve this guilt problem? I contemplated being 'less independent' - you know,..., I actually don't know. But has anyone been less independent to deal with the discomfort zof being less independent? Little complex. No? Maybe this jumbled up post is because there is IV-ly administered saline flowing through my veins.

Copper Chimney

2009-05-09T02:41:00.001-07:00

Oh so mediocre. So like all the spice in oils kind of food, and nothing to recommend it really.

I was there for dinner last night and ordered a tomato and mango shorba, which tasted neither of the mangoes or the tomatoes, but like watery Maggi instant tomato soup with lots more garlic. A potentially exciting taste, but unappetizing. We ordered some hara bhara kababs - which were neither hara nor bhara, they looked like shrivelled twigs, and tasted like that too.

We had by then gone too deep, and the order had been placed for a main course. We were otherwise quite ready to leave. The redeeming dish was the bhindi cooked in anardana. That was quite yummy - tangy-spicy and well-cooked. However, even this had tough bhindis, which were floating in oil, so it left me quite turned off. The dal appeared as we ended the meal, and was entirely uninspiring. We didn't want to stick around for dessert.

If you are really hungry after shopping in Bangalore Central, it is raining outside (and you don't want to drive out) and you are for inexplicable reasons desperate for oily food (of indistinguishable origin), try Copper Chimney. My thought is that it is a snazzed up version of a Shanti Sagar that serves North Indian food - with no distinguishable taste, but lots of spice and oil.

Same old, same old. Eat for half the price at a Sagar. Better still eat stale bread and jam at home.

Eating experiences in Bangalore

2009-05-07T07:29:00.000-07:00

I used to start my 'My Favourite Festival' essays in school with the line 'India is a land of festivals'. Always. But that is because India is. Like Bangalore is the city of restaurants. Unlike many cities, where the eaters crave familiar tastes in foreign food (orange coloured, sweet Gujju pasta at Samrat and New Yorker, rasam powder in pasta in a a Chennai restaurant), to a large degree Bangalore's eaters are open to new tastes. I think. Not that it is any sign of greatness, but it is just.

Also, Bangalore is somewhat an eating experience kind of city, and so I thought I'd list out my favourite eating experiences. Just five. Mem and some others will balk at some of the choices. You'll see a negative bias towards food east of Madras, but that is because I do have a negative bias.

In no particular order:

1) MTR lunch followed by a siesta: Complete carb overload. But delicious. What sheer variety! Eating at MTR isn't just about the food. It is about the jostling, elbowing, pushing to get a coupon, the looking-greedily-while others-eat, the don't care attitude of the service, the sickly sweet beeda - it is everything.

It combines to make one hell of an experience. The rice-overload-induced-drowsiness can actually be dangerous. Don't drive - take an auto and crash as soon as you reach home. Doesn't end here - wake up a few hours later, sluggish and still drowsy, watch some dumb TV and fall back asleep soon after.

2) A lazy afternoon at Koshy's: Well, a lazy afternoon at Koshy's is just that a lazy afternoon at Koshy's. The place is bustly yet lazy and is oozing old world charm, and well, laziness. The food is mostly average, but the potato smilies and the chutney sandwiches are yummy. And it is so with it to hang out at Koshy's. The clatter of the cutlery, the quiet voices - please don't go there if you are either loud or screechy.

3) Dinner at the Taj West End: The property is beautiful and serene. I know, I have criticised their food for being sucky, but who cares and that was just once. You can hear the chirping of the crickets, and enjoy quiet, understated luxury. Eat slowly, and shiver in the mild Bangalore chill. Then, hold hands and amble around the property after dinner.

4) Dinner at Toscano followed by dessert at Mikhail Basse:
Again, I have said mean things about Toscano. But, their dinner on a regular day is splendid. The food has always been excellent, the service unobtrusive and quiet and the decor reminds me of this lovely, lovely restaurant K and me went to in Barca. After soup and pasta at Toscano, head down the corridor(?) to Mikhail Basse for dessert. If you like dark chocolate, you will die there and be transported to heaven. If you don't like dark chocolate, you will die there and be transported to heaven. Amble around, enjoy the pop fountain, contemplate urban living and phallic symbology staring at the UB City tower.

5) Breakfast at Veena Stores followed shopping in Malleswaram market: Wake up bright and early on a Sunday morning, and go to Veena stores. Elbow, push, grab and get your idlis. Savour the taste. Ah.

Then take you basket and go to the market. Smell the mixed smell of marigold, jasmine and other flowers. Smell the mixed smell of fresh vegetables. Bargain, bargain. Buy.

PMS and irritation

2009-05-05T20:06:00.000-07:00

One evening, I sat for hours in the college canteen arguing with a friend why I should not reveal a secret I knew. It was about someone we both knew, but I was closer and had some *top secret* information. I argued, begged, cajoled - not to share the information. For hours (Yes, I still wonder why I didn't deliver a slap and walk out just then). At the end of it, when I thought I had won the argument (mostly by attrition), he turned around and told me "Are you acting irrational because you are having your period?".

Research on menstrual syndrome points to some emotional, physiological and physical symptoms prior to and durning menstruation. I, for one, am irritable, tired and feel bloated. But not illogical. Secrets are still secrets, work is still work, and cleaning up at home still has to be done, never mind what day of the month it is. All the work I do requires basic, if not advanced, analytical ability, maturity and judgment an I do it as well during my chums as not. I am kind, considerate, warm and nurturing most of the time, but I get angry, very angry even. Not because of hormones. But because something has angered me. May be justifiable, may be not. But there are tangible actions, situations and circumstances which irk me. I may be more irritable around my periods, but irritability and anger aren't the same thing, irritability and my fundamental values aren't the same thing.

I know some medical professionals theorize that menstrual syndrome is a social construct, and that some others argue that the symptoms are sometimes so serious that it can be a defence in crime. People theorise about female criminality and its causes (I think the assumption is that women are happy, gentle peaceful creatures, and one big cause of any 'deviant' behaviour is the irrational hormones that flow through their veins). Perhaps, perhaps not - that debate is for another post, or over coffee - but that evening I contemplated the availability of the defence quite seriously, on the staircase up.

Happiness or turmoil

2009-05-04T10:54:00.000-07:00

It is interesting that turmoil is a much better state of mind to write in or do things than happiness. I blog in bursts - and these are days when I write three-four (seemingly) meaningless pieces, and get on, writing is my means of venting then. Or I dance - which is another way of venting. Or read or work or do something - they are productive hours, though my mind id in turmoil. On the happy days, I barely do anything. Just live in the moment of happiness and satisfaction.

Today for instance. Was a happy day. Though I had much, much reason to be upset and did a mid-afternoon-hot-sun caper around town because of my own stupidity, I was happy and cheerful. So much, I was just unwilling to work in the evening when I needed to.

Should I seek out turmoil days because they are my most productive days, or happy days, because I am just plain and simple happy on those days?

Earth Tree Cafe at F&B

2009-05-04T10:09:00.000-07:00

So I've written about FnB before. Their restaurant is awesome, and I would go back there again, and again, and again.

The decor reminds me of cafes in Europe - a little kitschy and crowded and nice and sweet and charming. The place smells of baking bread when you walk in and that's yummy.

However, don't be misled into thinking the food served there is only bread-y stuff. There's Thai and Desi as well. I've tried the desi - and it isn't the usual vegetables-in-(lots of) oil and spices, and actually tastes good. The continental food is super too - the gnoochi dish and the grilled asparagus have been great on the days I've tried it. The portions are fairly large, so if you do a soup and a starter, you can actually split the main course dish. The pizzas are yummy, the crust is genuinely thin and the food flavourful.

Tonight we settled for a cold soup (their Gazpacho is the best I have had!), a salad and a pizza and some sorbets! The food was excellent. My only crib - one of the sorbets was overfrozen and had chunks of ice, and that was pretty crappy.

The service was pleasant and quick (we were one of the few people there). No funny stuff. (Isn't it strange that there is little to talk about a good place, but so much nasty and opinionated stuff can be written about a semi-bad place?)

It is quite an expensive place - Rs. 500 a head for the meal described above, so go there when you are feeling rich. Someone asked me to point out whether restaurants were kid friendly - this one is.

Girlie crib

2009-05-04T07:03:00.000-07:00

Girlie crib alert

I have never cribbed about my looks or my body - being deeply indoctrinated into the convent school morality (?) of "I wanted shoes, then I saw someone without legs,therefore I shall be satisfied" ideology. The logic defies me now, but I guess it held its charm (and reason) to a ten year old.

But today - I will. I tried really hard to get into capris - really nice smart capris. I haven't gained any weight since I've had them - by some accounts I have lost weight. Why, why, why the struggle to fit into them. Why do I have awful hips? I hate them and myself. This happens ever so often - clothes are perfect around the waist, arms, other body parts. Not the hips.

Ugh, ugh. Is it common? If so, why don't mass apparel manufacturers get it?

Drive to Ooty

2009-04-28T08:57:00.000-07:00

So K and I drove to Ooty from Bangalore. So fun! It's a lovely pretty drive, especially after Mysore and we had a great, great time. We managed to catch some pretty sights, and I will not forget the little carrot sellers, the view of the eucalyptus trees from my car window, the rain, or the sight of the majestic mountains.

Some fun things to do:
1) Chat with the carrot sellers on the drive up: There are these little boys and girls who sell carrots (yummy!) on the way up to Ooty. They are little children who do this after school, and look so charming and sweet sitting by orange heaps. Sitting in the cold hill air, they make a pretty picture. (This picture reminds me of the pictures one takes from those point and shoot cameras)

2) Boat in Ooty lake: Yes, it is fun! Take one of those pedal boats and pedal away. The sight of the hills and the deer in the deer park is charming.

3) Walk up the market street: Even more fun if it is slightly chilly - walk up and down the market street (yes, incredibly busy and noisy, but fun nevertheless), breathe in fresh air with a strong overtone of eucalyptus and citronella, contemplate buying chocolate, buy chocolate and go back.

4) Pop your head out of the window and look up at the eucalyptus trees: Look at the sunlight streaming through, wonder how it must be to be a eucalyptus tree looking down at the world. Imagine the trees were people, write a fairy tale in your head.

5) Eat plums: Yes. They're juicy and delicious and my mouth is watering at the thought of them!

6) Visit the railway station: It is the stuff of sepia-coloured photographs.

For accommodation, there are plenty of options, so no advice there. If you are driving, slow down at Mudumalai and Bandipur, you may spot an elephant. Also watch out for the Kerala state buses. They are maniacal on the roads. Carry water and food - except at Mysore and Ooty, you will not find great food. The drive takes about 7 hours, excluding the time taken in Bangalore.

Creepy

2009-04-28T08:32:00.000-07:00

I just discovered stat counter (KRS tells me Google analytics is better. Perhaps). I mean - many of the blogs I thought I enjoyed in relative privacy track user movement. Why any objection, you ask? Because it is creepy - this stat counter thing gives you info about the amount of time you've spent, IP address - you know, deep and personal info. Shudder.

I'm curious to know who you are reader (mwahaha), so I have it on for a while - but I will take it off. Anyway say hello if you are around.

Emgees breakfast

2009-04-27T22:09:00.000-07:00

Emgees at the Shelton Grand, Church Street

The food is just yum! The neer dosas are near-perfect, the coconut chutney is the best chutney I have tasted, ever, and the sambar is delicious too.

The service is great though the ambience is just average. The lampshades threaten to plonk into your chutney and the room freshner smell mixed with the citrus cleaner smell can get noxious.

It opens at 8 am (just right to grab a bite before work), and breakfast would cost about Rs. 150 per head, depending on how much you eat!

Zara

2009-04-27T21:53:00.000-07:00

Like with many other restaurants, I can't get over the name. Why would you want to name a restaurant after a brand of clothing? Yes, yes, I know, Zara may mean something, and it sounds all whispery and mysterious, but not for a restaurant. A person can be called Zara, even perhaps a clothing store. Not a restaurant, because, as I just discovered, Zara means blooming flower, is Arabic in origin (not Spanish), and sounds just weird. Not done.

Anyway, KRS and I headed there for dinner last evening, and were quite disappointed. The decor is all mixed up - somewhat Moorish tile work on tree-like pillars (I think they were trying to create a open patio type Moorish feel, but had to build the roof), mixed with very modern wood panelling. The place is very dark and almost dingy. The redeeming thing is the big cricket screen, and if the drinks are nice, it may may make for some fun evenings.

We started off with some tapas - nachos with cheese (reminiscent of Ruby Tuesday nachos - tasteless and cheesy) and another one whose name I cant recall. The latter had mashed potatoes in the centre (a little watery!) and some tomatoey paneer around it. It tasted like uncooked paneer in tomato puree. Not at all impressive. We then moved on to a main course dish (inconveniently listed on an unwieldy cube object, with no prices), which was an au gratin. The au gratin was a little watery and laden with potatoes and average at best. The food has left both KRS and me with a somewhat upset stomach.

The meal for two costs about Rs. 800, (a split drink thrown in), so it is fairly expensive for the food you get. I really don't know about the drinks, and may be a good place from the pub/lounge perspective. For another day I guess.

IPL advertising space

2009-04-24T09:23:00.000-07:00

Dear IPL advertiser,

I was watching an IPL match. Apart from the ghastly costumes, I noticed the squareinch space on the costume (for lack of a better word) covered by sponsors' ads. Except the cricketers' butts. I urge you to capture that spot. In fact, it is the ideal point for an ad.

Why, you wonder.
Imagine what will happen if you placed an ad...there! I'd watch for the novelty of it. So would my mom, grandmom, uncle, aunt, dog and millions of others. Admittedly, footballers and tennis players are fitter, but they are also faster. They move rapidly, and impact is therefore low. On the other hand, the TV focuses on a bowler for a whole 30 seconds in some cases during a run-up.

It's no fun, you crib. Why not?!
Create a heirarchy. Irfan Pathan is more desirable than Kallis. Speedsters have a longer run up than spinners. Navaratan tel ad on Kallis', Vodafone on Pathan. 10, 000 rupee discount for an entire team. You know, stuff like that. It will be fun. Maybe create a bidding process. Create SMS voting on what ad you want to see on whom. Create a reality show, maybe. Lots of fun.

Did you say something about commodifying people, and body parts? I saw an ad the other day with a voluptuous woman with a commode (yes, a commode) between her breasts for a sanitary ware ad. If that isn't pure ugh, this isn't either. Don't worry.

Regards,
Iissarayu

p.s. the Punjab costume seems to have a slit on the knee - that's a spot too. But visibility low.

Armchair activism from a voting high

2009-04-23T23:23:00.000-07:00

So, I voted yesterday. What a gorgeous feeling. I don't have words to describe the high - it was my first time. I felt a sense of power, responsibility, all of that. And I felt as though I count. It's funny how my work is 'impactful' (both at the BigMac and Elevar), but no day at work has given me as much of a high as voting.

I wonder what it is about me that makes me literally jump with joy after voting. I didn't particularly care for my candidates, they were all singularly uninspiring, and none of the campaign 'material' reached me. But, I repeat, what a high!

What did I do, when on that high? Well, almost nothing. I put up some stickers in my apartment urging people to vote, and sent out about a 100 SMSs to friends asking them to go vote, you know, create a kind of chain kind of thing.

Nagarjuna lunch

2009-04-22T02:21:00.001-07:00

Andhra thali and shared biryanis. Rs. 150 or so a head. Delicious. Not insanely spicy. Do.

Chaala bagundi.

Rains

2009-04-22T02:03:00.000-07:00

It's raining in Bangalore! It's raining in Bangalore!

Bangalore is the most beautiful and elegant city in the rains. Just absolutely simply stunningly gorgeous. Not dirty and sqishy and muggy like Bombay becomes. Nor do you experience the surprise like when it rains in Hyderabad - Bangalore's rains are plain and simple and unpretentious and natural. Yes, lovely! I love the smell of the pre-monsoon showers, the rain-induced mugginess and all the mess and agony of the rain.

No, I don't carry an umbrella. It is so wonderful to be stopped in your tracks by the rain. There is something about rain that leaves you charmingly helpless. It's lovely to have to delicately sidestep puddles and walk around. And Bangalore's rains are particularly charming on that account - they're sharp and heavy rains, so you are stranded, and they are sudden - and they throw your plans off track.

So nice to have this element of craziness in the hopelessly, mundane, ordered, straight life that I am absolutely in control of. Except when it rains. No?

Food philosophy

2009-04-21T22:38:00.000-07:00

Ah. I ate mango rice yesterday. My grandmom's recipe, but made by my mom - divine I tell you. Brought back memories of summers in Bangalore, with its sticky sweet weather, fights with my cousin over broken dolls, the cool Rajajinagar house and the smell of summer rain. I thought of the movie Ratatouille, and of that mean critic in that movie, whose eyes tear up when eats a dish from his childhood. Ah, the flavours from childhood. No food you ever ever eat later, however well-cooked, however crafty the chef can replace those childhood memories. I'm almost beginning to think that good food is really about reviving memories.

The best memories are those of your childhood. Perhaps because in those summers I had nothing else to do, I enjoyed the food, and the memories are well-formed and deep. My restaurant memories of the recent years are dim, most often about convenience and I really would easily be able to replace one restaurant with another.

Why?

2009-04-16T10:02:00.000-07:00

So I was told today to 'pay some more attention to the house in general after my current project (a Bharatanatyam performance). I plan to go back to a fairly demanding job, and I wonder how on earth I can. The advice (entirely unsolicited) I seem to get is this - "you know, you don't really need a great job/career, it doesn't matter, someone needs to take care of the house".

Three things:
First, I may not care. You know, I don't care if there is some dust settled on the TV, yesterday's food in the fridge, and clothes washed once in two days. You know, I don't live in filth, and you wont contract a disease in my home, and I don't care about the rest. Why don't I have the choice to be what I want to be?

Second, what if I have ambitions? You know, of the professional variety. Maybe I want to be CEO of a big bank. Let me be. I don't want an aira-gaira type job just so I can 'take care of the house'. I'd rather make the compromise for myself, and something I want to do. You know, have a random type job to be able to write a book, change the world - do something useful to myself or to others. Not take care of the house. I mean - I agree it is important, but beyond cleanliness, I don't care to have an organised unit up and running.

Third, why should the woman make these sacrifices? Can not the man? What if he wants to? Choice apart - it's almost as if it is assumed that he has a greater likelihood of success 'outside' the house. Whatever it is, why is he not asked? Why me?

MTR Lunch

2009-04-15T09:58:00.001-07:00

So I FINALLY had the world-famous MTR lunch. Quite good, very home-like. Definitely worth it - for a lazy Sunday or for any other day. Make sure you're hungry - it is an elaborate and delicious meal.
It costs about Rs. 110 - not too expensive. The service is, well, MTR-ish. They are not sweet and friendly, and have a 'eat-if-you-want', no upachara attitude. They wont spill food on you, nor not serve you seconds if you ask, so it is good service if you ask me. You get what you pay for.
Umm, ambience? Plastic chairs. Old Bangalore feel, I guess. Nice. Familiar. Clean. Not pretty or cared for.

There's not much to describe - the experience is very poem-able, and the quantity of rice you're fed gives you a carb-high enough to pen some verse, but the real art of enjoying the MTR meal is getting in and ensuring you get food - so be prepared! An analogy to a market entry strategy would be a little tedious. I'll use the broad terminology - but you get the point?

Entering the market

We got there at 12.15 pm or so only to find a large crowd - some digga families, some Tam maamis and firangs. The approach is this - no matter what time you get there, it is a race among equals to get to the coupon counter. Don't aim for first slot - you will have to wait for food, as service doesn't being until the 'batch is completed'. Detailed analysis reveals that no. 6-10 is the best slot - provided you don't have a family of 35 before you. Do some investigations before you enter - people crowd around, and you should be able to guage family sizes. Note who the coupon buyers are - make a dash so as to be able to beat them.

Consolidating your position

Once you enter, make sure you choose your seat next to the path where the servers walk. This is especially important if you don't get into the first hall - then you will have to wait until the second room is full, and it is pretty agonizing to see people be served delicious food.

Dealing with competition

You will encounter people trying at ALL stages to pip you to the lunch table. You will be elbowed at the coupon queue (smart women are at advantage - the queue standers are mostly gentlemen, and decent ones at that), shoved while entering the hall (there replicates your position in the coupon queue), and stared down by others while eating. Maintain a calm demeanour, enjoy your food.

Exit

The goodwill you have gained in giving up your table once done to the eager person at the door, cannot be matched by the joy of an IPO. YOu will notice people smiling at you - something that doesn't happen in the fairly intense run up to getting in.

So yenjaay! Don't forget to peek into the vegetable storage next to the steps on your way out. Very picturesque, with light streaming in on the vegetables and all - and you'll pray you're alive after the meal.

stranger in my kitchen

2009-04-12T23:55:00.000-07:00

Some clanging of vessels,
Someone asks,
"Eey, what are you doing?".
A hurried explanation,
The fridge door closes,
And there is some clanging.

Annoyed cutting, at the intrusive question
And the fridge opens
and closes again.
There's a stranger in my kitchen,
I think with annoyance,
Only to realise that I am the stranger.

Please don't annoy me

2009-04-12T23:34:00.000-07:00

Now, you will wonder why I am writing this megalomaniacal post about myself. You might think these are like thous virtuous annoyances most people talk about - "you know, I'm so perfect, but I have a xx obsession. Nothing would really happen if that isn't taken care of, but I need something to talk about myself. So cute I am". This is not like that. These are serious annoyances, they don't matter in the larger scheme of things, but, they cause me singular irritation and I may bite you.

1) "Your skin...": It may be. I don't need you to tell me that. There is only ONE person who has the license to tell me that, and only one. With that person, my sense of humour is well-developed and I appreciate jokes. For the rest of you, I take serious offence, HOWEVER well-meaning you are. The well-being of my skin is personal, and none of your fsking business. Ever wondered why facial cosmetics are in the 'personal care' section of a department store?

2) "You should wear...": For heaven's sake, I want to dress well and look pretty. Please do not ask me to wear this or that. I am an intelligent enough, sophisticated woman who can (and will) decide what to wear.

3) "Will you eat...": I will eat when I am hungry. I will starve if I want to. I have my instincts of self-preservation intact, and I don't need a guardian of my stomach. I am an independent adult who is aware of hunger pangs, health and all that. So, please spare me.

4) "It does not matter...": Did I ask you? It may not matter to you, but it does to me. Don't try and find reasons why I should do things. It does matter that there are 200 calories in that curry, which I refuse to eat, it does matter that this and that happened. I will be tensed, and angry if need be. I have a fairly well-developed sense of judgment on what is important to be worried about and what not, and even if they are distorted, I don't need you. I appreciate the concern, though.

Spirit of the staircase on all these all of the time. I'm too nice to yell at you when you say these things, but know I consider them very painful.

conspiracy theory, fear, ramblings

2009-04-12T23:19:00.001-07:00

http://www.hindu.com/thehindu/holnus/002200904111531.htm.
If Mulayam is allowed, i guess we will be speaking Hindi, and writing chittis.

****
As an aside, I am scared of the Taliban inflitration into India and the violence in Pakistan. It is scary to say the least. Yes, we are a big country and all that, but with no leadership. I whisper to myself, Bahadur Shah Zafar.

****
Why don't we have a debate between the Prime Ministerial candidates - you know - Manmohan Singh and LK Advani. Throw in Mayawati, Devegowda, Lalloo, all of them. Can we vote on the basis of some substantial conversations rather than random quotes, advertisements and squabbling?

How come none of our leaders think it is important enough to talk about the recession? You know, the world is in trouble, industrial output is falling in India, there are tons of jobless, the poor remain poor, and we are debating whether the NSA applies to Varun Gandhi? And what nasty things Praveen Mahajan has to say about the bro? Puh-leeze.

****

Sai Baba

2009-04-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

So I'm watching some telecast from Puttaparthi as I type. And there's some beautiful singing (by Hariharan) and all that. At the end of the music program, there is a prayer to Satya Sai Baba. And what psychophancy - all that aarti, and chanting and fanning. So much devotion - ou know, the kind of devotion one shows in temples.

I wonder what is going on through the mind of Sai Baba when all this is happening. He is supposed to be a human god - you know, human born, but has done some godly miracles. But he's fundamentally born of mortal parents, is mortal and is living the earthly life. How can he go through all that and not laugh? You know, be amused at the devoutness? As in, how can you be born a person and have lived some part of your life being judged, evaluated and loved by normal human standards, and suddenly become, well, god-like.

Godliness and symbols
As an aside, I ask - if the Baba does preach universal love, humanity and the path to god and no particular religion, why are the symbols of devotion to him particular (aarti, all of that)? Also, why any ritualism at all?

Views on women:
Baba's site says this about women in the Women's day segment. Thanks for allowing me to go to work, and bestowing upon me the duty of selfless sacrifice, social change and eve humankind's future. (easy tips to be a superwoman here).

Of what should be regulated

2009-04-09T03:28:00.000-07:00

So, a journalist threw a shoe at Chidambaram. Let's set aside the validity (or invalidity) of the issue (Tytler being given a clean chit in the 1984 anti-Sikh riots) and the staleness of the act (Bush, et al).

I ran a quick check on codes of conduct for journalists, and interestingly the principles/rules/standards all relate to reporting and not to journalist behaviour. I wonder why. Perhaps, because so long as reporting is accurate and correct and fair and all that (or read that extract!), no one has any business to regulate person's behaviour. So a journalist can behave like an absolute idiot, so long as s/he doesn't report badly (or break the law).

Does it become a journalist to agitate? In that manner? Yes and no. Journalists are as much a part of civil society and as deeply affected by issues as the rest of us. But, in choosing journalism, they give up their right to some form of protest - weaker, cheaper forms of protest that are for mere mortals - demonstration, screaming, violence. They have the pen, don't they? The most powerful weapon of all?

What's your love style?

2009-04-09T00:32:00.000-07:00

So I've been quite unwell over the last two days. I've been nurtured, cared for and loved. I've felt the warmth, and felt all loved and glowy, but I'm now sick of it, and the darned cough wont go away.

I've also come to realize that just as people have different styles of being led, different people need to be loved different ways. In relationships where love cannot be taken for granted (as in familial relationships, mom, dad, etc), you have to learn to match your loving style to the persons needs. (Of course, the onus is on both parties, but well, you are reading this, so these are things you can do.)

So, here are three dimensions of love that one should understand before demonstrating love. No, you needn't go out of character. You have your loving style and you needn't become an altogether different person. But remember, many relationships, especially in India, are less abut love, and more about gaining comfort and not committing homicide, so wisdom is > love.

1) Space: Different people have very different notions of space. Some find it annoying to be asked about things in their life, regardless of genuineness of concern. Some others like talking about their day, and the events in their life. Some don't need frequent contact, some do. You will know the difference very easily, so figure out the loved one's comfort level and adapt.

2) Display of affection: Some people find it creepy to be kissed, and hugged and adored, in public. Some people abhor it altogether. Figure out before you earn the reputation of being family creep. Also, remember, less is better than more. One who is used to a lot of demonstration will not particularly be offended at less, but the other way round is disastrous.

3) Gift giving: I talk about this, because people misunderstand this altogether, and can lead to well, much, much misunderstanding. See, some people are in the habit of giving and receiving gifts. Others aren't. Be very careful, as these are habits that die hard. Too much on your part can leave you annoyed at the lack of reciprocation.

Be good, kind and loving, and most importantly willing to change yourself. Always be firm when people cross the line or take over, remember you are an adult and have rights and such things.

No contest

2009-04-08T02:26:00.000-07:00

I don't contest the kitchen,
Nor any air of authority,
there is no territory to my mind.
My no- contest is wise,
it saves you the trouble
of having to win me over.

If my worth is measured in,
the activities I do, the wisdom
I possess on killing cockroaches,
how much I nurture, and whether
my maid is lazy, I fail.
But, I will learn your wisdom.

So far, yet, it has been,
tailor-made, protective, nurturing,
so kind and patient, I feel like a
stranger in my own kitchen.
I will learn soon,
when I make my own mistakes.

Facebook Happiness

2009-04-07T07:50:00.000-07:00

I feel happy when I receive a Facebook invite for random things. Even 'Iran for Jesus', 'You don't fool around with mountains', and ' Bangalore's Obama - Krishna Byregowda' and such random things. Now I don't have any reason to - I am perhaps one of the 10 odd friends you have to send the request to in order to be able to go further, or one of fifty odd anyway.

But I smile that you thought of me. Especially because my name starts with an S, and so you probably went down the list (or upwards from Z, like I do, so my friends at the end of an alphabetical list don't feel left out :-))

Dhoni for PM

2009-04-03T20:56:00.000-07:00

Demonstrated success, charisma, age and some degree of sanity. Besides he seems honest.
Why not? Since politics in India seems to be very little about demonstrated political success (so cricket is as good as the sports our politicians play!), charisma (though Sonia Gandhi's sarees are gorgeous most times) or sanity (cut off hands or crushed under a roller)

Anyway, let me go back to watching the news.

8 x 10 Tasveer or why some movies don't intrigue

2009-04-03T11:15:00.000-07:00

Spoilers ahead

I watched this movie. Stars Akshay Kumar, Ayesha Takia (unimpressive). It is directed by Nagesh Kukunoor (the Hyderabad Blues guy) and as a tribute to his Hyderabad roots perhap, he has introduced a character who speaks proper Hyderabadi Hindi. (The character is an interesting one, so wont give too many details). Though I think this character is way too sophisticated.

Anyway, the story is about a man with supernatural powers (Akshay Kumar, he can look into pictures and go into the mind of the person who is in the picture.) His enstranged father dies, and he uses a picture taken moments before his death to investigate what he suspects is a murder. Some 4 people are in the pic, and he keeps staring at the pic and comes to know things about them.

(spoilers here, but also view on why movie wasn't intriguing enough) The movie isn't bad. Tight editing, no super showmanship. But it belongs to this new genre of thriller movies (13 B) which are interesting but not intriguing. Now the movie has an interesting score, effects, spooks and creepiness, but it doesn't really make me question because the intriuge amongst the lead characters just does not exist. As in 4-5 key characters are introduced, one of whom may be a murderer, but soon you realise it is none of them (towards the end of the first half) but an external third party, who may have deep-seated psychological problems, revenge on his mind, or is evil for the sake of evil. Fine, but the does not delve into the murderer's mind, nor is it draw the viewer into analyzing who it may be. So it's a whodunnit with a 'who' that can be unraveled only by the lead character at the end. You can't outguess, analyze wonder (as in, it is pointless) the lead because key facts about the character's past are concealed from you. Yawn.
I would have enjoyed it more if it had been one of the people in the photo - wonder what the motives were, and all that. So much of a human story. Here it is just a fact form the past, and you have to divine it to enjoy the challenge.

(end of spoiler)

Anyway, its reasonably interesting, doesn't insult you with excessive stupidity, is well-edited and broadly good time pass. There's a pretty cool item number - loooved it. Reminiscent of the item number in bhool bhulaiya. Quite nice.

spiraling into ordinariness

2009-04-03T10:58:00.000-07:00

I don't want to talk about,
virtue or virtues of anyone else,
of oughts, nots,
familiarity,
habits,
repetition.

I'd rather wonder,
why your homely virtuousness,
and efficiency is so important.
Ponder how pretty the lake is, and
wonder whether global warming is a threat
and if I have stage fright.

Maybe you tell me stories, of the past,
of anger, intrigue, hate,
Stories of goodness bore.
Perhaps also express opinions
that are not an articulation
of precepts of goodness.

Tasty Tangles

2009-04-01T00:39:00.001-07:00

So my main objection is to the name. 'Tasty Tangles' is so unimpressive. It sounds partly like the Chinese takeout in the parallel street and partly like a Chinese joint at a mall. I find it difficult to name a thing with a characteristic that it ought to possess. As in, a non-negotiable characteristic. Like calling a lamp 'Bright'. I think names, especially of objects and things, and especially of restaurants, should induce some feeling in you, they should entice and tease, they should make you wonder, yet know. Like Rajdhani - you wonder about how far the royalty-ness will extend, or Toscano, which is Italian-esque, so you wonder if you can have Tuscan food in Bengaluru, or Sunny's which is an irrelevant name, but makes you wonder too.

If you get beyond that, the restaurant's ambience should induce the experience of eating in the place where the food is from. Ambience includes service, dress, decor, music. On all counts, TT is 100% maya - you know, those restaurants where you cant identify where you are, where the food is replaceable entirely and the decor wouldn't give it away. Pleasant but not particular.
The service is chirpy - a little waiter will come bouncing to you and offer you help with choosing off a menu where you tick your choices (a sheer waste of paper). The staff are all dressed nicely, but you could put them in Toscano, and I wouldn't know. The decor is classy wood-type decor with subdued lighting (or maybe not, not particularly memorable). The music is somewhat dhin-chak, and nothing that enhances the ambience in any particular way.

The food - is good, I guess. I don't particularly care for anything cooked east of Madras. The vegetables were well-cooked, and my tummy wasn't upset. But, I'm still not convinced about the food. I'm not even sure where it was from - not Thai, because I can tell Thai food. Some glass noodles type thing - quite decent.

The meal cost about Rs. 450 per head with one starter (shared among 3) and shared main dishes. So it's expensive maya food.

Nothing I can or will remember, including the compromise on what I like to eat.

enjoying art

2009-03-31T10:38:00.000-07:00

I finally understand what bugs me about the tala catchers at concerts. (The kind who notice missteps and keep track.) The kind who privilege technical perfection over anything else.

I feel almost as if they do not want to transcend the parameters of the earthly world. They hesitate go beyond the structures humans use to evaluate art or go into a realm where the only evaluation is pleasure.

Did you feel the essence of the emotion during the performance? If you didn't, ask yourself - did you measure up to what it takes to enjoy?

Letter to meru owner (rant-esque)

2009-03-31T04:59:00.000-07:00

Dear Meru person, owner, whoever,

Now, for some reason, I got about 12 missed calls from various drivers in Meru asking if I had asked for a cab. 12. In a span about 3 minutes.

In any case, like a conscientious citizen and a general nice person, I called up your call centre, and asked them what the hell the problem was. And they told me that I had filed a Lost and Found complaint about 15 days ago (yes, I had, and yes, fifteen) and they flashed a message on the GPRS to explain that my complaint had been closed.

Why, then, would SIX cabbies call me and ask me if I needed a cab. Six of them, incessantly, and insist they all had pick-ups planned. Pick up demands (actually demands) in response to the closure of an L & F complaint?

Please ask your call centre not to BS. Please. Just admit it was a software glitch, or that someone messed up, or that someone was being a jerk. Whatever it is, please tell the truth and don't insult my intelligence. I can easily figure out that they had my number mixed up with random addresses - umm, one of them insisted I stayed near some Sai Baba mandir.

I will not let go until you tell me you messed up, and you did.

Ok. Bye,
iissarayu

Masala Klub

2009-03-30T09:27:00.000-07:00

So, I went out for lunch to Masala Klub this evening with the office. The company was outstanding, the meal - below average.

Well, the West End property is fantastic - pretty lawns, colonial style cottages, leafy verandas - its so charming, especially to sit out on a mildly sweaty summer afternoon. The conversation slowed to a few words after a while - the atmosphere was relaxing and we just quietened down from the feverishly excited conversations we were having. The decor of the restaurant is maya-esque, nothing particularly distinctive or memorable. But clean and simple. Somewhat like a classy lounge. In fact, in comparision with the other Taj restaurants in the Masala series (Masala Art at Delhi and Masala Klub at Bombay), this decor is pretty average. But the trees and the general West End atmosphere somewhat makes up.

I love my team - all of them - so much fun. But, today's food was just average. Now, would it have been worse if not for the company?

In any case, most of us stuck to the set meals - the Instant Sketches (weird name. Wouldn't an Indian restaurant catering to a mostly expat-foreigner-rich Desi crowd want to choose a fancier name than that? I mean, what in the name of heaven is an Instant Sketch? Very sketchy I tell you.). Anyway, the nice part is that they are open to switching a round choices - as in you can ask for subjis other than on the set menu, and mix and match. They will not substitute a pepper soup with a juice (no, not even on a hot summer day).

The exciting part was the corn-on-the-cob starter - very innovative and yummy, but ridiculously expensive compared to the 3 rupees you'd pay for roughly the same thing on a street corner. The dal was a strange consistency, and the tomato mutter tasted like mutter in tomato puree. The paneer tasted NewShantiSagar-esque and the bhindi was slightly undercooked. The gulab jamoons were nice, though I am quite certain I felt sugar crystals in my blood this afternoon.

Now, it would have been fine if the experience ended there. But, there's another test to whether the food was good at all- my stomach. Since I have some kind of weird GI thing going, my stomach is incredibly sensitive to bad food. By bad I mean evil food. The food may taste good, but if it is un-hygienically prepared and it contains evil germs, I fall sick within a few hours. I am sick as I write this; I even had a - well, it isn't attractive to describe stomach ailments. But it suffices to say I'm pretty sick.

Maybe it was just a bad day. Maybe the famed olive oil chef has disappeared. Only one of the two can explain red (yes, red) tadka in the dal. The oil was red and there were no red chillies. I haven't much experience cooking, but I have never seen red oil.

(theory on criticism) Now, I hear someone say things about people who don't cook criticize people who do. You know, somewhat like that locus thing they teach you in law school. But if you are so deeply steeped into the art or the thing, it is impossible to step outside and provide an objective view. If you are a great dancer, for instance, your reference point for evaluating dancers is you. That isn't useful or objective. Otherwise you are too deeply sympathetic/empathetic to the artist/doer, you cannot describe. You know the context well enough to use it to justify both incompetence and brilliance (e.g. it was muggy, no wonder the halva was sticky. Muggy weather a bad halva maketh). Maybe it isn't as binary as that, but then, critics write for the uneducated, the ones who don't know the art, for ones who want to appreciate but know not the technical, and critics choose the parameters that define their enjoyment, perfect or not.

Theories apart, the food at Masala Klub was quite sucky today. It costs about Rs. 1000 per head if you choose the set meal, and about Rs. 2000 per head if you don't, so its a pretty expensive affair.

I must add, though : I love Masala Art in Delhi and Masala Kraft in Mumbai (ah, memories!), and even reasonably liked Masala Klub the last time around, but - super blah this time.

A fashion plea

2009-03-30T07:37:00.001-07:00

Dear nightie-wearers on TV,

Please don't wear the nightie on TV. (Don't ever wear a nightie, but, read on). It is, quite simply, an aesthetic disaster. By wearing these things (no, I cannot call a nightie 'clothes'), you are influencing generations of women, women of all sizes, shapes, ages, to think of these as a fashionable item of clothing, and wear them in public, thereby committing cides of all sorts - homicide, suicide.

When I see people on TV, especially in soaps (as I did you), I attribute to them an aesthetic sensibility they may or may not possess. Whether you have that or not, I do not know. But take this from someone with a basic aesthetic sense - nighties are a no-no.

You ask why. You say - my art demands it. Let me tell you this - would you appear nude on primetime Jaya TV or ETV Kannada if your role demanded it? You'd cry morality or some such. Same thing. Nighties are fashion-immoral. They violate every norm, rule, moral, tenet of fashion. Shape, sexiness, flattering the woman's shape - ALL rules.

What other item of clothing can make all women, ALL of them, look like a tube? With frills on top? Besides also making the wearer look singularly unattractive, it also is uncomfortable. Like a pencil skirt, it restricts how much you can move your legs. Like any other skirt, it rides up to expose, well, everything, when you sleep.

Would you want to induce millions of women to expose themselves to the possibility of immoral exposure (from the nightie riding up), singular discomfort (lack of movement) and complete unattractivenss (okay, it's not always about being attractive to men, but how can you look at a tube with frills in a mirror even?!)

Please stop I say. Please. Please. Stop. For the sake of your kind.

Warm regards,
iissarayu

p.s. is there a reason you chose to wear that pink dupatta on that brown nightie, and pin it up like the KV school uniform dupatta?

Ah! Breakfast

2009-03-28T18:59:00.000-07:00

Well, some people just don't understand the joy of breakfast. Those who skip it, those who eat it late, those who have lunch early. How? Why? The joy of the first morsel after twelve hours - why would you want to delay it, or skip it?

I can actually feel breakfast nourish every cell of my body and fill it with energy for the new day. Lunch is fun, but its more mechanical. You need to eat to be able to work in the afternoon. It's a thing that needs to get done. And it is not like you or your body is waiting for food. You've snacked on something, maybe had a couple of cups of tea, some fruit if you are so inclined. So it isn't like water to a parched throat. Dinner again is not so inspiring. It to me is a more social occasion than lunch. You catch up with friends and eat. You've been guffing all day - snacks, tea, the odd biscuit, so it isn't really about fulfilling a basic need.

But breakfast is altogether different. The smell of upma in the air, the sight of crisp dosas and chutney, the sizzling sound of butter on a paratha, the touch of a mallige idli - breakfast invigorates all my senses. Breakfast is elevating - you give your body something it has been craving for.

Come, join me for breakfast!

The apartment

2009-03-26T11:44:00.000-07:00

He moved closer. There was a clap of thunder, and it poured on. I could smell his powdery smell mingled with the fresh rain. "Baby", he whispered, "you are so beautiful. I would like to cuddle up". 'Would like'? 'Would like'? "Yes", she whispered, "come closer".

*****
The apartment had yellowish walls, traces of paan remained on the walls despite the paint. The lift creaked to a stop. She pulled her suitcase in and pressed six. In the twenty second ride, she shifted twice. Bangalore was strangely hot today.

"I could have helped you find the house", he had almost yelled at her.
"I didn't need your help", she had stubbornly insisted.
"But, I have nothing to do".

She smiled as she got out of her chair.

*****

"Hey, let's do dinner", he had asked.
"Sure", she had smiled.
Why did he have to smile when he asked?

*****
"I hate Chinese"
"So do I"
"Why did you take me to that silly restaurant? And you even made me pay!"
"You enjoyed the conversation later, didn't you?"
"It had nothing to do with the restaurant."

*****
"I hate this apartment of yours"
"Why"
"It is rather seedy, and so cramped"
"I love it. It makes me feel free."

Randomings

2009-03-26T02:36:00.000-07:00

Looks like I have become rabid, rabid blogger. But I feel compelled to talk about things, and I don't want to talk to people. (No, it isn't particular people.)

*****

I just got Mac. No, I'm blogging from an old Dragon Dell (dragon because it breathes fire. If you keep it on longer than 3 minutes it burns you.) but I'm super excited. For all the cool things I can do, the multimedia, the pretty whiteness of the lappie, but most of all because I always have an excuse if you cannot open my file.

*****

So I'm doing some interesting new work in my 'break'. Setting up a network. This is probably my stab at being an entrepreneur. I hope the thrill revives my creativity and excitement for living. Three years of coroprate work have dulled me and made me so, so bored with myself. And fat. But, if B-school ness happens, then I hope this short burst of creativity and freedom will last me until the debt god is satisfied.

*****

Who would you shout at?

*****

How to be a super-woman

2009-03-25T21:11:00.000-07:00

You and I have read so much about being a super woman - great with the kids, domestic goddess (no cockroaches, food ready), super slut, office star, never letting an eyebrow hair grow or put on excess weight. You may have thought is is tough, but no - it is super easy.

(Note: You cannot be super woman unless you are married. Moral behaviour is the cornerstone for being a superwoman. Remember, your virtue is the measure of the family's honour)

The first is to set standards - which I shall do now. You find your own ways to achieve them - I may in a later post be able to help you with these. With about 48 hours in a day of which you sleep for about 3, you should be able to achieve these goals relatively easily.

1) Thou shalt be great with the kids: Your first and most important use is to deliver happy, healthy babies. Once you have done that, you have to clean their bottoms, take them for swimming and guitar lessons, attend PTA meets and soothe them. If they do bad, bad things, feel the guilt, take the blame.

2) Thou shalt be great in bed: What it entails will vary by individual, so I cannot really advice, but can set the standard. Remember, you have to be great in bed. You. You.

3) Thou shalt always smile: He married you because he wanted a joyous, wondrous, happy creature. And the smile is a sign of this simplicity. He likes you like that. Happy smiling. Banish those complex thoughts. He does not what what he cannot see. He does not see.

4) Thou shalt have a great career: Of course, you have to have a job. Now for general married woman-ness - it is sufficient to have small/medium job. But, if you are super-person, then you have to be climbing the corporate ladder, have comparable job to husband, and be well-educated and all that. Be well-informed - read every newspaper, watch news. His opinion is always better and more correct.

5) Thou shalt look nice: Its very simple - no patchy skin, excess body hair, untrimmed eyebrows, fat, dark circles, unpedicured feet, mismatched clothes. You could read and use these 'ugh' to 'wow' tips, but they are just that - quick tips. Perfection is not attained like that.

6) Thou shalt be a domestic goddess: Excellent cook if the maid does not turn up, no cockroaches. No truant service-r (newspaperman, dhobhi, paper collector, electrician) - they are your responsibility. The maid is your problem - well, silly, she was hired to make your life easier. Family expenses are your responsibility - so, do you really need to get that cook - you can cook yourself, no?

If you can aquire a hobby or do something fun, that will be really nice. A passionate, enthusiastic woman is not only functional, but is also attractive. Excellent-o. You have my blessings.