An inspiration. The seed of an idea. Built upon. Tried out with trepidation. Result - Astoundingly delicious.
If you like nuts, and if you like ice-cream, and if you like ice-cream with nuts, here is a very simple, but delicious recipe for you.
Discovered and prepared by none other than S himself.
What you need:
X Scoops of Vanilla Icecream. [X depends entirely on you.]
Tip: Amul icecream is a good choice ! It's tasty, light, and doesn't leave a greasy residue in your mouth.
Nuts of your choice. The more nuts, the better. [Excluding the chefs, of course.]
Tip: Badam and Pista is a great combination. But any kind will do.
Ghee - Just one teaspoon.
How to make it:
1) Break the nuts into sizeable chunks. So that you can easily get your teeth into them.
1a) Prevent predators from putting them in their mouths.
2) Lightly roast the nuts in the ghee, in a shallow pan, just until a maddeningly pleasant aroma rises up.
2a) The aroma will attract more predators. Keep a keen eye on the nuts.
3) Pour the roasted nuts into the icecream, and mix well.
4) Put the resultant gooey mass back into the freezer. Wait for about 15 minutes. Long enough to get the icecream to solidify again, and short enough to ensure that the nuts don't go soggy.
4a) Try hard not to keep opening freezer to see if icecream is ready.
5) Remove frozen icecream from freezer, and serve in glass bowls.[Appearances matter].
6) Gorge.
Very simple, yes. But absolutely scrumptious!!
What distinguishes it from ordinary ice-cream-sprinkled-with-nuts is that the nuts somehow release their flavour into the icecream during the 15-minute freeze. Also, The nuts are large and crunchy, and find their way into your mouth with each divine spoonful. You will find yourself licking the bowl after you finish.
Try it out! And if you like it, please do come back and let me know! And also, please pray that S gets more such brainwaves!
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
A Short History of Nearly Everything - Book Review
[A book review of A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson - This review of mine appeared in the latest quarterly issue of our office magazine]
As a child, I wished, like probably many others did, that my textbooks were like storybooks, so that I could read them as easily, and with as much interest. But then I would chide myself - you cannot explain science like a story, can you?
You can.
Bill Bryson, in his book "A short history of nearly everything", has done just that.
The book is a short journey through the history of science. Not only does it give us facts and figures in a way that we can understand and enjoy it, but also tells us how we came to know what we know.
Bill Bryson is an acclaimed travel-writer. This is his first foray into science writing, and hopefully, not his last. He says he wrote this book because one fine day, he sat up and realized that he did not know the first thing about the world he lived in. He “didn’t know what a proton was, or a protein, didn’t know a quark from a quasar, didn’t know how an atom was put together and couldn’t imagine by what means anyone deduced such a thing."
So he set out to remedy that. He spent three years reading books, talking to the people who wrote those books, went looking for trivia in unlikely places, and obviously had lots of fun on the way. Then he sat and put it all down, and the result is this book, crammed with information and tidbits about the world around us. It speaks about the expanse of the cosmos and the smallness of the proton, and everything in between.
The book reads almost like a novel, without a central theme. It is a group of longish essays, each dealing with a different aspect of the world around us. There are six chapters in the book.
Lost in the cosmos talks about the expanse of space, the beginning of time, the origin of the earth, and the remarkable personalities who figured all this out.
The size of the earth tells us about the earth, what is in it and on it, and about the interesting investigations that led to discovering its age and size.
A new age dawns speaks about new revolutionary discoveries, like the concept of the atom that stumped the foremost intellectuals and entirely changed the outlook of humanity.
Dangerous planet warns us about the seemingly placid planet we live on. There are inherent risks like volcanic eruptions, and threats from outer space like meteor impacts. And just in case you are interested, the earth is statistically overdue for both these occurrences. And they may happen without any warning whatsoever.
Life Itself takes us back in time to the beginning of life, explores why the Earth is the only planet around that is conducive to life, and then traces developments to the present age. He talks about evolution, DNA, genes, and much more.
The road to us is about us, humans, and our evolution to what we are now. It also speaks about our role in the extinction of a number of species of life, and the strong conservationist in him tells the tale in poignant words.
The book is full of interesting characters, incidents, and situations. Scientists and thinkers, who were until now, just names which were associated with theories – for example, Brown of Brownian motion, or Halley of Halley’s comet – all these people take on a distinctive identity.
It also tells us more about scientists we already knew about. Newton, who to us, was just a scientist in a wig, with the habit of sitting under apple trees, comes to life as a brilliant, eccentric, absent-minded, and terribly secretive man.
The author also narrates heart-rending stories of brilliant scientists who worked in drudgery for years, some of whom were rewarded with recognition, but most of whom just faded into oblivion due to various circumstances. He tells us about scheming people who stooped so low as to take credit for other people's work. He talks evocatively about bitter rivalries and successful partnerships.
What is special about this book is that the author enables you to comprehend the magnitude of everything. For example, he says that if an atom is the size of a cathedral, then the nucleus is the size of a fly in the cathedral, but a fly which weighs much more than the cathedral. He points out that the solar system can never be drawn to scale in a book. In an attempt to do so, even if you represent Mars as the size of a pea, you will have to draw Jupiter 300 m away, and Pluto more than 2 km away.
Each page is sprinkled with his trademark wit and humour. In the middle of grasping an ostensibly out-of-reach topic like the space warp, you spontaneously burst out laughing at a funny offhand remark that he makes.
The book enlightens us about how much is yet to be discovered in science, despite all that we already know. Also, about how everything that we think is true, might not be so at all.
This is an ambitious book. It covers a huge range of topics, but as can be expected, everything is just touched upon. If you are the kind who, after reading a bit, is tempted to delve deeper and know more, this book will not suffice.
This delightful, interesting book makes science seem accessible. If you are the kind who is fearful and wary about science, fear no more. This book is just for you.
As a child, I wished, like probably many others did, that my textbooks were like storybooks, so that I could read them as easily, and with as much interest. But then I would chide myself - you cannot explain science like a story, can you?
You can.
Bill Bryson, in his book "A short history of nearly everything", has done just that.
The book is a short journey through the history of science. Not only does it give us facts and figures in a way that we can understand and enjoy it, but also tells us how we came to know what we know.
Bill Bryson is an acclaimed travel-writer. This is his first foray into science writing, and hopefully, not his last. He says he wrote this book because one fine day, he sat up and realized that he did not know the first thing about the world he lived in. He “didn’t know what a proton was, or a protein, didn’t know a quark from a quasar, didn’t know how an atom was put together and couldn’t imagine by what means anyone deduced such a thing."
So he set out to remedy that. He spent three years reading books, talking to the people who wrote those books, went looking for trivia in unlikely places, and obviously had lots of fun on the way. Then he sat and put it all down, and the result is this book, crammed with information and tidbits about the world around us. It speaks about the expanse of the cosmos and the smallness of the proton, and everything in between.
The book reads almost like a novel, without a central theme. It is a group of longish essays, each dealing with a different aspect of the world around us. There are six chapters in the book.
Lost in the cosmos talks about the expanse of space, the beginning of time, the origin of the earth, and the remarkable personalities who figured all this out.
The size of the earth tells us about the earth, what is in it and on it, and about the interesting investigations that led to discovering its age and size.
A new age dawns speaks about new revolutionary discoveries, like the concept of the atom that stumped the foremost intellectuals and entirely changed the outlook of humanity.
Dangerous planet warns us about the seemingly placid planet we live on. There are inherent risks like volcanic eruptions, and threats from outer space like meteor impacts. And just in case you are interested, the earth is statistically overdue for both these occurrences. And they may happen without any warning whatsoever.
Life Itself takes us back in time to the beginning of life, explores why the Earth is the only planet around that is conducive to life, and then traces developments to the present age. He talks about evolution, DNA, genes, and much more.
The road to us is about us, humans, and our evolution to what we are now. It also speaks about our role in the extinction of a number of species of life, and the strong conservationist in him tells the tale in poignant words.
The book is full of interesting characters, incidents, and situations. Scientists and thinkers, who were until now, just names which were associated with theories – for example, Brown of Brownian motion, or Halley of Halley’s comet – all these people take on a distinctive identity.
It also tells us more about scientists we already knew about. Newton, who to us, was just a scientist in a wig, with the habit of sitting under apple trees, comes to life as a brilliant, eccentric, absent-minded, and terribly secretive man.
The author also narrates heart-rending stories of brilliant scientists who worked in drudgery for years, some of whom were rewarded with recognition, but most of whom just faded into oblivion due to various circumstances. He tells us about scheming people who stooped so low as to take credit for other people's work. He talks evocatively about bitter rivalries and successful partnerships.
What is special about this book is that the author enables you to comprehend the magnitude of everything. For example, he says that if an atom is the size of a cathedral, then the nucleus is the size of a fly in the cathedral, but a fly which weighs much more than the cathedral. He points out that the solar system can never be drawn to scale in a book. In an attempt to do so, even if you represent Mars as the size of a pea, you will have to draw Jupiter 300 m away, and Pluto more than 2 km away.
Each page is sprinkled with his trademark wit and humour. In the middle of grasping an ostensibly out-of-reach topic like the space warp, you spontaneously burst out laughing at a funny offhand remark that he makes.
The book enlightens us about how much is yet to be discovered in science, despite all that we already know. Also, about how everything that we think is true, might not be so at all.
This is an ambitious book. It covers a huge range of topics, but as can be expected, everything is just touched upon. If you are the kind who, after reading a bit, is tempted to delve deeper and know more, this book will not suffice.
This delightful, interesting book makes science seem accessible. If you are the kind who is fearful and wary about science, fear no more. This book is just for you.
Monday, July 03, 2006
A prick in the conscience
We were driving back home late last night. We saw a little boy about ten years old waiting to cross the road. He was carrying a couple of bundles too heavy for him. He had crossed halfway, and was standing on the non-existent median, trying desperately to cross the other half of the road. His face was one of bewilderment and terror, as vehicles zipped by on either side of him. His pathetic little face was brightly lit by the glare of the headlights of the cars that zoomed past him. S stopped the car, leaned out and motioned for him to cross. It took him a while to understand, but when he did, he scuttled across quickly and disappeared into the darkness. We resumed our journey.
The face of this child stayed with me. It was disturbing. A child of his age should have been in bed by now, after a hot meal. How often do we see kids like these, begging, working, their faces much older than their bodies!
There was a time when I allowed myself to get affected by them. I would think of the child for a long time. I would compare the child to a boy of the same age in my family or neighbourhood, pampered, loved, cared for, and ensconced in comfort. I would try to put the face of this fortunate boy on the body of the less-privileged child. And that picture would move me to tears. But as I grow older, I find myself becoming more and more immune. I resist all unpleasant thoughts, for my own sanity. We all do that, don't we? We tend to build up a kind of armour around us. We prefer living in an ivory tower than accept reality.
There are some people who have been so deeply moved that they have gone ahead and dedicated their life for the betterment of the lives of people like this boy. I always wonder what stuff these remarkable people are made of. How they can put up with dealing with such sorrow, day after day. How they have the conviction that they can make a better life for the less privileged.
I often think, what can I do about it? That is, apart from cash contributions, and maybe occasional voluntary service. Sometimes I have a sense of failing and shame. That I am here in my comfort zone, fully aware, but pretending that I am not.
Anitha has put across her feelings beautifully in this piece "I met a man". She talks to a man with a typical story of helplessness, and she says,
The face of this child stayed with me. It was disturbing. A child of his age should have been in bed by now, after a hot meal. How often do we see kids like these, begging, working, their faces much older than their bodies!
There was a time when I allowed myself to get affected by them. I would think of the child for a long time. I would compare the child to a boy of the same age in my family or neighbourhood, pampered, loved, cared for, and ensconced in comfort. I would try to put the face of this fortunate boy on the body of the less-privileged child. And that picture would move me to tears. But as I grow older, I find myself becoming more and more immune. I resist all unpleasant thoughts, for my own sanity. We all do that, don't we? We tend to build up a kind of armour around us. We prefer living in an ivory tower than accept reality.
There are some people who have been so deeply moved that they have gone ahead and dedicated their life for the betterment of the lives of people like this boy. I always wonder what stuff these remarkable people are made of. How they can put up with dealing with such sorrow, day after day. How they have the conviction that they can make a better life for the less privileged.
I often think, what can I do about it? That is, apart from cash contributions, and maybe occasional voluntary service. Sometimes I have a sense of failing and shame. That I am here in my comfort zone, fully aware, but pretending that I am not.
Anitha has put across her feelings beautifully in this piece "I met a man". She talks to a man with a typical story of helplessness, and she says,
My inadequate words could not and did not give him any solace. As I just sat there, listening to him talk, feeling empty and useless, it struck me: I didn’t really know how to feel. Emotions were a waste: they were all about me, they could not do anything for him. I would never know how it felt to live hand-to-mouth, to wake up and go to bed hungry, or to be oppressed and obligated to people financially forever, with no hope of breaking the bondage. It felt like I was almost living in a parallel universe, sitting across from him.
He wasn’t asking for much – just a life with dignity. And it was a promise I could not make, much less keep.
It’s at times like this that make you really wonder: what is life all about, anyway?
Friday, June 30, 2006
Paper packages and cranberry squash
What do you do when you fall ill? You go the doctor.
According to my experience, going to the doc consists of the following steps:
1) Go to the doctor
2) Doc examines you, identifies the illness, writes out a prescription.
3) Take the prescription to the chemist, buy medicines, take them.
4) Get well.
But it works slightly differently in Mumbai.
1) Go to the doctor
2) Doc examines you, doesn't tell you what is wrong with you.
3) Doc's assistant puts 3-5 pills each into little paper packages, puts these packages into ziploc covers, and hands it to you. Each ziploc cover is for one day, and the contents of each paper package is to be taken after each meal.
4) Get well(???)
I discovered this paper-package phenomenon when one of my pg-mates, D, fell ill. Since we did not know any docs around, PG-Auntie took her to her family doctor. D came back with these paper-packages-in-ziploc-covers and a bewildered expression.
Me: What are these??
D: Medicines!
Me: For what?
D: I don't know!
Me: What did the doc say is wrong with you?
D: He didn't say!
Me: So you don't know what medicines you are taking, and for what illness?
D: No!
Me: Didn't you ask what these medicines are??
D: Of course I did! He said "How can I tell you my formula?"
I made her throw the tablets away, and dragged her to the OPD of a nearby hospital, without telling Auntie. There they diagnosed her sickness, and wrote out a prescription. We bought the medicines at the pharmacist, and got back. Ah, the comfort that comes with knowing what you are swallowing!
After that I did a lot of research. All the docs I enquired about in and around Andheri were the paper-packages-in-ziploc-covers types. So I took refuge in the OPD of the hospital, and brainwashed other pg-mates to do the same.
Once, my roommate R told me that someone told her about a good doc, and it looked like he is the prescription type. The next time I developed a sore throat that I couldn't cure on my own, I thought it was best to go and try out this doc. R came with me.
Scene at clinic -
The doc examines me.
Me: What's wrong?
Doc nods.
Me: Is it an infection?
Doc writes something on paper.
I reach out to take it.
Doc looks daggers at me, passes it on to assistant.
Assistant starts wrapping up little pills in paper packages.
I look daggers at R.
R looks at me apologetically.
Doc takes out a big white can that one normally associates with kerosene. Can contains a bright red sticky liquid which reminds one of cranberry squash. Doc pours out an amount into a small white leaky plastic container. Hands it to me along with the little paper packages.
Doc: After every meal, take the medicines in each packet and drink two spoons of this liquid.
Me: What are these medicines? What is this liquid?
Doc: (Glares at me) Sixty rupees.
I don't reply. I pay doc, and leave with R. Leaky bottle is disposed of right outside the clinic, and medicines are thrown away after being brought home and subjected to an unsuccessful scrutiny to determine what medicines they are.
Next morning sees me at good old hospital.
Now, why, you ask, can't I trust the doc and take the medicines that he hands over to me. Here is just one reason. Suppose I turn out to be allergic to something in the medicine, or a pill has some side-effect, and I need to be treated. Imagine the conversation.
Me: (Aaakkhhhkkhhghgkkghg) I have rashes in my throat! Please doc! Do something!
Doc: Have you taken any medication recently?
ME: (KKKGHHHHGHhhhhhh ) Yes!
Doc: What medicines?
ME: A large round white pill, a little red pill, half of a yellow pill, and an orange capsule. And cranberry squash.
I rest my case.
According to my experience, going to the doc consists of the following steps:
1) Go to the doctor
2) Doc examines you, identifies the illness, writes out a prescription.
3) Take the prescription to the chemist, buy medicines, take them.
4) Get well.
But it works slightly differently in Mumbai.
1) Go to the doctor
2) Doc examines you, doesn't tell you what is wrong with you.
3) Doc's assistant puts 3-5 pills each into little paper packages, puts these packages into ziploc covers, and hands it to you. Each ziploc cover is for one day, and the contents of each paper package is to be taken after each meal.
4) Get well(???)
I discovered this paper-package phenomenon when one of my pg-mates, D, fell ill. Since we did not know any docs around, PG-Auntie took her to her family doctor. D came back with these paper-packages-in-ziploc-covers and a bewildered expression.
Me: What are these??
D: Medicines!
Me: For what?
D: I don't know!
Me: What did the doc say is wrong with you?
D: He didn't say!
Me: So you don't know what medicines you are taking, and for what illness?
D: No!
Me: Didn't you ask what these medicines are??
D: Of course I did! He said "How can I tell you my formula?"
I made her throw the tablets away, and dragged her to the OPD of a nearby hospital, without telling Auntie. There they diagnosed her sickness, and wrote out a prescription. We bought the medicines at the pharmacist, and got back. Ah, the comfort that comes with knowing what you are swallowing!
After that I did a lot of research. All the docs I enquired about in and around Andheri were the paper-packages-in-ziploc-covers types. So I took refuge in the OPD of the hospital, and brainwashed other pg-mates to do the same.
Once, my roommate R told me that someone told her about a good doc, and it looked like he is the prescription type. The next time I developed a sore throat that I couldn't cure on my own, I thought it was best to go and try out this doc. R came with me.
Scene at clinic -
The doc examines me.
Me: What's wrong?
Doc nods.
Me: Is it an infection?
Doc writes something on paper.
I reach out to take it.
Doc looks daggers at me, passes it on to assistant.
Assistant starts wrapping up little pills in paper packages.
I look daggers at R.
R looks at me apologetically.
Doc takes out a big white can that one normally associates with kerosene. Can contains a bright red sticky liquid which reminds one of cranberry squash. Doc pours out an amount into a small white leaky plastic container. Hands it to me along with the little paper packages.
Doc: After every meal, take the medicines in each packet and drink two spoons of this liquid.
Me: What are these medicines? What is this liquid?
Doc: (Glares at me) Sixty rupees.
I don't reply. I pay doc, and leave with R. Leaky bottle is disposed of right outside the clinic, and medicines are thrown away after being brought home and subjected to an unsuccessful scrutiny to determine what medicines they are.
Next morning sees me at good old hospital.
Now, why, you ask, can't I trust the doc and take the medicines that he hands over to me. Here is just one reason. Suppose I turn out to be allergic to something in the medicine, or a pill has some side-effect, and I need to be treated. Imagine the conversation.
Me: (Aaakkhhhkkhhghgkkghg) I have rashes in my throat! Please doc! Do something!
Doc: Have you taken any medication recently?
ME: (KKKGHHHHGHhhhhhh ) Yes!
Doc: What medicines?
ME: A large round white pill, a little red pill, half of a yellow pill, and an orange capsule. And cranberry squash.
I rest my case.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Arbitrary Articulations
When I was a kid, my mother made all my clothes for me. A-L-L of them. The ones that were not made by mom, were made by my aunts. Anyway, you get the picture. The best part was that though mom chose the cloth and the design, I could choose my own button, my own lace. Then the fittings. One fitting before the sleeves were attached. One fitting before the final hemming. One fitting before the buttons and the laces were attached. And then the final trial. How exciting it was! To see the dress take shape from a piece of cloth to a favourite frock!
Each piece of cloth was chosen with care. Comfortable cottons with floral designs. Smart, bright, checked patterns. Once it was brown suede, another time it was purple satin with self prints. Then once it was a soft synthetic bottle-green, matched with cream. My mother and my aunts pored over Sears' catalogues, identified good designs and brought pretty dresses into the world. Scores of photos bear testimony to those lovely dresses.
And then once, I don't remember why, mom could not stitch a birthday frock for me on time. So my parents decided to buy a dress for me. I was highly excited. I was actually going to the SHOP to buy a dress! It was a never-before scenario. I jumped around all day, and finally we went to the shop. There it happened. For some obscure reason, I fell for a blue and yellow monstrosity. I wanted that frock and nothing else. I thought it was fantastic, totally unlike anything I had ever owned. My parents were obviously shocked, but being the nice parents they are, *Ahem*, they gently tried to talk me out of it. They reasoned that I might not like it after I went home. I did not care, I stood my ground. Finally they gave in, the horror was packed, paid for and brought home.
I don't remember liking or disliking it, but I know that I wore it. Photographs tell me so. Among all the pretty pinks, lovely lilacs, this one stands out. Blue and yellow, with patches of white. Oh, how I cringe whenever I see that photo! I even go to the extent of accusing my parents for not having talked me out of buying the dress!
But isn't that what we always do? We think that we are right all the time, in spite of our parents' warnings and advice. We throw tantrums, shout at them, and do what we want, and realize much later, that our parents were right most of the time. [Not all the time. No :)].
It might be that friend whom you thought the world of, but of whom your parents disapproved. It might be that party you wanted to go to, about which your parents had misgivings. Anything. Everything. But the best thing about parents is, that they never say "I told you so". Nor do they hold any of your harsh words or "You don't know anything"s against you. How do they have so much patience? How can they tolerate their kids? Those selfish, stubborn, foolish little packages of overgrown ego?
[Why this post? I have absolutely no idea.]
Each piece of cloth was chosen with care. Comfortable cottons with floral designs. Smart, bright, checked patterns. Once it was brown suede, another time it was purple satin with self prints. Then once it was a soft synthetic bottle-green, matched with cream. My mother and my aunts pored over Sears' catalogues, identified good designs and brought pretty dresses into the world. Scores of photos bear testimony to those lovely dresses.
And then once, I don't remember why, mom could not stitch a birthday frock for me on time. So my parents decided to buy a dress for me. I was highly excited. I was actually going to the SHOP to buy a dress! It was a never-before scenario. I jumped around all day, and finally we went to the shop. There it happened. For some obscure reason, I fell for a blue and yellow monstrosity. I wanted that frock and nothing else. I thought it was fantastic, totally unlike anything I had ever owned. My parents were obviously shocked, but being the nice parents they are, *Ahem*, they gently tried to talk me out of it. They reasoned that I might not like it after I went home. I did not care, I stood my ground. Finally they gave in, the horror was packed, paid for and brought home.
I don't remember liking or disliking it, but I know that I wore it. Photographs tell me so. Among all the pretty pinks, lovely lilacs, this one stands out. Blue and yellow, with patches of white. Oh, how I cringe whenever I see that photo! I even go to the extent of accusing my parents for not having talked me out of buying the dress!
But isn't that what we always do? We think that we are right all the time, in spite of our parents' warnings and advice. We throw tantrums, shout at them, and do what we want, and realize much later, that our parents were right most of the time. [Not all the time. No :)].
It might be that friend whom you thought the world of, but of whom your parents disapproved. It might be that party you wanted to go to, about which your parents had misgivings. Anything. Everything. But the best thing about parents is, that they never say "I told you so". Nor do they hold any of your harsh words or "You don't know anything"s against you. How do they have so much patience? How can they tolerate their kids? Those selfish, stubborn, foolish little packages of overgrown ego?
[Why this post? I have absolutely no idea.]
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Thriller!
Swamped with work nowadays. (You can see by the sporadic posts, and lack of my comments on your posts). Sometimes, I feel like just dropping everything and running away and doing something really crazy.
That made me think. What is the craziest thing I have ever done? If I think back, I realize that my life has been pretty dull that way. But the most thrilling thing I have ever done (which can be safely mentioned in public without fear of embarrassment) is to cycle in the dark through pouring rain.
I had come back from a day out, and reached college just a couple of minutes before the time the hostel gates would close. I had parked my bicycle near the main gate, and I needed to cycle about a kilometre to reach hostel. The rain was coming down with a vengeance. I couldn't see two feet ahead of me. I just had to get to the hostel before the gates closed, or else there would be a thousand explanations to give. As I found my bicycle, and fumbled with the lock, the lights went out. It was pitch dark, there was water everywhere, and I had just over a minute to reach hostel. I got on my bicycle and pedalled furiously. The rest was taken care of by the slippery road.
Even in that tense moment, I was aware of the greatest feeling of exhilaration ever. The wind was whistling past my ears, my eyes were full of water, I could feel the pricking of the rain drops on my face and arms. It was dark, and all I could see was a vague blurry road. My heart was thumping away, and I could hear it in my ears. I cycled blindly until I could vaguely make out the hostel gates in the distance. The guard was just closing them, and I rang my bell desperately. He paused, and held the gate open. I whooshed past him through the gates faster than (it seemed to me) an arrow.
Needless to say, I was dripping wet by the time I reached my room. But the thrill of reaching on time, and the pure unadulterated joy of cycling that fast in that pouring rain - it made me shiver with excitement (or cold?), but at the same time, I felt a warm glow inside me. It was a beautiful, beautiful feeling.
Ok, Amma, Papa, you can stop reading now, and you can call me and scold me. The rest of you, go on, tell me - what is the most thrilling thing that you have ever done?? [I won't tell your parents.]
That made me think. What is the craziest thing I have ever done? If I think back, I realize that my life has been pretty dull that way. But the most thrilling thing I have ever done (which can be safely mentioned in public without fear of embarrassment) is to cycle in the dark through pouring rain.
I had come back from a day out, and reached college just a couple of minutes before the time the hostel gates would close. I had parked my bicycle near the main gate, and I needed to cycle about a kilometre to reach hostel. The rain was coming down with a vengeance. I couldn't see two feet ahead of me. I just had to get to the hostel before the gates closed, or else there would be a thousand explanations to give. As I found my bicycle, and fumbled with the lock, the lights went out. It was pitch dark, there was water everywhere, and I had just over a minute to reach hostel. I got on my bicycle and pedalled furiously. The rest was taken care of by the slippery road.
Even in that tense moment, I was aware of the greatest feeling of exhilaration ever. The wind was whistling past my ears, my eyes were full of water, I could feel the pricking of the rain drops on my face and arms. It was dark, and all I could see was a vague blurry road. My heart was thumping away, and I could hear it in my ears. I cycled blindly until I could vaguely make out the hostel gates in the distance. The guard was just closing them, and I rang my bell desperately. He paused, and held the gate open. I whooshed past him through the gates faster than (it seemed to me) an arrow.
Needless to say, I was dripping wet by the time I reached my room. But the thrill of reaching on time, and the pure unadulterated joy of cycling that fast in that pouring rain - it made me shiver with excitement (or cold?), but at the same time, I felt a warm glow inside me. It was a beautiful, beautiful feeling.
Ok, Amma, Papa, you can stop reading now, and you can call me and scold me. The rest of you, go on, tell me - what is the most thrilling thing that you have ever done?? [I won't tell your parents.]
Thursday, June 15, 2006
The burning ambition
I had a burning ambition. The thought of it had been eating into me for quite a while now. Finally I achieved it.
What could this ambition be, you naturally wonder. Let me not keep you in the dark for longer than is necessary. Simply put, it was to travel in those cool new Volvo buses on Bangalore roads. Ah, I can hear you say, "What a lame 'burning ambition'". No comments.
I had had no occasion to use these buses before. We use company transport, and I very rarely use buses to commute elsewhere within Bangalore. But each time I saw those gleaming red buses with electronic route display, those wide doors and huge scrubbed windows, those plush blue seats and the yellow handrails and the sophisticated grey interiors, my eyeballs would follow the bus until it turned a corner.
I finally got to travel in one this week. I left office early, and took one of these volvo buses (which have an additional advantage that they stop right at the office gate). As the doors softly slid apart, I entered the cool interiors, and selected a nice window seat. The polite and smiling conductor issued me a ticket with that ticket-vending machine they hang around their necks. The volvo noiselessly made its way through the clean and green streets of Electronic city. With the soft strains of a song from the radio, sitting in the cool comfort of the bus, gazing out at the glass buildings on either side of the road, it was like being cocooned in a different world altogether.
The bus is, naturally, well-equipped and high-tech. A rear-view screen for the driver. A microphone, into which the driver talks to his passengers and announces bus stops. Well, you know, the works.
It was interesting to watch first-time passengers. A family of four got in. The youngest girl was extremely delighted. She was giggling and jumping around, thoroughly excited to be on this bus. Her older sister was as excited, but she tried very hard to maintain her dignity. But ever so often, her face creased into a smile and she let out a joyous laugh, and then looked up shyly at her mother. The mother, supposedly busy telling her younger daughter to keep quiet and sit down, couldn't get the expression of awe off her face. There was suppressed thrill in each action. And then, of course, the father. Exulting in the reactions of his family, his face was a picture of pride and importance as he peeled off notes from his wallet and paid the conductor.
The conductor, ever smiling, stood near the door, and at each stop, as passengers got in, he appraised them coolly. If he suspected that a passenger was getting in without being aware of the high fares of the bus, he would lean close, and ask, "Yellige, sir?" [Where to, sir?] When the passenger told the conductor his intended destination, the conductor would lean even closer, and softly mouth what was obviously the bus fare. Then a shocked look would come over the passenger's face, and he would back off, and stumble out of the bus, while the bus driver waited patiently. It was uncanny, the way the conductor homed in correctly on what he thought was a passenger who couldn't afford to pay his way in the Volvo. It was somehow saddening too. Yes, I know that it is a special bus, and there are many more ordinary buses along the way, yet, it is depressing that the majority cannot enjoy the comfort of the Volvo. Anyway, let me not dwell upon that.
It wasn't that I haven't been in such buses before. It is just that I hadn't been in such buses in India. And they look even more gleaming and inviting in contrast to the other vehicles. Like a shiny new coin in a bunch of old coins. All a matter of perception, huh? Anyway, I finally did get to travel in the BMTC Volvo, and I enjoyed the comfortable ride. More so, because I had at last achieved my "burning ambition". Again, no comments.
What could this ambition be, you naturally wonder. Let me not keep you in the dark for longer than is necessary. Simply put, it was to travel in those cool new Volvo buses on Bangalore roads. Ah, I can hear you say, "What a lame 'burning ambition'". No comments.
I had had no occasion to use these buses before. We use company transport, and I very rarely use buses to commute elsewhere within Bangalore. But each time I saw those gleaming red buses with electronic route display, those wide doors and huge scrubbed windows, those plush blue seats and the yellow handrails and the sophisticated grey interiors, my eyeballs would follow the bus until it turned a corner.
I finally got to travel in one this week. I left office early, and took one of these volvo buses (which have an additional advantage that they stop right at the office gate). As the doors softly slid apart, I entered the cool interiors, and selected a nice window seat. The polite and smiling conductor issued me a ticket with that ticket-vending machine they hang around their necks. The volvo noiselessly made its way through the clean and green streets of Electronic city. With the soft strains of a song from the radio, sitting in the cool comfort of the bus, gazing out at the glass buildings on either side of the road, it was like being cocooned in a different world altogether.
The bus is, naturally, well-equipped and high-tech. A rear-view screen for the driver. A microphone, into which the driver talks to his passengers and announces bus stops. Well, you know, the works.
It was interesting to watch first-time passengers. A family of four got in. The youngest girl was extremely delighted. She was giggling and jumping around, thoroughly excited to be on this bus. Her older sister was as excited, but she tried very hard to maintain her dignity. But ever so often, her face creased into a smile and she let out a joyous laugh, and then looked up shyly at her mother. The mother, supposedly busy telling her younger daughter to keep quiet and sit down, couldn't get the expression of awe off her face. There was suppressed thrill in each action. And then, of course, the father. Exulting in the reactions of his family, his face was a picture of pride and importance as he peeled off notes from his wallet and paid the conductor.
The conductor, ever smiling, stood near the door, and at each stop, as passengers got in, he appraised them coolly. If he suspected that a passenger was getting in without being aware of the high fares of the bus, he would lean close, and ask, "Yellige, sir?" [Where to, sir?] When the passenger told the conductor his intended destination, the conductor would lean even closer, and softly mouth what was obviously the bus fare. Then a shocked look would come over the passenger's face, and he would back off, and stumble out of the bus, while the bus driver waited patiently. It was uncanny, the way the conductor homed in correctly on what he thought was a passenger who couldn't afford to pay his way in the Volvo. It was somehow saddening too. Yes, I know that it is a special bus, and there are many more ordinary buses along the way, yet, it is depressing that the majority cannot enjoy the comfort of the Volvo. Anyway, let me not dwell upon that.
It wasn't that I haven't been in such buses before. It is just that I hadn't been in such buses in India. And they look even more gleaming and inviting in contrast to the other vehicles. Like a shiny new coin in a bunch of old coins. All a matter of perception, huh? Anyway, I finally did get to travel in the BMTC Volvo, and I enjoyed the comfortable ride. More so, because I had at last achieved my "burning ambition". Again, no comments.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Weirdness quotient - High.
Anu has tagged me. She wants me to write 5 weird things about myself. Well, I would love to think that I am very sane, but like everybody loves to keep reminding me, I am nowhere near normal. People who know me will most probably have already concluded that 5 points is just not enough to describe my weirdness. My parents, grandparents,aunts, uncles, cousins, friends - they all think I am weird.
Two people who think I am thoroughly weird are S and my sis P. Especially P. She things that I am the weirdest person to have walked the earth. She is just as weird as I am, but no. She is blind to her own weirdness. S and P go off into fits of laughter at any display of my weirdness. If the weirdness comes out when they are together, the laughter of one triggers off the laughter of the other, becomes a chain reaction, and I need to call for a couple of oxygen masks.
Anyway, here's what I personally think is weird about me :
1) I have infinite patience with people who come to me with problems, I can listen to them for any amount of time, and give advice also if required. But if the same people start getting silly/chauvinistic/artificial/snobbish/nosy/etc., I get so
irritated that I can be very very rude, going to the extent of pretending that they don't even exist.
2) I love going to get-togethers and weddings and such events, and I am always in my element, the perfect social animal. but after 3 hours, an inbuilt curfew plays up, and I withdraw into a shell. If I escape before that, I will be fine, but if I am already inside the shell by the time I leave the venue, I need at least 8 hours to recuperate.
3) I love the play of light and shade, and the dance of light on water. I love watching reflections, and I love to watch water in any form. I see beauty in unlikely places, and can spend hours observing all the above, without getting bored.
4) I am crazy about food. I can get lost in thoughts of food, I hallucinate about food. I dream about food. I wake up in the middle of the night with thoughts of food. It is an obsession.
5) Is for you to fill. Go ahead, this is your chance! If you know me personally, you won't have any problem filling this up.[But go easy on the personal details, please :D] If you know me through my blog, I would love to know what impression I have created :). Have fun!
I tag (no compulsion, of course) -
1) Chitra, coz I am sure some of her weird characteristics will be "yuxtremely" similar to mine.
2) Nirwa, coz I myself can name 5 weird things about her - she is that crazy.
3) Sachin, coz he sounds so sane and level headed that I would love to see if he is weird.
4) Ravi, in the hope that at least this way, he will put up a post.
5) YOU.
Two people who think I am thoroughly weird are S and my sis P. Especially P. She things that I am the weirdest person to have walked the earth. She is just as weird as I am, but no. She is blind to her own weirdness. S and P go off into fits of laughter at any display of my weirdness. If the weirdness comes out when they are together, the laughter of one triggers off the laughter of the other, becomes a chain reaction, and I need to call for a couple of oxygen masks.
Anyway, here's what I personally think is weird about me :
1) I have infinite patience with people who come to me with problems, I can listen to them for any amount of time, and give advice also if required. But if the same people start getting silly/chauvinistic/artificial/snobbish/nosy/etc., I get so
irritated that I can be very very rude, going to the extent of pretending that they don't even exist.
2) I love going to get-togethers and weddings and such events, and I am always in my element, the perfect social animal. but after 3 hours, an inbuilt curfew plays up, and I withdraw into a shell. If I escape before that, I will be fine, but if I am already inside the shell by the time I leave the venue, I need at least 8 hours to recuperate.
3) I love the play of light and shade, and the dance of light on water. I love watching reflections, and I love to watch water in any form. I see beauty in unlikely places, and can spend hours observing all the above, without getting bored.
4) I am crazy about food. I can get lost in thoughts of food, I hallucinate about food. I dream about food. I wake up in the middle of the night with thoughts of food. It is an obsession.
5) Is for you to fill. Go ahead, this is your chance! If you know me personally, you won't have any problem filling this up.[But go easy on the personal details, please :D] If you know me through my blog, I would love to know what impression I have created :). Have fun!
I tag (no compulsion, of course) -
1) Chitra, coz I am sure some of her weird characteristics will be "yuxtremely" similar to mine.
2) Nirwa, coz I myself can name 5 weird things about her - she is that crazy.
3) Sachin, coz he sounds so sane and level headed that I would love to see if he is weird.
4) Ravi, in the hope that at least this way, he will put up a post.
5) YOU.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Floccinaucinihilipilification
Floccinaucinihilipilification (FLOK-si-NO-si-NY-HIL-i-PIL-i-fi-KAY-shuhn) noun
Meaning - Estimating something as worthless.
[From Latin flocci, from floccus (tuft of wool) + nauci, from naucum (a trifling thing) + nihili, from Latin nihil (nothing) + pili, from pilus (a hair, trifle) + -fication (making).]
- My current favourite word!
Ever since my uncle introduced me to A Word A Day from Wordsmith , I have been hooked. A Word A Day(AWAD) usually lands in my box at lunchtime, and it is one of the brighter moments of each work day!
AWAD was started by Anu Garg. Each week, he presents five different words with a common theme. Along with the pronunciation and the meaning of each word, he also describes the root and the origin of the word. There is usually a short witty note on the word too. He also gives an example of the usage of the word in the media. And as a bonus, he puts in a very interesting quote (not related to the Word of the Day). [Sometimes I suspect that I wait for the quote more than I wait for the word!] At the end of each week, Anu sends across a mail, a collection of titbits and inputs from readers all over the world, on the words of the previous week.
Each email usually brightens up a dull day, and livens up a lifeless post-lunch Shruthi.
In fact, the credit for the name "Nychthemeron" goes to AWAD. The day I decided to start blogging seriously, I decided to change my url, and was trying all sorts of words. Nothing was available, and I was getting increasingly frustrated. Then I received that day’s word, and found that the word was Nychthemeron . I loved the meaning and the way the word slid off my tongue. I tried it – and it was available. And the rest is, of course, a branch of Social Science.
If you like words, and have not subscribed to A Word A Day yet, then go ahead and do it NOW. By the way, not all words are long and unpronounceable like today’s word is. This week’s theme is “long words”. So don’t worry!
AWAD is interesting and informative, and yes, you cheapskate - it is free.
Meaning - Estimating something as worthless.
[From Latin flocci, from floccus (tuft of wool) + nauci, from naucum (a trifling thing) + nihili, from Latin nihil (nothing) + pili, from pilus (a hair, trifle) + -fication (making).]
- My current favourite word!
Ever since my uncle introduced me to A Word A Day from Wordsmith , I have been hooked. A Word A Day(AWAD) usually lands in my box at lunchtime, and it is one of the brighter moments of each work day!
AWAD was started by Anu Garg. Each week, he presents five different words with a common theme. Along with the pronunciation and the meaning of each word, he also describes the root and the origin of the word. There is usually a short witty note on the word too. He also gives an example of the usage of the word in the media. And as a bonus, he puts in a very interesting quote (not related to the Word of the Day). [Sometimes I suspect that I wait for the quote more than I wait for the word!] At the end of each week, Anu sends across a mail, a collection of titbits and inputs from readers all over the world, on the words of the previous week.
Each email usually brightens up a dull day, and livens up a lifeless post-lunch Shruthi.
In fact, the credit for the name "Nychthemeron" goes to AWAD. The day I decided to start blogging seriously, I decided to change my url, and was trying all sorts of words. Nothing was available, and I was getting increasingly frustrated. Then I received that day’s word, and found that the word was Nychthemeron . I loved the meaning and the way the word slid off my tongue. I tried it – and it was available. And the rest is, of course, a branch of Social Science.
If you like words, and have not subscribed to A Word A Day yet, then go ahead and do it NOW. By the way, not all words are long and unpronounceable like today’s word is. This week’s theme is “long words”. So don’t worry!
AWAD is interesting and informative, and yes, you cheapskate - it is free.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
A few links.
Since I am very busy (for a change), I haven't been able to blog at all. So I will leave you with a couple of links.
Anu, on Mysore - this beautifully written post reduced me to tears - with my love for Mysore. And no, this statement does not mean you get the license to crib about Bangalore on this post , coz I still love Bangalore :)
The weekend was very eventful. I have written about the Kannada serial Muktha earlier. When I went in search of info about the serial, I landed here. During the course of discussions, I was drawn into writing daily updates of Muktha here. The regular commenters at this post became so familiar, that we decided we had to meet up. We did meet up last Saturday, and the surprise guest was Mr.T.N.Seetharam himself. (The acclaimed, popular and well-loved director of the serial). I am itching to blog about it. Let's see if I can.
I gotta go now - please don't forget me ;)
Anu, on Mysore - this beautifully written post reduced me to tears - with my love for Mysore. And no, this statement does not mean you get the license to crib about Bangalore on this post , coz I still love Bangalore :)
The weekend was very eventful. I have written about the Kannada serial Muktha earlier. When I went in search of info about the serial, I landed here. During the course of discussions, I was drawn into writing daily updates of Muktha here. The regular commenters at this post became so familiar, that we decided we had to meet up. We did meet up last Saturday, and the surprise guest was Mr.T.N.Seetharam himself. (The acclaimed, popular and well-loved director of the serial). I am itching to blog about it. Let's see if I can.
I gotta go now - please don't forget me ;)
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
At my wits' end.
Somewhere in the world
There is peace of mind
Somewhere in the world
That's what I must find
Somewhere in the world
Himesh must be unheard of.
[with apologies to Boney M].
Friends, foes, fans(?), and fellow countrymen - I can take it no longer. I am going away in search of that elusive place. I was thinking that the worst was over, but now I hear that Himesh Reshammiya is to lend his voice for the song "Mehbooba Mehbooba" in Ram Gopal Verma's remake of Sholay. Probably because he can howl so well. "Oo-oo-oo". Well. I don't want to be here when that happens.
Before I run away, I will leave you with an idea for foolproof, effective torture. Take your subject, tie him up or strap him down, plug his ears with huge earphones, and play Himeshquito's "Aa Aa Aashiqui main teri, Jaa Jaa Jaayegi Jaan meri" in a loop. Before long, your subject will be a blithering idiot and will do whatever you say.
And no, I am not giving you the link to that song. If you haven't heard it yet, good. We need sane people for the future of the world.
Update: Don't miss the comments on this one!! :)
There is peace of mind
Somewhere in the world
That's what I must find
Somewhere in the world
Himesh must be unheard of.
[with apologies to Boney M].
Friends, foes, fans(?), and fellow countrymen - I can take it no longer. I am going away in search of that elusive place. I was thinking that the worst was over, but now I hear that Himesh Reshammiya is to lend his voice for the song "Mehbooba Mehbooba" in Ram Gopal Verma's remake of Sholay. Probably because he can howl so well. "Oo-oo-oo". Well. I don't want to be here when that happens.
Before I run away, I will leave you with an idea for foolproof, effective torture. Take your subject, tie him up or strap him down, plug his ears with huge earphones, and play Himeshquito's "Aa Aa Aashiqui main teri, Jaa Jaa Jaayegi Jaan meri" in a loop. Before long, your subject will be a blithering idiot and will do whatever you say.
And no, I am not giving you the link to that song. If you haven't heard it yet, good. We need sane people for the future of the world.
Update: Don't miss the comments on this one!! :)
Monday, May 29, 2006
Mumbai Monsoon.
The rains are here! Of course, they've been here for a while now, but I was tempted to write it off as one of the quirks of Bangalore weather... but the constant cloud cover, the drizzle, the chilly mornings - it can't mean anything else!
And that reminds me of another city which has a distinctive monsoon - Mumbai.
The rains in Mumbai took me by surprise, to put it mildly. It is an entirely different culture out there. Coming from a place where people take shelter at the hint of a drizzle, here I saw a city that does not stop! What is amazing is the attitude of the -
People. They walk nonchalantly in pouring rain through knee deep water. They cheerily walk into office in casual clothes, drenched to the skin, and then change into formals in the changing rooms, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. They don't put off any business, or any visits. They just treat the rain as a minor inconvenience, and go about their business, unfazed.
Another thing that amazed me is the nature of the -
Rain. Continuous. Sometimes pouring, sometimes drizzling, but raining all the time. Initially, after a day of incessant rain, I said, "God! It's been raining for 24 hours non-stop!" My colleagues rolled their eyes at me with a "You ain't seen nothin' yet" expression. Sure enough, the rains continued round-the-clock for a week! Roads were flooded, trains stopped, but Mumbai went on.
One distinctive feature of the Mumbai monsoon - the ubiquitous -
Tubs. Or buckets. Outside shops and commercial establishments. Where you dump your dripping umbrella, before going in. Very convenient. The watchman doesn't have to take the risk of offending a customer by telling him to deposit his umbrella outside. And the owner of the establishment doesn't have to endure the agony of seeing rainwater dripping over his newly polished floors. But you need to have a knack of depositing your umbrella in just the right place in the tub. If you dump it right in the middle of the tub, then it will get entangled with the other dripping umbrellas, and you will have to move heaven and earth to retrieve it in one piece. Or if you place it on the periphery of the tub, someone, in the process of looking for his dumped-in-the-middle umbrella, will displace yours, and it will land ten feet away from the tub. You have to place it just so. And yes, if you have a distinctive umbrella, and if you place it in the tub all tied and folded, you have a better chance of getting it back. In one piece.
Then of course, is the major matter of -
Shoes. After the first major rain, I tried to skirt puddles daintily, trying to protect my footwear. When I realized that daintiness doesn't really work on the streets of Mumbai, I waded through ankle-deep water, and promptly spoiled my shoes. My room-mates guided me to Andheri to buy footwear suited for the rains. I duly landed in the market, expecting to see cheap plastic monstrosities, and was stupefied to see rack upon rack of "Rainy shoes"(sic), some really elegant. I bought a cool brown pair, which served me beautifully even as .. um... non-Rainy shoes.
And then, you cannot expect to survive the rains without an -
Umbrella. I had brought a tiny three-fold umbrella with me from Bangalore, which would fit snugly into my handbag. I disregarded warnings that I would need a sturdier two-fold umbrella, claiming that mine was very strong. A week of enduring the rain and winds and the Tubs of Mumbai, my dainty turquoise umbrella was a clump of rusty spokes and muddy fabric. The next weekend saw me again in Andheri, bargaining for a hardy two-fold umbrella. I picked up a light blue one with white raindrops... that somehow made me feel like a Powerpuff girl, but which, I was sure, was pretty resilient to withstand the winds, and unique enough for a life in the Tubs. A month later, though the white raindrops had turned brown, the umbrella was intact. It even accompanied me back to Bangalore as a prized possession.
And I just cannot stop talking about the -
Sights. And the experiences. A walk down Marine Drive in the rain, biting into hot, spiced, corn on the cob. Or looking out towards Powai Lake. Or a drive on the Mumbai-Pune expressway, through Lonavala and Khandala, in the rain. One of the best experiences ever. Endless green hills and valleys with drifting cottony clouds. Black roads, dark tunnels. And the chill. My only grouse is that I had no one travelling with me to share the moment with, and I did not have a camera. Aaargh!
Of course, everything is not hunky-dory in the Mumbai monsoon. Cancelled trains, stranded passengers. Clothes take forever to dry, and attain that musty, sour smell that no perfume can mask. Grease gets on your clothes when you wade through water on the streets, and no amount of scrubbing will remove it. And if you are not too careful, the clothes in your cupboard develop fungus. And worst of all, if you are feeling lonely or if things are not going too well for you, the Mumbai monsoons have the immense ability to hurl you into the depths of depression.
But nowhere else is the monsoon an event in itself. And the way the city and it's people have adapted to this necessary evil(?) is a joy to observe. How can Mumbai possibly not endear itself to you?
And that reminds me of another city which has a distinctive monsoon - Mumbai.
The rains in Mumbai took me by surprise, to put it mildly. It is an entirely different culture out there. Coming from a place where people take shelter at the hint of a drizzle, here I saw a city that does not stop! What is amazing is the attitude of the -
People. They walk nonchalantly in pouring rain through knee deep water. They cheerily walk into office in casual clothes, drenched to the skin, and then change into formals in the changing rooms, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. They don't put off any business, or any visits. They just treat the rain as a minor inconvenience, and go about their business, unfazed.
Another thing that amazed me is the nature of the -
Rain. Continuous. Sometimes pouring, sometimes drizzling, but raining all the time. Initially, after a day of incessant rain, I said, "God! It's been raining for 24 hours non-stop!" My colleagues rolled their eyes at me with a "You ain't seen nothin' yet" expression. Sure enough, the rains continued round-the-clock for a week! Roads were flooded, trains stopped, but Mumbai went on.
One distinctive feature of the Mumbai monsoon - the ubiquitous -
Tubs. Or buckets. Outside shops and commercial establishments. Where you dump your dripping umbrella, before going in. Very convenient. The watchman doesn't have to take the risk of offending a customer by telling him to deposit his umbrella outside. And the owner of the establishment doesn't have to endure the agony of seeing rainwater dripping over his newly polished floors. But you need to have a knack of depositing your umbrella in just the right place in the tub. If you dump it right in the middle of the tub, then it will get entangled with the other dripping umbrellas, and you will have to move heaven and earth to retrieve it in one piece. Or if you place it on the periphery of the tub, someone, in the process of looking for his dumped-in-the-middle umbrella, will displace yours, and it will land ten feet away from the tub. You have to place it just so. And yes, if you have a distinctive umbrella, and if you place it in the tub all tied and folded, you have a better chance of getting it back. In one piece.
Then of course, is the major matter of -
Shoes. After the first major rain, I tried to skirt puddles daintily, trying to protect my footwear. When I realized that daintiness doesn't really work on the streets of Mumbai, I waded through ankle-deep water, and promptly spoiled my shoes. My room-mates guided me to Andheri to buy footwear suited for the rains. I duly landed in the market, expecting to see cheap plastic monstrosities, and was stupefied to see rack upon rack of "Rainy shoes"(sic), some really elegant. I bought a cool brown pair, which served me beautifully even as .. um... non-Rainy shoes.
And then, you cannot expect to survive the rains without an -
Umbrella. I had brought a tiny three-fold umbrella with me from Bangalore, which would fit snugly into my handbag. I disregarded warnings that I would need a sturdier two-fold umbrella, claiming that mine was very strong. A week of enduring the rain and winds and the Tubs of Mumbai, my dainty turquoise umbrella was a clump of rusty spokes and muddy fabric. The next weekend saw me again in Andheri, bargaining for a hardy two-fold umbrella. I picked up a light blue one with white raindrops... that somehow made me feel like a Powerpuff girl, but which, I was sure, was pretty resilient to withstand the winds, and unique enough for a life in the Tubs. A month later, though the white raindrops had turned brown, the umbrella was intact. It even accompanied me back to Bangalore as a prized possession.
And I just cannot stop talking about the -
Sights. And the experiences. A walk down Marine Drive in the rain, biting into hot, spiced, corn on the cob. Or looking out towards Powai Lake. Or a drive on the Mumbai-Pune expressway, through Lonavala and Khandala, in the rain. One of the best experiences ever. Endless green hills and valleys with drifting cottony clouds. Black roads, dark tunnels. And the chill. My only grouse is that I had no one travelling with me to share the moment with, and I did not have a camera. Aaargh!
Of course, everything is not hunky-dory in the Mumbai monsoon. Cancelled trains, stranded passengers. Clothes take forever to dry, and attain that musty, sour smell that no perfume can mask. Grease gets on your clothes when you wade through water on the streets, and no amount of scrubbing will remove it. And if you are not too careful, the clothes in your cupboard develop fungus. And worst of all, if you are feeling lonely or if things are not going too well for you, the Mumbai monsoons have the immense ability to hurl you into the depths of depression.
But nowhere else is the monsoon an event in itself. And the way the city and it's people have adapted to this necessary evil(?) is a joy to observe. How can Mumbai possibly not endear itself to you?
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Flitterwochen
Is a honeymoon necessary?
Why? To spend time together? Yes, definitely, but as some killjoys love to point out, you can spend time together sitting at home too.
Then? Is it to get away from dinner invitations from over-enthusiastic relatives? Now this one makes sense. A wedding is like a hurricane. You'd rather run away on a vacation, than display any more muscle-cramping plastic smiles or be subject to more bone-crunching handshakes.
Or is it just an excuse to take that much needed vacation? - This is the time when the boss is most accommodating, and is mostly likely to sanction that long-requested-for leave. I know at least one person who cited his honeymoon as the reason to take a vacation. If he had had his way, he would have gone without his wife - anyway, that's another story.
I have a very (in my view) compelling reason that a honeymoon is essential.
When you take a vacation with somebody, you get to see the real person*. An individual's behaviour during the sane, comfortable, predictable flow of daily activities might be in stark contrast to his attitude when he** is travelling.
Take a man on a vacation, and observe him. Even better, throw in some last minute glitches, a few obnoxious people, a couple of plans that go topsy-turvy, and a little unexpected hardship. Then stand back and watch him react. There is a high possibility that that's the real him. [Or her. Doesn't matter.]
A vacation can give you some pleasant surprises and some rude shocks. It can warm you, or warn you.
[Ever gone out on a long trip from college and come back with stronger bonds, or broken friendships? Same theory.]
I believe that a honeymoon is an indicator of your life ahead. Do I hear you say, what's the use, anyway you are already married? Maybe. But you might learn in a span of 1-2 weeks, what would have taken you probably a year or more to learn. [And even then, you don't know nothin' yet. But let me not go into that now.] And that might stand you in good stead.
Disclaimer -
*This is written in the context of a culture where the bride and groom are not too well-acquainted, or know very little of each other before the wedding. Or even in the case where they do know each other pretty well, but have met only in ordinary circumstances, and haven't spent extended periods of time together.
**I have used the generic "he/him". You can very well substitute "she/her". No difference.
Post inspired by an account of how Shastri discovered his wife's mental strength, during an eventful trip to Kemmannugundi.
Your thoughts, of course, are welcome!
Why? To spend time together? Yes, definitely, but as some killjoys love to point out, you can spend time together sitting at home too.
Then? Is it to get away from dinner invitations from over-enthusiastic relatives? Now this one makes sense. A wedding is like a hurricane. You'd rather run away on a vacation, than display any more muscle-cramping plastic smiles or be subject to more bone-crunching handshakes.
Or is it just an excuse to take that much needed vacation? - This is the time when the boss is most accommodating, and is mostly likely to sanction that long-requested-for leave. I know at least one person who cited his honeymoon as the reason to take a vacation. If he had had his way, he would have gone without his wife - anyway, that's another story.
I have a very (in my view) compelling reason that a honeymoon is essential.
When you take a vacation with somebody, you get to see the real person*. An individual's behaviour during the sane, comfortable, predictable flow of daily activities might be in stark contrast to his attitude when he** is travelling.
Take a man on a vacation, and observe him. Even better, throw in some last minute glitches, a few obnoxious people, a couple of plans that go topsy-turvy, and a little unexpected hardship. Then stand back and watch him react. There is a high possibility that that's the real him. [Or her. Doesn't matter.]
A vacation can give you some pleasant surprises and some rude shocks. It can warm you, or warn you.
[Ever gone out on a long trip from college and come back with stronger bonds, or broken friendships? Same theory.]
I believe that a honeymoon is an indicator of your life ahead. Do I hear you say, what's the use, anyway you are already married? Maybe. But you might learn in a span of 1-2 weeks, what would have taken you probably a year or more to learn. [And even then, you don't know nothin' yet. But let me not go into that now.] And that might stand you in good stead.
Disclaimer -
*This is written in the context of a culture where the bride and groom are not too well-acquainted, or know very little of each other before the wedding. Or even in the case where they do know each other pretty well, but have met only in ordinary circumstances, and haven't spent extended periods of time together.
**I have used the generic "he/him". You can very well substitute "she/her". No difference.
Post inspired by an account of how Shastri discovered his wife's mental strength, during an eventful trip to Kemmannugundi.
Your thoughts, of course, are welcome!
Monday, May 22, 2006
The best wedding gift?
5 clocks, 6 casseroles, 10 tea-sets, 4 flasks, and 8 Ganesha wall-plates. Familiar? It is a list of just a few of those things that find their way into your hands, beautifully wrapped, in the name of wedding presents. And more often then not, the newly weds do not use it at all, but banish them to a life in the lofts of their parents' homes, unpacked, untouched, nearly forgotten. [Or, yes, recycled!]
I have been wondering whether, in India, the practice of gift-giving has come down through the ages, or whether it has been borrowed from the west. Probably it did exist to some extent. Since the young couple usually lived in a joint, extended family, there would be nothing that they would need, per se. But probably they were given gold and silver, by well-meaning relatives, as a private investment.
Later, as young men moved into cities to find work, they needed to set up independent homes in the city. Then they would definitely have needed material or monetary assistance. The man was usually the sole bread-winner, with a not-too-large salary. Half his home could be set up with the right kind of gifts. Cash would have been welcome too. Then, perhaps, a carefully chosen wedding gift was invaluable to the young couple.
In present times, usually both the bride and the groom work for a living. And in places like Bangalore, there is a high probability that both of them work in the IT industry, and they earn enough, and more. Or on the other hand, the couple has plans to settle down in the US. When such people get married, what can you possibly give them? This is the age when everybody has strong likes and dislikes. Unless you know the couple well, how can you be sure of a gift which they will like for sure? Giving them cash might be a good alternative, but what is the right amount to give them? Ok, you might say, the gift or the amount is not important, it is the thought that counts. Fine. But at what cost?
My grandparents went through this dilemma, and got really confused, especially when it came to a gift for a US-bound couple. They couldn't think of anything that the couple would have been able to use. If they had to give them cash, how much would be a good amount? What would 100 rupees mean to the newlyweds? Two dollars? Finally my grandparents started doing the best thing. They stopped giving gifts. [Unless they specifically knew what the young couple would like.] And actually, nobody really minds, or cares.
But many people still think that gifts are a necessity. So they turn up with these time-tested gifts of a clock, or a flask, or wall-hanging. And since everybody has the same bright idea, you get enough stuff to start a shop with.
Then there is the bouquet trend. Can't think of a gift? Take a fancy bouquet of flowers. "In the wedding video, it won't look like you went empty-handed". Bah! And at the end of it all, the poor flowers wilt in the dustbin.
When I was to get married, we wrestled with the thought of adding the line "No presents please" in the wedding card. But it looked very awkward. So we did not say anything. Instead, my mother talked to her close relatives and friends, and anyone else she could influence, and told them not to bother about giving me gifts. Or that she would let them know if I wanted something specific (Which I did not). Or, she told them, if you are really bent upon giving them something, give them cash.
It worked quite well. Apart from cash, we got only 4 tea-sets, 2 casseroles, 3 Ganesha wall-plates, and......well, you get the picture.
Oh yes, we did get some extremely thoughtful, personalised, and memorable gifts too. But a lot of thought, time and love had gone behind those gifts.
Then, we also received gift-vouchers. Lots of them. And we found that it was not a bad idea at all. We could buy what we wanted. S and I decided that if ever we are caught in a what-do-we-give-them dilemma, we will fall back on gift vouchers.
Those gifts in their boxes in the lofts make me cringe whenever I see them. There are a few items which I think I will be able to use sometime in the future, but I know for sure that I will not use most of them at all. What a waste of money! At these times I wish I had explicitly mentioned that I would not accept any gifts. But some people would have still insisted on giving a gift, as a token of love. So what could I have done instead?
Last week, I got a wedding invitation from Sanjay, a blogger friend I have never met. His mail contained some personal words of invitation, and then he wrote:
Sanjay, I am impressed. I wish I had thought of this.
[An old post on giving gifts.]
I have been wondering whether, in India, the practice of gift-giving has come down through the ages, or whether it has been borrowed from the west. Probably it did exist to some extent. Since the young couple usually lived in a joint, extended family, there would be nothing that they would need, per se. But probably they were given gold and silver, by well-meaning relatives, as a private investment.
Later, as young men moved into cities to find work, they needed to set up independent homes in the city. Then they would definitely have needed material or monetary assistance. The man was usually the sole bread-winner, with a not-too-large salary. Half his home could be set up with the right kind of gifts. Cash would have been welcome too. Then, perhaps, a carefully chosen wedding gift was invaluable to the young couple.
In present times, usually both the bride and the groom work for a living. And in places like Bangalore, there is a high probability that both of them work in the IT industry, and they earn enough, and more. Or on the other hand, the couple has plans to settle down in the US. When such people get married, what can you possibly give them? This is the age when everybody has strong likes and dislikes. Unless you know the couple well, how can you be sure of a gift which they will like for sure? Giving them cash might be a good alternative, but what is the right amount to give them? Ok, you might say, the gift or the amount is not important, it is the thought that counts. Fine. But at what cost?
My grandparents went through this dilemma, and got really confused, especially when it came to a gift for a US-bound couple. They couldn't think of anything that the couple would have been able to use. If they had to give them cash, how much would be a good amount? What would 100 rupees mean to the newlyweds? Two dollars? Finally my grandparents started doing the best thing. They stopped giving gifts. [Unless they specifically knew what the young couple would like.] And actually, nobody really minds, or cares.
But many people still think that gifts are a necessity. So they turn up with these time-tested gifts of a clock, or a flask, or wall-hanging. And since everybody has the same bright idea, you get enough stuff to start a shop with.
Then there is the bouquet trend. Can't think of a gift? Take a fancy bouquet of flowers. "In the wedding video, it won't look like you went empty-handed". Bah! And at the end of it all, the poor flowers wilt in the dustbin.
When I was to get married, we wrestled with the thought of adding the line "No presents please" in the wedding card. But it looked very awkward. So we did not say anything. Instead, my mother talked to her close relatives and friends, and anyone else she could influence, and told them not to bother about giving me gifts. Or that she would let them know if I wanted something specific (Which I did not). Or, she told them, if you are really bent upon giving them something, give them cash.
It worked quite well. Apart from cash, we got only 4 tea-sets, 2 casseroles, 3 Ganesha wall-plates, and......well, you get the picture.
Oh yes, we did get some extremely thoughtful, personalised, and memorable gifts too. But a lot of thought, time and love had gone behind those gifts.
Then, we also received gift-vouchers. Lots of them. And we found that it was not a bad idea at all. We could buy what we wanted. S and I decided that if ever we are caught in a what-do-we-give-them dilemma, we will fall back on gift vouchers.
Those gifts in their boxes in the lofts make me cringe whenever I see them. There are a few items which I think I will be able to use sometime in the future, but I know for sure that I will not use most of them at all. What a waste of money! At these times I wish I had explicitly mentioned that I would not accept any gifts. But some people would have still insisted on giving a gift, as a token of love. So what could I have done instead?
Last week, I got a wedding invitation from Sanjay, a blogger friend I have never met. His mail contained some personal words of invitation, and then he wrote:
Please do not bring any gifts or flower bouquets.
*************************************************
IF you like - you may present the same amount as cash, which we will be happy to consolidate and transfer on your behalf to some people working for our society. There are countless NGOs doing all kinds of things. Not that I've been actively involved or done anything significant, but there are a few names I've grown to trust, for example Parikrama, (genuinely high quality education for slum children) or Samarthanam, (enabling the disabled) or a friend's mother who is working with some government schools, where all it costs for a child's schooling for ONE WHOLE YEAR is around Rs 1000! You might as well give it to them directly instead of giving it to us, we're merely a means of convenience that's all :-)
Sanjay, I am impressed. I wish I had thought of this.
[An old post on giving gifts.]
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
28
.....Give or take two, is the number of traffic signals I encounter on my way back home from office. Of course, we don't stop at all of them all the time. We stop for just a few seconds at some, and are stuck for upto 20 minutes in others. But that is Bangalore traffic for you.
And in case you are wondering, yes, I actually counted.
And in case you are wondering, yes, I actually counted.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Of Radio stations, contests, and vouchers.
There was a time, not so long ago, when nobody listened to the radio. Television had made its addictive presence felt, and the old "Radio set" was relegated to the background. It sat there, unheard, unseen, gathering dust - until FM invaded our airspace.
Radio for me, as a kid, meant listening to the Bournvita Quiz Contest every Sunday afternoon, while having hot phulkas and dal. Apart from that, my parents listened to classical music on Akashvani regularly. Sometimes my father tuned in to Vividh Bharati. That was what radio meant to me. That is, until the resurrection.
Radio City had probably just taken root in Bangalore, When I had to go out of Bangalore for further studies. I lived in a hostel. There weren't many stations available, and the best was Vividh Bharati, which by now was available on FM. I was hooked on to it. No matter how tired I was, I would fall asleep only with the fading of the last melody on Chhayageet*.
Then I moved to Mumbai and was hit by a deluge of Radio Stations. 6, or 7 stations to choose from! [Important learning - When you are not too particular about what you want, too many options will kill you.] My FM receiver, that I bargained for and bought outside Andheri Station, went kaput in no time, and the reason, I suspect, is that I changed stations too frequently. By the time I had zeroed in upon the stations and programs I liked best, it was time to leave Mumbai.
By the time I got back to Bangalore, Radio City was omnipresent. In the cab, in the parlour, in the restaurant, in the gym, in the shopping mall, in the.. well, you get the drift. Since commuting in Bangalore usually takes very long, music is the best way to distract you from traffic. Though I would have preferred to carry my own player and listen to the music of my choice, people in the company cabs want to listen to the radio.
So, all the company cabs play the radio, and previously they were all tuned into Radio City. Only occasionally, when an annoying driver changed stations, we would be forced to listen to AIR FM Rainbow, which, while it played not-too-bad music, had boring anchoring, with sudden long silences, which made us wonder if we lost the transmission. So Radio City it was. Though there were too many ads and too much of talking, there were some likeable RJs - like Vasanti on Good Morning India, and Darius on Route 91 in the evenings. So we listened anyway, especially since the alternative wasn't too inviting. Then Darius left, and I couldn't bear the hyperactive anchoring of Sunaina who was his replacement. Just as I was reaching my wits' end, in stepped Radio Mirchi.
Mirchi's USP seems to be Kanglish. A mixture of Kannada and English, that (they probably feel) most people will identify with. To top it, it plays lots and lots of music, and there are very few ads (As of now. And I know it will change). Anyway, it lives up to its claim of "More dhak-dhak, less bak-bak". The anchoring is measured and relaxed, but enthusiastic. Just the right mix. Sometimes the Kanglish gets too contrived, the songs are repeated too often, and there are a couple of irritating fillers. But on the whole, it seems to have won over Radio City, because all the radios in the company cabs, are now by default tuned to Radio Mirchi.
A couple of days ago, I was dozing off on the cab on the way home, gliding along in that phase between wakefulness and sleep, when from far away, I heard the RJ speak of "a contest". "Who am I??" Asked the RJ, "My first name is a store that sells home appliances, and my second name is a hotel on MG Road**". From somewhere in the recesses of my misty consciousness, the name "Vivek Oberoi" floated up, dancing in my mind's eye. In an instant I was wide awake. Usually, I never participate in these contests, but this time, though the word "PJ" was ringing in my ears, I felt compelled to take out my cellphone, punch in the answer, and send it along.
After a couple of songs, the RJ came back, and she put someone on air who got the answer right, and he got two tickets to watch a movie in PVR Cinemas. Fret, fume, I thought, and promptly went back to sleep. I woke up again to the strains of "Ya Ali" from Gangster, which is my current favourite, and Radio Mirchi is considerate enough to play it for me 3 times a day. Just as it got over, I was preparing to go back to dreamland, when the RJ came back again, and said, "Congratulations Shruthi, number ending in xyz, you have won yourself body care vouchers." Whatever it means. Anyway, yay! They even called me to get my home address, so that they could send the voucher home.
Now naturally, depending on the usefulness of the voucher, I will decide whether to continue to extend my patronage to Radio Mirchi.
Naaaah. :) As long as it remains better than Radio City, Radio Mirchi it is. Until, of course, it goes to the dogs. And then? Well, time will tell!
[*Chhayageet - A half-hour program playing golden oldies, every night at 10 pm on Vividh Bharati
**Vivek's is a popular chain of home-appliances stores, and The Oberoi is on M.G.Road in Bangalore.]
Radio for me, as a kid, meant listening to the Bournvita Quiz Contest every Sunday afternoon, while having hot phulkas and dal. Apart from that, my parents listened to classical music on Akashvani regularly. Sometimes my father tuned in to Vividh Bharati. That was what radio meant to me. That is, until the resurrection.
Radio City had probably just taken root in Bangalore, When I had to go out of Bangalore for further studies. I lived in a hostel. There weren't many stations available, and the best was Vividh Bharati, which by now was available on FM. I was hooked on to it. No matter how tired I was, I would fall asleep only with the fading of the last melody on Chhayageet*.
Then I moved to Mumbai and was hit by a deluge of Radio Stations. 6, or 7 stations to choose from! [Important learning - When you are not too particular about what you want, too many options will kill you.] My FM receiver, that I bargained for and bought outside Andheri Station, went kaput in no time, and the reason, I suspect, is that I changed stations too frequently. By the time I had zeroed in upon the stations and programs I liked best, it was time to leave Mumbai.
By the time I got back to Bangalore, Radio City was omnipresent. In the cab, in the parlour, in the restaurant, in the gym, in the shopping mall, in the.. well, you get the drift. Since commuting in Bangalore usually takes very long, music is the best way to distract you from traffic. Though I would have preferred to carry my own player and listen to the music of my choice, people in the company cabs want to listen to the radio.
So, all the company cabs play the radio, and previously they were all tuned into Radio City. Only occasionally, when an annoying driver changed stations, we would be forced to listen to AIR FM Rainbow, which, while it played not-too-bad music, had boring anchoring, with sudden long silences, which made us wonder if we lost the transmission. So Radio City it was. Though there were too many ads and too much of talking, there were some likeable RJs - like Vasanti on Good Morning India, and Darius on Route 91 in the evenings. So we listened anyway, especially since the alternative wasn't too inviting. Then Darius left, and I couldn't bear the hyperactive anchoring of Sunaina who was his replacement. Just as I was reaching my wits' end, in stepped Radio Mirchi.
Mirchi's USP seems to be Kanglish. A mixture of Kannada and English, that (they probably feel) most people will identify with. To top it, it plays lots and lots of music, and there are very few ads (As of now. And I know it will change). Anyway, it lives up to its claim of "More dhak-dhak, less bak-bak". The anchoring is measured and relaxed, but enthusiastic. Just the right mix. Sometimes the Kanglish gets too contrived, the songs are repeated too often, and there are a couple of irritating fillers. But on the whole, it seems to have won over Radio City, because all the radios in the company cabs, are now by default tuned to Radio Mirchi.
A couple of days ago, I was dozing off on the cab on the way home, gliding along in that phase between wakefulness and sleep, when from far away, I heard the RJ speak of "a contest". "Who am I??" Asked the RJ, "My first name is a store that sells home appliances, and my second name is a hotel on MG Road**". From somewhere in the recesses of my misty consciousness, the name "Vivek Oberoi" floated up, dancing in my mind's eye. In an instant I was wide awake. Usually, I never participate in these contests, but this time, though the word "PJ" was ringing in my ears, I felt compelled to take out my cellphone, punch in the answer, and send it along.
After a couple of songs, the RJ came back, and she put someone on air who got the answer right, and he got two tickets to watch a movie in PVR Cinemas. Fret, fume, I thought, and promptly went back to sleep. I woke up again to the strains of "Ya Ali" from Gangster, which is my current favourite, and Radio Mirchi is considerate enough to play it for me 3 times a day. Just as it got over, I was preparing to go back to dreamland, when the RJ came back again, and said, "Congratulations Shruthi, number ending in xyz, you have won yourself body care vouchers." Whatever it means. Anyway, yay! They even called me to get my home address, so that they could send the voucher home.
Now naturally, depending on the usefulness of the voucher, I will decide whether to continue to extend my patronage to Radio Mirchi.
Naaaah. :) As long as it remains better than Radio City, Radio Mirchi it is. Until, of course, it goes to the dogs. And then? Well, time will tell!
[*Chhayageet - A half-hour program playing golden oldies, every night at 10 pm on Vividh Bharati
**Vivek's is a popular chain of home-appliances stores, and The Oberoi is on M.G.Road in Bangalore.]
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Camera matters
I got my first camera when I was ten. It was a gift from my uncle, who brought it back with him from England. I was extremely thrilled. It had a built-in flash, and auto-focus features. I loved it because it was so unlike my father's complicated, bulky Canon, which I couldn't even hold in my small hands.
I gleefully set about taking photographs with my lovely new camera. But there was an inherent limitation to the number of pictures that I could take - 36 - in one roll of film. I would have used up rolls upon rolls of films, but my father sat me down and explained to me the expenses involved in photography. The cost of the film, then the developing and printing. "It is an expensive hobby", he said. "If it had been your only pursuit, then it would have been alright. But after truckloads of books and music cassettes, your music lessons and the sports club, it will be good if you go a little easy on photography. Oh, I am not saying you should not take any photos at all! Go on, click away, but keep it under control. When you grow up and start earning, you can do what you want!"
I, a sensible and obedient (ahem) daughter, appreciated the reasoning. So I set limits for myself. Is it a short 3-day holiday? I could use up only one roll of film. Is it a week long holiday? To historical and touristy places? Ok then, two rolls. Is it a birthday party? 15 snaps at the most. A family get together? 15 or 20 photos. And so on.
Now, this limitation actually turned out to be a boon. I deliberated over each snap. I would wait for the best possible view, the best time to take the snap. I would pick and choose the best scenes, the most remarkable, memorable views and object. And then I would focus, hold my hand steady, and just move that one finger, and... click. The view was frozen for eternity.
And then the desperate wait to get back home and get the photos developed and printed, to see how the picture had turned out!
If I look back now, I marvel at my photographs. Much care and thought went into each photo. Each one was perfect. I was immensely proud of them.
Now I have a digital camera. No limit on the number of photos. No film costs, development costs, printing costs. Just click. Endlessly. And added to it, I immediately get to know how the picture has come out. Not satisfied? Click again. Auto focus. Light adjustment. Zoom capabilities. I now click with one hand. I click as many as I want to, saying, I will just pick the best. And the result? Not one of them is as good as the pictures I took with my trusty old camera.
Oh I am not blaming the poor digicam. It is a wonderful gadget. My own apathy is at fault. I know that with the digicam, I can click snaps that are far better than my simple little snaps of yore. But I don't try that hard. Because now I have nothing to lose. The enthusiasm, the need to make each picture faultlessly beautiful, does no longer exist. The agonizing, yet exciting wait to see how the snaps have come out, the anticipation of looking at the snap for the first time after it has been printed - the charm has gone.
Yeah I know, I know, all is not lost yet. :) I am glad I stopped to reflect on why my pictures don’t seem to be that good any longer. A problem acknowledged is a problem half-solved, and all that. But a part of me also wonders if I should get back to using a good non-digital camera (What's it called?). All you photography enthusiasts out there, go ahead and give me tips. ;)
[My other post on photography.]
I gleefully set about taking photographs with my lovely new camera. But there was an inherent limitation to the number of pictures that I could take - 36 - in one roll of film. I would have used up rolls upon rolls of films, but my father sat me down and explained to me the expenses involved in photography. The cost of the film, then the developing and printing. "It is an expensive hobby", he said. "If it had been your only pursuit, then it would have been alright. But after truckloads of books and music cassettes, your music lessons and the sports club, it will be good if you go a little easy on photography. Oh, I am not saying you should not take any photos at all! Go on, click away, but keep it under control. When you grow up and start earning, you can do what you want!"
I, a sensible and obedient (ahem) daughter, appreciated the reasoning. So I set limits for myself. Is it a short 3-day holiday? I could use up only one roll of film. Is it a week long holiday? To historical and touristy places? Ok then, two rolls. Is it a birthday party? 15 snaps at the most. A family get together? 15 or 20 photos. And so on.
Now, this limitation actually turned out to be a boon. I deliberated over each snap. I would wait for the best possible view, the best time to take the snap. I would pick and choose the best scenes, the most remarkable, memorable views and object. And then I would focus, hold my hand steady, and just move that one finger, and... click. The view was frozen for eternity.
And then the desperate wait to get back home and get the photos developed and printed, to see how the picture had turned out!
If I look back now, I marvel at my photographs. Much care and thought went into each photo. Each one was perfect. I was immensely proud of them.
Now I have a digital camera. No limit on the number of photos. No film costs, development costs, printing costs. Just click. Endlessly. And added to it, I immediately get to know how the picture has come out. Not satisfied? Click again. Auto focus. Light adjustment. Zoom capabilities. I now click with one hand. I click as many as I want to, saying, I will just pick the best. And the result? Not one of them is as good as the pictures I took with my trusty old camera.
Oh I am not blaming the poor digicam. It is a wonderful gadget. My own apathy is at fault. I know that with the digicam, I can click snaps that are far better than my simple little snaps of yore. But I don't try that hard. Because now I have nothing to lose. The enthusiasm, the need to make each picture faultlessly beautiful, does no longer exist. The agonizing, yet exciting wait to see how the snaps have come out, the anticipation of looking at the snap for the first time after it has been printed - the charm has gone.
Yeah I know, I know, all is not lost yet. :) I am glad I stopped to reflect on why my pictures don’t seem to be that good any longer. A problem acknowledged is a problem half-solved, and all that. But a part of me also wonders if I should get back to using a good non-digital camera (What's it called?). All you photography enthusiasts out there, go ahead and give me tips. ;)
[My other post on photography.]
Monday, May 08, 2006
Music has no religion.
Naushad passed away three days ago. His music was unbelievably beautiful. I will not say more, because there is no use in restating the obvious. Anyway, I was watching the reports on TV with my father, and I saw his body being taken out of his house, and I suddenly realized that the men carrying his body were Muslims. "Oh!" I said, "He is a Muslim. I hadn't realized." My father laughed, and recalled an incident that had occurred many years ago.
Back then, I had just observed that some Hindustani musicians were called Pandit, and some Ustad. I had asked my father why that is so. He had told me, "Simple, Hindu musicians are called "Pandit", and Muslim musicians are called "Ustad". See, Pandit Jasraj, Pandit Bhimsen Joshi, Pandit Dinkar Kaikini are all Hindus, and are called 'Pandit', whereas Ustad Alla Rakha, Ustad Bismillah Khan, Ustad Amjad Ali Khan are all called 'Ustad'". "Oh!", I said, "I hadn't realized that they were Muslims."
I was not thick in the head, nor was I a kid. I was old enough to know one religion from the other. Yet, this minor detail had escaped me. Just like I had not realized that Naushad was a Muslim. And why should it have crossed my mind? It is just not relevant. They are all the same to me - great musicians. Nothing else matters.
Even as my father and I recalled this incident, the reports showed a file clipping of Naushad, speaking on stage in an assembly, where, I think, he was being honoured. He was thanking everybody, and saying, "....I am very fortunate that .... Mujhpe Maa Saraswati ka Ashirwad hai.. " [I have the blessings of Goddess Saraswati]. Whaaaat??? Saraswati? Naushad? Muslim???
My father reminded me that this was nothing new - Ustad Allauddin Khan was a staunch devotee of the Sharada temple at Maihar, reportedly going so far as to refuse to move away from Maihar for medical treatment, saying that if he had to die, he would rather die close to Sharada (Another name for Saraswati). Ustad Bismillah Khan is also a devotee of Saraswati. Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan, among many others, sang beautiful compositions in praise of Hindu Gods. Likewise, There are many Urdu compositions which are religious or spiritual in nature, and are sung by all musicians, religion notwithstanding. And why should it matter? After all, it is just music.
No wonder it is said that Music has no Religion.
[Do check out the comments for some more heart-warming examples!]
Back then, I had just observed that some Hindustani musicians were called Pandit, and some Ustad. I had asked my father why that is so. He had told me, "Simple, Hindu musicians are called "Pandit", and Muslim musicians are called "Ustad". See, Pandit Jasraj, Pandit Bhimsen Joshi, Pandit Dinkar Kaikini are all Hindus, and are called 'Pandit', whereas Ustad Alla Rakha, Ustad Bismillah Khan, Ustad Amjad Ali Khan are all called 'Ustad'". "Oh!", I said, "I hadn't realized that they were Muslims."
I was not thick in the head, nor was I a kid. I was old enough to know one religion from the other. Yet, this minor detail had escaped me. Just like I had not realized that Naushad was a Muslim. And why should it have crossed my mind? It is just not relevant. They are all the same to me - great musicians. Nothing else matters.
Even as my father and I recalled this incident, the reports showed a file clipping of Naushad, speaking on stage in an assembly, where, I think, he was being honoured. He was thanking everybody, and saying, "....I am very fortunate that .... Mujhpe Maa Saraswati ka Ashirwad hai.. " [I have the blessings of Goddess Saraswati]. Whaaaat??? Saraswati? Naushad? Muslim???
My father reminded me that this was nothing new - Ustad Allauddin Khan was a staunch devotee of the Sharada temple at Maihar, reportedly going so far as to refuse to move away from Maihar for medical treatment, saying that if he had to die, he would rather die close to Sharada (Another name for Saraswati). Ustad Bismillah Khan is also a devotee of Saraswati. Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan, among many others, sang beautiful compositions in praise of Hindu Gods. Likewise, There are many Urdu compositions which are religious or spiritual in nature, and are sung by all musicians, religion notwithstanding. And why should it matter? After all, it is just music.
No wonder it is said that Music has no Religion.
[Do check out the comments for some more heart-warming examples!]
Thursday, May 04, 2006
All about love!
Can we choose to fall in love?
A question by Chitra, and some turbulent thoughts in a friend's head, prompted me to think about this.
First of all, what is love? Nobody has succeeded in defining it. But the closest I have come to see it being defined is by M.Scott Peck in A Road Less Travelled. It might look like a self-help book, but it isn't. It is a beautiful book of concepts that will surely change your way of thinking. Of course it is not only about love, it also talks about various aspects of life, but this section stayed with me, because it answered all my questions about love.
Scott Peck says that "Falling in love" is effortless. But it is not equivalent to "loving". "Loving" requires effort. Love is a decision. Love is an action, an activity.
He says that what is commonly called love is actually cathexis. But for true love to develop, a certain amount of cathexis is necessary.
Instead of trying to explain further, I will reproduce a part of a succinct review by Laura Bryannan.
Now to answer the question, "Can we choose to fall in love", I will take three situations:
(This is from only one perspective. Needless to say, you need two to tango.)
Situation 1
Guy is interested in girl. Girl feels undeniable attraction. But somewhere at the back of her mind, she knows that this guy is not good for her (whatever the reason is). So she can hold back. She can resist the sweeping emotions. If she is strong enough, she can step back from the flood of emotions, and not fall in love. But if the attentions and adulation of the guy is very intense and continuous, and if the girl is not very strong-willed, if she cannot swim against the currents of her own feeling, she can very easily be swept up in it and fall in love. So though she knows the guy is not good for her, she has fallen in love with him.
Here, after the first high of "having fallen in love" fades away (yes, it will), she might find that it was a grave mistake after all. Then the relationship might break down. Of course, she might even find that what she thought would be an issue, was not an issue at all, and she might have grown to love him, and in that case, all's well that ends well.
Situation 2
Guy is interested in girl. Girl does not feel any particular attraction or attachment. She likes the guy, and thinks he is a very good person, and respects him. But that's it. But she can think, "He is a good person, I am sure I will be happy with him." So she decides to love him. But she cannot "fall in love" with him. (Maybe she can, too, but I am not so sure about it). But she can grow to love him.
In this case, the girl might never experience the high of having "fallen in love", but that does not mean that she does not love the guy.
Situation 3
Guy is interested in girl. Girl is interested in guy. She has no qualms, she knows that he is the best person for her. She very easily falls in love with him.
If, during the high of having "fallen in love", she has also grown "to love" the person, then what else do you want? But I am not saying that this situation will definitely have a happy ending. She might discover things about him which she did not know, and she might realize that she cannot love him after all!
Back to the question. Can you choose to fall in love? I think that you can choose to resist "falling in love", but you might not be able to choose, or force yourself to "fall in love". But you can definitely choose "to love".
At this point, if you are brimming with questions, I strongly recommend "The Road Less Travelled".
A question by Chitra, and some turbulent thoughts in a friend's head, prompted me to think about this.
First of all, what is love? Nobody has succeeded in defining it. But the closest I have come to see it being defined is by M.Scott Peck in A Road Less Travelled. It might look like a self-help book, but it isn't. It is a beautiful book of concepts that will surely change your way of thinking. Of course it is not only about love, it also talks about various aspects of life, but this section stayed with me, because it answered all my questions about love.
Scott Peck says that "Falling in love" is effortless. But it is not equivalent to "loving". "Loving" requires effort. Love is a decision. Love is an action, an activity.
He says that what is commonly called love is actually cathexis. But for true love to develop, a certain amount of cathexis is necessary.
Instead of trying to explain further, I will reproduce a part of a succinct review by Laura Bryannan.
...(Scott Peck) discusses the difference between being "in love" and love. He notes that love is not a feeling, but an activity, and defines it as "the willingness to extend oneself for the purpose of nurturing one's own and another's spiritual growth." He bemoans the rampant notion of romantic love that pervades society today, which holds that one is not truly in love unless one feels those incredible "I'm in love" feelings that we all know so well. He observes, "Many, many people possessing a feeling of love and even acting in response to that feeling act in all manner of unloving and destructive ways. On the other hand, a genuinely loving individual will often take loving and constructive action toward a person he or she consciously dislikes..."
He teaches to be suspect of the familiar "in love" feeling for two reasons: 1) "The experience of falling in love is specifically a sex-linked erotic experience," which he believes may be genetically coded in us to insure the perpetuation of the species; and 2) "The experience of falling in love is invariably temporary...the feeling of ecstatic lovingness that characterizes the experience of falling in love always passes."
I wonder how many relationships end, or never get started, because the partners feel genuine connection and communication together, but don't feel "in love." ....
Now to answer the question, "Can we choose to fall in love", I will take three situations:
(This is from only one perspective. Needless to say, you need two to tango.)
Situation 1
Guy is interested in girl. Girl feels undeniable attraction. But somewhere at the back of her mind, she knows that this guy is not good for her (whatever the reason is). So she can hold back. She can resist the sweeping emotions. If she is strong enough, she can step back from the flood of emotions, and not fall in love. But if the attentions and adulation of the guy is very intense and continuous, and if the girl is not very strong-willed, if she cannot swim against the currents of her own feeling, she can very easily be swept up in it and fall in love. So though she knows the guy is not good for her, she has fallen in love with him.
Here, after the first high of "having fallen in love" fades away (yes, it will), she might find that it was a grave mistake after all. Then the relationship might break down. Of course, she might even find that what she thought would be an issue, was not an issue at all, and she might have grown to love him, and in that case, all's well that ends well.
Situation 2
Guy is interested in girl. Girl does not feel any particular attraction or attachment. She likes the guy, and thinks he is a very good person, and respects him. But that's it. But she can think, "He is a good person, I am sure I will be happy with him." So she decides to love him. But she cannot "fall in love" with him. (Maybe she can, too, but I am not so sure about it). But she can grow to love him.
In this case, the girl might never experience the high of having "fallen in love", but that does not mean that she does not love the guy.
Situation 3
Guy is interested in girl. Girl is interested in guy. She has no qualms, she knows that he is the best person for her. She very easily falls in love with him.
If, during the high of having "fallen in love", she has also grown "to love" the person, then what else do you want? But I am not saying that this situation will definitely have a happy ending. She might discover things about him which she did not know, and she might realize that she cannot love him after all!
Back to the question. Can you choose to fall in love? I think that you can choose to resist "falling in love", but you might not be able to choose, or force yourself to "fall in love". But you can definitely choose "to love".
At this point, if you are brimming with questions, I strongly recommend "The Road Less Travelled".
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Why don't they get it?
Scene 1.
A colleague and I enter office together. The colleague is, to put it mildly, on the plumper side. She says, "How is it that you do not diet but still manage to keep your weight down? I just cannot understand. You are so fortunate. Me, I diet so much, nothing happens, it must be the body structure... whatever, you are so lucky..." We reach the foyer, we separate, I take the stairs, and she takes the lift to her first floor office.
Scene 2.
Me chatting online with a friend. She says, "You have read so many books! How do you get the time to read so much? Some people have all the luck. I just cannot find the time to read even one book in a month. Oh I am so busy, so much work... must be a luxury to be able to read so much.......... Ohhh its almost 8... will signout now... Don't want to miss my serials... four of them.. back to back."
Why don't they get it?
[Familiar? :) Do you have other incidents like this to relate?]
A colleague and I enter office together. The colleague is, to put it mildly, on the plumper side. She says, "How is it that you do not diet but still manage to keep your weight down? I just cannot understand. You are so fortunate. Me, I diet so much, nothing happens, it must be the body structure... whatever, you are so lucky..." We reach the foyer, we separate, I take the stairs, and she takes the lift to her first floor office.
Scene 2.
Me chatting online with a friend. She says, "You have read so many books! How do you get the time to read so much? Some people have all the luck. I just cannot find the time to read even one book in a month. Oh I am so busy, so much work... must be a luxury to be able to read so much.......... Ohhh its almost 8... will signout now... Don't want to miss my serials... four of them.. back to back."
Why don't they get it?
[Familiar? :) Do you have other incidents like this to relate?]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)