Please come home sometime.

No, I am not inviting you to my home (not yet). I am just talking about this very common utterance of formality that I hear everywhere. very common, but utterly devoid of feeling. And the one who is being invited, says, "Oh yes, yes, sure!" - and this is said totally blankly too. So why say it?

I am sure you know what I am talking about. Two people meet, and before bidding one another goodbye, each of them invites the other to their home. And with a lot of head-nodding and "Of course"s, they go their own ways. And the very existence of the other person, let alone his home, is forgotten in the next two minutes.

I don't really know, but I guess this has always been a common form of politeness and a gesture of friendliness and hospitality to invite someone home. In the days of yore, it probably held some meaning too. With small towns and cities, with approachable homes, and with a lot of time on hand and with loads of respect for personal relationships, this would have been a sincere invitation, and it would have been taken seriously too.

But now, honestly, I think it has lost all meaning. I have seen people inviting each other, and each one doesn't have an idea of where the other's house is, still they say, "Oh yes, yes, we will surely drop by some day". Both of them know that the "some day" will never come. Then why, why still stick to this silly phrase? Let's move on!

I am not saying that all such invitations are devoid of meaning. Oh, many certainly mean it sincerely. But think about it - the other day, i was out with a friend, and we happened to run into my friend's in-laws' former neighbour's daughter-in-law. They talked a while, and during "goodbye" time, this girl turns to me and says, "Please come home sometime". All I could do was gape. For heavens' sake, why would I be interested in going to the home of my friend's in-laws' former neighbour's daughter-in-law, with whom I have nothing in common? And why would she be interested in inviting me? So why the silly formality? And yes, you guessed right, she didn't tell me where her house was. And as it turns out, my friend doesn't know either.

I usually answer this invitation with a "Ha ha". It might be rude, but it is the truth.

Before you think I am an anti-social element, let me tell you that I am a firm believer of good socialization in this mad era, with my definition of socialization being that we meet up and spend quality time with friends, relatives, and develop contact with new acquaintances with common interests. But I wouldn't issue empty invitations to all and sundry, and I take with a pinch of salt most of such empty invitations that come my way.

So please let us find some other more appropriate goodbye phrase!

While I am at this, there is another aspect to this "Come home" business.

This one purely concerns sincere(or that's what I think) invitations. I understand that you would like someone to visit you, but please do understand that person's limitations! He might genuinely not be able to accept your invitation for lunch/dinner because of a number of problems. He might be much too busy with other stuff (he has a life of his own, too, you know), or he might have a problem with commuting so far, or he might have some other personal problem which he cannot tell you about. It could be anything. So please don't harrass him. And please don't think that he is alive on this earth just to have a meal at your place.

And worse are you who expects a person visiting the city on a vacation to make it a point to visit your place. The poor lady has managed a short vacation, and has come down to visit her family, and you extend an invitation to have a meal at your house. If she could, believe me, she would. If she has to skip visiting your house, it is because either you are not in her first circle (face it), or else, the time is much too short for her too spend time with everybody. If you really love her as much as you claim to, then you can very well go and visit her for a short while where she is staying, so that she can spend more of the scarce and precious time at home and less commuting on the wretched roads in the obnoxious traffic to come to have a meal at your place. And if she had said she would come, but then she couldn't, then give her the benefit of doubt - and please do not complain to the whole world for the next one year that she did not visit your place when she was in the city.

And if the said visiting person is an elderly person, who finds it difficult to travel from one place to another in the heat in the crowded roads of the city, then the thought of insisting on him having a meal at your house should not even cross your mind. If you want to pay your respects to him, you can't do better by going to where he is staying and spending a couple of hours with him. So there.

Ahh. I have it all off my chest. That feels good. Thank you, Blog.

What is your comfort food?

My comfort food is Saaru-Anna. Saaru is a kind of Rasam, but it is thicker - it has dal(pulses). Where Rasam is best drunk, Saaru is best mixed with rice (and.. err.. ghee) and eaten. But yes, Saaru can be drunk too, when you allow the thick dal part to settle down, and you carefully ladle out the watery part into a cup - best had hot.

There are varieties of Saaru too, with less dal, with only tomatoes, with only pepper, etc., but my favourite is the standard version - the one with dal and tomatoes, and a garnishing of asafoetida and mustard in ghee. And of course, topped with coriander and curry leaves.

Give it to me with soft, steaming hot rice (Anna), and sigh.. life is good.

But. But, when asked to name my favourite dishes, Saaru-Anna hardly ever figures in the list. But if I go for a week without eating Saaru, I start craving for it - and I feel like I have had a good meal only when I eat a plate full of hot Saaru-Anna.

Saaru-Anna was what I would request for while visiting relatives from the hostel, and my mom always made Saaru-Anna for the first meal when I came back home for the holidays. If I am recovering from an illness and don't feel like eating anything, it is usually only Saaru-Anna that is palatable.

I am a foodie, as I have said a number of times on this blog, and I love to taste new dishes. I enjoy the gastronomical delights of the place I am visiting, when I go on vacations or holidays. But when I come back, it is only Saaru-Anna that soothes my taste-buds (and also mind, body and soul).

I don't even need to eat this everyday - I can go for days on end without it. But when I do finally get to eat it, I feel at home. Its like that old pair of pyjamas - that gives you peace of mind.

I see this Saaru-Anna phenomenon all around me. My entire family, friends, most people I know who are accustomed to Kannadiga cuisine behave just like I do when it comes to Saaru-Anna.

So what is your comfort food? [Please mention the kind of cuisine you are originally accustomed to, along with your reply. Just a personal survey. Thanks :)]

Bangles for Sachin.

Cricket fans in Patna are angry with the Indian Cricket Team because of their exit from the world cup. So what do they do?

Take a poster of Sachin's, blacken it a bit, hold it up for the benefit of the photographer, and hold bangles to the poster.
[Picture here, scroll down a bit]

There are two things extremely offensive about this.

1) Offering bangles to a loser is an age-old Indian gesture of insult. Which is an abominable thing. It means that the loser is "no better than a woman". It is a terribly demeaning statement.

2) The fans who are offering bangles to the Sachin poster, are women. Yes. Not men. Women themselves, who are demeaning themselves by this act. Do they even realize what it means? Do they understand that they are putting themselves down? If they do know the significance of this gesture, do they really have that low an opinion of themselves as women?

[Anil and Emma on the same issue. Though they had already written about it, I felt I just had to write about it too.]

I am Jaguar Paw and this is my forest.

Very occasionally, I get bitten by a bug that makes me want to do something quite unlike me. Recently, it was the urge to watch a movie in a theatre. "Some movie, any movie", I whined.

The next question was, "Which movie?" S said that he heard that "300" was good, and so I looked up the reviews, and went back to him, saying, "I read that it is too violent, let's go to a lighter movie".

"Ok, your choice", he said.

I searched high and low and found that "Little Miss Sunshine" and "The Pursuit of Happyness" sounded good - and I zeroed in on Little Miss Sunshine.

S very kindly acquiesced, and we landed at PVR cinemas. But I was in for a little surprise. The show that I thought started at 7 40 was indeed there, but it was the Gold class show - with tickets costing Rs.450. Now, even when I am in the crazy mode, some sense does prevail. Paying Rs.150 for the usual ticket itself pains me - but 450? Nothing doing! S was open to the idea, but I just walked off. So what do we do now? In PVR with nothing to do?

None of the other movies seemed interesting, and those that were interesting were sold out.

Then S's eyes caught sight of Apocalypto.

"I've heard it's good", he said.

I hadn't even heard of the movie. "Fine", I said, "If you think so", and we bought the tickets.

We were already ten minutes late, and we rushed to the hall.

As we entered, S whispered, "Its about Mayans."
"Wow", I thought.
As we settled into our seats, he said, "It's directed by Mel Gibson. It could be, err.. a little gory".
"How gory can it be?" I thought, already transfixed by the sight of the larger-than-life images of the people of an ancient Mayan tribe on the screen, with emerald green forests in the background.

The conversation was in some alien language, but there were subtitles, of course. It just needed five minutes to get me totally immersed in the movie. Those characters, with their dress, make up, their language, the picturisation, the sound - it was very good.

As the movie progressed, everything seemed hunky-dory - the seemingly idyllic life of a village in the jungle - but then there was a sense of foreboding. Both in the characters in the screen, and in me.

And then it began.

Carnage. Bloodshed.

I promptly shut my eyes. But I couldn't shut the screams out.

S watched for a couple of minutes, and then he looked at me. "We can always walk out, you know, if you cannot stand it. I don't mind at all", he said.

"I'm fine with staying and watching the movie", I said. I was already too engrossed in the movie, violence and all. "But let me know when I can open my eyes", I clarified.

So that is how the rest of the movie went. The slightest hint of blood and gore and I would avert my eyes. S would watch it and then after the scene finished, he would tell me, "You can watch now".

So I actually spent half of the movie examining my fingernails, admiring the pattern on my handbag, or looking at S and observing his reactions to the movie. Not a wince, not a shudder from him, but an imperceptible stiffening as the screams and noise increased. Then he would visibly relax and say, "You can watch now". And I would watch. And I loved what I watched.

It is a very well-made movie. It must have needed a lot of effort to make. The dress, makeup, the entire movie being in the Mayan language, the forests, the cultures, even the ghastly customs - made for gripping viewing.

Oh, what is the movie about, do you ask? It is about this guy Jaguar Paw, who is captured along with his tribespeople, to serve as human sacrifice to appease the Mayan Gods, and about how he escapes.

The Title of this post? One of the oft-repeated dialogues, which I loved - "I am Jaguar Paw, son of Flint Sky. My Father hunted this forest before me. My name is Jaguar Paw. I am a hunter. This is my forest. And my sons will hunt it with their sons after I am gone. "

If you can stomach loads of blood and gore, then do watch the movie.

As for me, my "I-want-to-watch-a-movie" sickness seems to have been cured once and for all.

Low investment, high returns

A bitterly cold December morning in Darjeeling. My alarm rang at 3 30 am. I unwillingly dragged myself out from under the thick quilt, and woke up my friends, who were equally reluctant to get out into the biting cold. We cursed and fretted, got up and washed in the freezing water and stepped out into the darkness, tumbled into a jeep and set out to catch the world-famous sunrise at Tiger Hill. We dozed in the jeep, shivering under layers of clothes, and I kept muttering, why exactly am I sitting here, freezing in this jeep when I could be curled up under the warm quilt at the hotel? No answer.

But a couple of hours later, I had just finished witnessing one of the most magical sights of my life. The sunrise at Tiger Hill. I had seen the enchanting Kanchenjunga in the first rays of the sun, and even now, eight years later, I count it as one of the best experiences of my life.

All I had to do was withstand some cold and give up three hours of sleep, and I had got myself an experience that I will always cherish.

So simple.

I cannot count the number of times I have cribbed at being woken up at 5 am on a Sunday to go for a walk at Lalbagh. But each of those walks remain in my memory as some of the best days of my childhood.

I remember how much I cried about being waken up by my parents at 2 am in the night to watch my first complete lunar eclipse, and my first comet. But I'll never forget either experience, ever.

I would get so irritated with my father for waking me up at dawn when we were on vacation - couldn't he see that I was sleepy? But he would say, "You can sleep any time, you might not get another chance to visit this beautiful place and see the view at this hour ever again".

How I hated being woken up by my mother at 4 am in the morning at Mysore, just to make me listen to the terrifying roar of the lions in the zoo, 5-6 km away. But how I cherish that memory now - knowing that I'll probably never hear anything like that ever again.

It is not just about losing sleep. Some of the best places I have been, have been travelled to in rickety little village buses. Or been travelled to for long hours in hot, dusty trains, with upset stomachs. Or in hot old shaky taxis, thirsty and hungry. But though I do remember that there was some discomfort, I don't remember how much or how it felt. All I remember is what I saw and enjoyed.

Life holds a lot of treasures - how much of it you will find depends on how much hardship you are ready to face.

Little discomforts, which will be forgotten in no time - in exchange for memories of a lifetime. What a small price to pay!

Redemption

Many decades ago, in a small village in Karnataka, there was a boy, the son of the Shanbhog (Village accountant). A very bright and intelligent fellow, he always topped his class at school. When he finished middle school, his father decided to send him to the nearest big town, Davangere, for high school, since there was no high school in the village. The boy stayed at a hostel and attended the high school at Davangere.

Gradually, the boy fell into bad company at the hostel, and started smoking, gambling, and bunking classes. Before he knew it, the exams were upon him and he failed in a couple of subjects. He returned to his village for the holidays, and it took all his persuasive skills and promises to let his father send him back to school. His previous excellent reputation at school might have played a part too, and anyway, his father sent him back to school with a warning.

The boy went back to school, determined to avoid all the boys he hung out with the previous term, but as time went by, he was drawn to them again, and he was back to his bad habits. This time, when the exams loomed large, the boy got scared, and unable to face his parents, he packed a small bag and ran away. To cut a long and painful story short, the police found the runaway boy after two weeks in a distant town, and sent him back home to the village. His homecoming was joyously celebrated, but the matter of sending him back to school was dropped. The boy also had no guts to speak about it, so he resigned himself to a life of a Shanbhog.

Shortly, the Shanbhog's friend came visiting, and was quite pained to see a boy he considered brilliant, taken out of school. He talked to the Shanbhog, and told him that he would take the boy to chitradurga, where he lived, and the boy could stay at his house and study at the high school in Chitradurga. The Shanbhog was difficult to persuade, but he relented at the end, on the condition that the money for all the fees and other expenses of the boy should go directly from the Shanbhog's hands to the friend's, and the boy should at no time be allowed to have even a paisa on his person. This was agreed to, and the friend took the boy away with him to his house, and made arrangements for him to stay in a room in their outhouse, where other boys like him were staying and studying at the local high school.

The arrangement was fine, the boy ate breakfast and dinner at the friend's house, and attended school, but for lunch, the boy was in a dilemma. Being of a shy disposition, he couldn't bring himself to come back home during lunch break and go up to the main house to ask the lady of the house for lunch. The lady, perhaps, assumed that the boy, being the son of a Shanbhog, would definitely have money with him, and would be eating his lunch somewhere outside. Too embarrassed to explain this situation to either his father or the father's friend, the boy went through many months without lunch.

Soon, a couple of boys at school - brothers - befriended this boy, and their friendship grew. The brothers naturally noticed that their new friend did not eat lunch at all, and instead, filled his stomach with water from the tap. They went home and told their mother about this. Their mother felt sorry for the boy, and told her sons to bring him home with them for lunch henceforth.

The next day, the brothers told the boy about their mother's invitation, but the boy was too shy to accompany them to their house. He refused to go. So the brothers went back home for lunch without the boy. Their mother was furious. "Why didn't you bring your friend with you? What kind of boys are you? How can you think of eating when your friend is sitting there, hungry? This is because you don't know what hunger is. You won't get any lunch today. Hereafter, if you want lunch, you should bring your friend with you". The brothers went back, hungry and crestfallen, and told the boy what they had had to undergo because of him.

The boy couldn't believe his ears. Was this lady for real?

The next day, he had no choice but to accompany the brothers to their home for lunch. Their mother welcomed him with affection, and he became a regular at their house. Soon, he virtually started living in their house, and he was always treated by the family as another son of the house. [Even now, seventy odd years later, the boy considers the lady as his second mother, and remembers her fondly.]

I don't think I need to add that the boy now applied himself to his work diligently, and when he passed the tenth standard board exams, he was just among a handful of boys in the entire district to pass with a first class.

The boy, in case you haven't already guessed, is my grandfather.

This is the gist of one of my favourite episodes in my grandfather (Prof J.R.Lakshmana Rao)'s memoirs, "Nenapina Alegalu" - Waves of Memories.

I like this story for a number of reasons.

1) That such a confused(?) young boy turned out into a fine, well-respected Chemistry professor, chief-editor of the University's Kannada-English dictionary, authored about 25 science books, many of which won him Sahitya Akademi Awards among various other awards, was awarded a National Award for Science Writing, etc. -- This story shows that no child is incorrigible. Belief in a child, guidance in the right path, and love can make any child bloom.

2) Can such people have really walked the earth?
A man, who, out of his confidence in a friend's son's abilities, offers to take up the entire responsibility of his studies, in spite of the boy's notoriety as the "boy who had run away from home".
A lady with so much love that she could make her own sons go hungry for a boy she hadn't even met - And later, treats him no different from her own sons.

It is beyond comprehension. And it never fails to touch my heart.

Blank Noise Project - Action Heroes

Blank Noise Project is back with the blogathon - and this year, we are asked to share stories of how we, as victims of street harrassment, fought back and became Action Heroes.

Now, I haven't done anything remotely heroic, which would warrant a story, but they ask -

Being a 'HERO' is relative . We are interested in knowing how you challenged yourself or didn't feel victimised?

This statement was what pushed me into writing this - I might not be an Action Hero, but I haven't always been passive either.

I had written last year about my first experience at being eve-teased.

Many many years ago. A hot summer's day. First day of the academic year. I was walking back from school with a new friend. We reached an intersection, and she and I had to go different ways.
"Bye! It was good to meet you!" I called out to her.
There were a group of guys in a car parked close to us.
"Bye to her... now meet ussssss", they called out, with wolf-whistles.
I was being eve-teased. For the first time in my life. I was horrified, and nearly struck dumb. But I desperately wanted to impress my new friend.
"Mind your own business, Mister, or I will tell the police", I hollered, in true Bollywood style.
"Oye!" said one, and opened one door of the car.
That was it. All my bravado vanished and I ran home as fast as my skinny ten-year-old legs could carry me. I reached home and half-proud, half-scared, poured it all out to my mother. She listened, eyes widening.
"Where was that car parked?"
"In front of the bar!", said I, nonchalantly.
"Shruthi! Those guys could have been drunk! They could have done anything! Do not, I repeat, DO NOT answer back to them! Just ignore them!"

After this incident, I did ignore verbal harrassment for a long time. But many times, more in recent years when my confidence has grown, I respond with what I think is a withering look. I don't know if it cows them down or not... but I feel that I have fought back in my own little way.

But those eve-teasers who brush against me in crowded streets? I always answer with a jab of my elbow, or I lash out at them - it is an instinct. Else, if the street is not too crowded and if the guy in question has not got lost in the crowd, I even turn around and shout "Heeeeeyyyy!" People turn around, and look at him and he slinks away. I have no idea about eve-teaser mentality, but I like to think that he was embarrassed and will think twice before indulging in eve-teasing again. Wishful thinking? Maybe, but I hope not.

I haven't needed to use public transport on a regular basis, but on those occasions that I have travelled in buses, and have observed a man with a propensity to stand or sit too close, I used my elbows to jab hard at him, or I have pressed down my foot very hard on his feet (this has been good fun - I can direct all my anger at his foot - but I don't wear heels, a pity)... or I have looked him in the eye and said sarcastically, "Yenu, jaaga saalada?" (What's the matter, don't have enough space?"). It works. They always move away. And sometimes, if a particularly garrulous lady is around and has viewed the entire episode, she does her bit by proclaiming loudly, "These men - they see a young girl and all they want to do is paw her"... and more in that vein. That is very satisfying indeed. It catches the attention of the whole bus, and its great to see the discomfort of the perpetrator.

I feel that any little act of fighting back or a defensive attitude, makes me feel that I have got the better of the eve-teaser. And that's what matters. The confidence to walk on the streets with my head held high.

KBC - unfair question?

I happened to watch KBC last night - and there was a question for Fastest Finger First -

Arrange these periods in ascending order:
a>Ek Ghanta
b>Aadha Ghanta
c>Sava Ghanta
d>Pauna Ghanta *

The options were written just like that - Hindi words in English.

Now, if I, for example, had been a contestant, I would have had to first translate these into their English equivalents, and then sort them in the right order.

And this is me, who is pretty familiar with Hindi, and can speak and understand it with ease. But yet, it is not the tongue I am most comfortable with, and so there is a definite time lag between reading these words and translating them into a more familiar tongue. And that leaves me with a major handicap.

So what about those people who do not even know what Sava and Pauna is?

I think that these type of questions are very unfair to the non-Hindi speaking contestants.

What do you think?

[*Ek Ghanta - One hour
Aadha Ghanta - Half an hour
Sava Ghanta - One and one fourths of an hour
Pauna Ghanta - Three fourths of an hour]

Tell me your dreams

..... Asks Payaniga.

My dreams are very ordinary and commonplace, really. Nothing excitingly exotic, or overtly romantic (wouldn't have written about them even if they were, that's another story!).

Anyway, here are three of the dreams I dream most often.

1) Falling off a cliff, and waking up with a start. I'm sure all of you dream about this. I dreamt this dream regularly when I was very young. Then I read about the ability to control dreams, and that we can win over such dreams by, for example, making up your mind that the moment you fall off the cliff the next time, you will sprout wings and fly away. I made up my mind to try it out. But ever since that time, I have never dreamt that dream again - and its been 10-15 years! [Probably I did sprout wings and fly away, and didn't wake up, and that's why I don't remember the dream]. Anyway, this dream has been replaced by a similar one - one where I fall into a pit. Wings sure won't work here. Any suggestions?

2) Faced with a task that is impossible to do. I am in a room, every inch of which is stacked with papers and I am trying to sort them out. Or I am in a field, sitting near a gargantuan pile of pebbles, and am trying to count them all. I try, then become breathless... and suddenly the paper/pebbles overwhelm me like a tsunami and I suffocate -- and I wake up, sweating and breathless. I have observed that I get this dream when I am swamped with too much work, or I have a deadline or I have some kind of worry or anxiety. It is a terrible dream.

3) Food. I dream of food all the time. It is not even like I am starved or on a diet in real life. I dream that I am eating a much-loved food item and then I wake up and I look in disbelief at my empty hands, and run my tongue around my empty mouth.... and I almost weep. There are some happy occasions when these dreams are fueled by the smell of that particular food cooking at home, or the mention of it by someone around me - then it is lovely - I wake up and get to eat that very food. But more often than not, there is no food around, and I can be very restless until I finally get my hands on that food in real life.

Now, the tagging part!

1)Shyam, since she loves tags. [But she has just written about dreams! Will she do the tag??]
2)Viky - weird when he is awake - just imagine how his dreams will be!
3)Supremus - just like that! :)

The wait

She sighed in relief as she sent the final email, and looked at the clock on her monitor. 5 54. She had just six minutes to catch the six o clock bus. She looked around carefully to see if the project lead was around. He wasn't. She just had to get out before the loudmouth caught her again and assigned some other task to her. The date was originally at five - she had called and postponed it to seven already. She couldn't wait any longer. She had waited all week to see him, and she really couldn't wait any longer.

She slid out from her cubicle, aiming to visit the restroom before she could catch the bus. But she heard the loudmouth from the general direction of the restroom, and couldn't risk being seen by him. Besides, her watch now showed 5 57. She would have to hurry if she had to catch the six o clock bus. With a silent request to her bladder to cooperate for another hour, she turned and headed for the door.

Her decision turned out to be correct. The buses were just revving up as she reached the parking area, and she only just managed to get into her bus. She sat down thankfully and watched as the buses crawled out of the campus onto the road.

It always seemed like the bus drivers were too fast and rash. But today, their driver seemed to be taking his own time. The bus danced merrily across the humps and potholes, and the driver made no attempt to hurry. She couldn't bear it. She willed him to go faster. But neither the roads, nor the traffic aided that. She just sat and watched the trees go by slowly, painfully slowly.

The traffic built up and slowed to a crawl. The bus driver started steering towards a side road that had lesser traffic, but was so narrow that it was prone to traffic jams. She prayed fervently that he wouldn't take that road, and if he did, that it would be free of traffic. But the driver just had to take the side road, and within a couple of minutes, they were in the midst of a terrible jam. She sighed, and leaned back in her seat. She just had to relax. There was no point worrying - it wouldn't help clear the jam. She closed her eyes. He floated into view in her mind's eye, and she involuntarily smiled. And then she felt the urgency again. When will this blasted jam clear up??

After an unbearable ten minutes, the bus moved again. It cleared the major bottleneck and reached the wide main roads. She sighed with relief. Now only if all the signals were in their favour - she would be there in time. But no, they did have to get stuck at the first major signal. Now they would have to stop at every signal for sure. She looked at her watch, and wished that the traffic would move as quickly as the minute hand in her watch.

After interminable waits at innumerable signals, they reached the final stretch. Just one more signal to go, and then she could alight, and he would be there. It was already fifteen minutes past seven. She was late, and she knew he would already be waiting. The bus stopped at the final signal. She resisted the urge to jump out and run the last few meters - it was far too foolish, and dangerous. The light finally turned green, the bus moved and arrived at her stop. She was already at the door, and was jumping out even before the bus stopped.

She walked quickly to the usual meeting place. Turning the corner, she saw him, a lone figure, standing patiently, watching the traffic go by. As she trotted up to him, he turned, and their eyes met. He smiled.

A wave of warmth swept through her. She relaxed completely in the comfort of his presence. It was worth it, she found herself thinking. The agony, the urgency, the tension, the endless wait - it was all worth it.

Now all she had to do was find a loo.
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Update: What would "He" have been doing all this while, waiting for "Her"? Viky tells you. Read his fabulous story here!

Ruled by machines...

A neighbour dropped in unexpectedly in the evening two days ago. "No cable TV, something wrong - couldn't watch any serial... was feeling bored, so thought of just dropping in to say hi".

My mother's cousin called her last night after ages. "No power since morning - no TV, no radio, no computer... was feeling really bored... so thought I'd just call to say Hi".

My friend called this morning. "Am not able to connect to the internet - don't know what is wrong. That's why I couldn't mail you - so I called you instead."

Now you know why the art of socialization has disappeared.

When machines fail us, we remember human beings.

The precious liquid

A little while ago, on the night that the Cauvery tribunal gave its verdict, I went to sleep, only to be awakened at dawn by the sound of water flowing. I woke up to see that the water was overflowing from the overhead tank of a house, a few houses behind ours. They had perhaps forgotten to switch off the pump. There was no way I could contact those people, so all I could do was stand there helplessly, waiting for them to realize what is happening.

As I watched the thick column of water going to waste, I could see in my mind's eye, thousands of farmers, starving and suffering from lack of water. I also saw villagers waiting with rows of empty pots, near the lone tap of the village - waiting for a few drops of that precious liquid to gush out - waiting in vain.

I couldn't go back to sleep until the water stopped flowing.

I woke up to the news that the decision of the Cauvery Tribunal would affect Bangalore too - much of its population would have to face waterless days.

At least now, will people use water wisely? For I have seen how irresponsibly people use, or rather, misuse water.

I can understand if uneducated people waste water - but how about all those educated people around us? How is it that they do not have even a little awareness?

I have seen people turning to talk to me while washing their hands. The tap is open, water is gushing out, and they are turned towards me, explaining something.
I know people who boast that their bath takes 2 hours and 10 buckets of water. Are they so dirty, or are they that huge??
I have seen people washing their cars with water from a pipe.... wasting hundreds of litres of water .... where one bucket of water would suffice to wash one car.
Oh I have even seen Water Supply Tankers going about the roads leaking water all through the roads (like one little cousin of mine had said, "Hey, that lorry is pissing!")

It is not like I haven't tried to tell them. But people more often than not laugh or don't take me seriously. Years ago, While I was walking to school one day with a couple of friends, I saw an open tap in one of those cylindrical community water tanks - so I crossed the road to go and close the tap. I was ragged about that for years to come. I still don't understand why.

When we try to tell people to avoid water wastage, the typical questions are:
* Why? We have no water problem in this area.
* Why? Everybody wastes water anyway, what great difference will it make if I save water.
* Why? Anyway by the time there is real water scarcity, we will anyway be dead. Why take all the trouble now?

I honestly am rendered speechless at this.

And this is the response of educated people. If we try to tell the domestic help at our place not to waste water, she thinks we are stingy. If you cannot explain to educated people, how can you expect this illiterate woman to think of the big picture?

For all my awareness, I hadn't realized that when I wash vessels at the kitchen sink, I keep the tap open more than it is necessary - S showed me how I could wash the same vessel with quarter the amount of water that I use. And now I consciously do that.

This is just about saving water at home. There are many ways in which water can be used wisely for irrigation too. The first technique that comes to my mind is Drip Irrigation. Drip Irrigation is a process in which water is routed through pipes and valves to the fields, and water is released drop by drop to the plant, instead of all the water at one go. This reduces water wastage due to evaporation, and due to water run-off.

I have actually seen this at work in some farms in the Malnad area in Karnataka - and it is amazing how much less water is required compared to ordinary irrigation. I am aware that this might be a slightly expensive method of irrigation, and you might also argue that anyway the water from normal irrigation doesn't really get lost - it goes and settles as ground water or goes back to the atmosphere. True. But that particular farmer's pressing problem of water shortage is solved to a certain extent by drip irrigation, right? And if the farmer has the means and interest to implement this, then great - every drop saved matters.

What does it take to create awareness among people? Not education, for sure. Then what? Maybe they should just step up water rates - levy high prices for each litre of water. At least if people feel the pinch that way, they might come to their senses. Or will they?

Note: Let's not use this platform to debate on whether the Cauvery Tribunal Order is just or not. Thanks.

A request from Arun Kumar Bhardwaj - The Ultrarunner

If you have been reading my blog for a while, you will remember the Ultrarunner Arun Kumar Bhardwaj.

Here is another message from him, which I am reproducing verbatim.

Dear Shruti,

By the medium of your blog I would like to inform the people that I am going to undertake The Great Delhi to Shimla Ultramarathon, 375+km within 100 hours (in total that means including all the elapsed time)starting on 1st Feb at 2 PM from the India Gate. We are taking the route Delhi-Chandigarh-Shimla. The last streth of 70 kms gain an height of 1500 meters, i.e. after Kalka. One of my friend is sharing the expenses of the run (I am again without any sponsorship and please let me take to liberty to use your blog to invite any potential sponsor to come with me in this work of great cause to our mother country). After this run I plan to do a Delhi to Goa, 2100km in 21 days.

Cheers,
- Arun

(“You don’t have to be a runner to appreciate it when someone goes beyond the limits. And when someone runs a hundred or a thousand miles one doesn’t have to be a genius to see that the entire human potential has just been expanded. Such examples give people hope and inspiration to change themselves, to be better, and to expect and strive for something higher, something beyond them. Perhaps, they think, if those guys can run a hundred miles then I can do something worthwhile, I can do something good. The world changes more by deeds then by words.” – Tarak Kauff)

As I post this, he will be running the first marathon. If you, or your organization, would like to support him or sponsor him, please do so.

Here are his contact details once again.

Name: Arun Kumar Bhardwaj
Email : a_runrunrun@yahoo.com
Cell Phone : +91 9213 964 901
Postal Address: Planning Commission, Parliament Street, New Delhi 110001.

Thank you.

Link Love

There are a million bloggers out there. A few of them are very good, and accordingly, enjoy a large readership. But for every well-known blogger out there, there is an equally good blogger, who for some reason or the other enjoys very little readership.

To set this right, a meme is going around, which asks you to link to those bloggers who you think deserve more readership. I picked it up from Bombay Addict's blog (he has also traced the journey of the meme) - and here I go -

Anitha at Thoughtraker - She does have a dedicated fan following - but I think she deserves much more readership - she writes beautifully.
Usha at Ageless Bonding - Thought-provoking posts about life and people. I never go away from her blog without having gained something.
Raj at Plus Ultra - One of the funniest blogs around.

There are at least half a dozen more I'd like to mention - but either they already have a fair amount of readership, or they don't blog often enough - so I'll stop here.

If you feel likewise about any blogger that you read regularly, please carry this forward. Let's all get to read more good blogs out there!

Also, I have just joined BlogBharti as one of the contributors. What I like about them is that they give preference to the so-called "Z-listers" over "A-listers". Whenever I came across good posts in unknown blogs, I would wish I could link them all on my blog and give them a little publicity - I can conveniently do that now - on BlogBharti.

Most of the blogs of my regular commenters are already on my Blog Radar. But if you come across a good blog, or a good post, on any subject, which you think deserves to be read, please lead me to it. Thank you!

PG Aunty

During the 16 months that I worked in Mumbai, I lived as a paying guest(pg). Many people had advised me against going for a pg accommodation, citing restrictions and lack of privacy. But when I did go house-hunting and found this house with a convenient room and a nice Sikh lady in charge, I jumped at it. I decided that I would need company in my first few days in the big bad city, and then later, if I felt that the pg cramped my style, I could always move to a flat. Besides, I didn't plan to live in Mumbai for too long. So I moved in. [I did try flat-hunting after a month or so, but at every stage I evaluated the merits and demerits of the flat and the pg I lived in, and eventually gave up the idea of moving into a flat of my own].

PG Aunty, as we all referred to her, was a very interesting woman. Very fat, with thinning hair, she had a perpetually worried look on her face. With five daughters, three of them yet to be married, she was forced to take in paying guests after her husband's business suffered severe losses. With a large house with many rooms, she had quite a few girls rooming with her. Add to them, the three daughters of her own, and a stern silver-haired silver-bearded husband, she had her hands full.

Her schedule was remarkable. We girls left home for work at different times in the morning - The two girls who were my colleagues, and I, were the first to leave. We had to catch our bus at eight in the morning. Aunty would rise at around seven, and go straight to the kitchen to start the food manufacturing for the day. She had a four-burner stove, which she utilized completely. On the back left burner, the tea boiled. On the back right burner cooked the vegetable curry of the day. On the front left burner was a tava on which she cooked chapatis for us to take as packed lunch, and on the front right burner was another tava on which she cooked thick parathas. All simultaneously.

She had two lumps of doughs - one for parathas and one for chapatis, and her hands never stopped working. She would pluck out a fistful of dough from the dough, and with three - just three (I counted) twists of the dough, it would become this perfectly spherical ball. She would then roll it out quickly, into, needless to say, a perfectly round chapati/paratha, and then it would fly, as if on its own to one of the two tavas on the stove. Oil would be poured on the chapati/paratha (this is where I would avert my eyes). A couple of quick turns and twists, and the chapati would come out of the tava and get wrapped up in aluminum foil and go and sit in our lunch boxes, and the paratha would fly into our waiting plates. In the milliseconds that she had between making these chapatis and parathas, she would add the masala to the curry or sugar to the tea, and stir the contents of those vessels. And by the time we came back for more parathas, the ready curry would have magically found its way into our boxes, the box would be packed and ready for us to take. How many times have we tried to tell her that we would do the packing ourselves, Aunty, please don't bother - but no. It would somehow get ready, as if she had a magic wand. And in all those mornings, during all those months, she ensured that we were never late. Only once did we miss our bus by a whisker - and that was because Aunty couldn't wake up in the morning because it was too cold (by Mumbai standards).

I can't speak enough about her cooking. It wasn't gourmet fare, but she was a good cook. Cooking for so many people, thrice a day, everyday, is far from easy. And she did the best that she could. Yes, it was Punjabi food most of the time - but I did not complain. I am such a foodie that I don't mind any cuisine, as long as it is good. I did miss South Indian food sometimes, and once, when I missed Saaru too much, I bought a packet of MTR Rasam powder and made Saaru for everybody that night. She also used to make something called Sindhi kadhi, which tasted remarkably like our huLi - so I enjoyed that quite a bit. Sometimes as a "special treat" to me, she would make Idli - sambar. The idlis were like stones and the sambar was not at all like sambar - but anyway I told her that I enjoyed it - I couldn't bear to see disappointment on her enthusiastic, eager-to-please face.

But she was the authority in Punjabi cuisine. She made some of the best parathas, and some great curries. These had too much oil in them sometimes, and part of my lunch ritual at office was pouring out the oil floating on top of the curry - but it was delicious nonetheless. She made great Baingan ka bharta and stuffed brinjal. Her potato fry was also very tasty. Her Khichdi was delicious. It was kind of too gooey for my liking, but I loved the taste. Her masterpieces were the Methi Malai Matar and the most exquisite Dal Ka Halwa. Strangely enough, her Carrot Halwa was uneatable, but if you ate her Dal Ka Halwa, you would forgive her for anything!

Sometimes she would turn fiercely money-minded. If we took extra curds with our dinner three days in a row, her eagle eye would notice it and say, "If you want so much curds, you should pay fifty rupees extra each month!" On the other hand, when I was down with a bad stomach upset, she made bland food and lassi for me, apart from the usual food for everybody else, and nearly hand-fed me everyday until I got better.

She often joked and laughed with us, and told us her problems. She in turn wanted to know everything about us - especially whether we had boyfriends. Sometimes the child in her would come out and she would indulge in playing pranks upon us. She also occasionally conspired with us against her husband who tried to be very strict with us. Uncle had set 11 pm as the curfew for the pgs, but if we pleaded with Aunty to relax it for "jusssst one day", she would turn a blind eye and even distract her husband when we let ourselves softly into the house after 11 pm. Uncle always wanted to watch Aaj Tak channel on TV. So when we wanted to watch something else, we would switch on our channel and then "lose" the remote (The TV was slightly conked out - the channel change button on the TV set did not work). We would then "find" the remote and hand it back to Uncle once our programme ended. Aunty knew all this, but she just smiled and said nothing.

She was extremely sensitive. She would take offhand remarks to heart and worry about the layers and layers of meanings in that comment. It worked the other way too. She was very conscious that she would hurt one of us inadvertently.
Once she came to me early in the morning and told me about her expenses and that they had to pay the daughters' college and school fees that month and they were out of money and all that. Just when I was wondering where it was all leading to, she said, "I wouldn't have bothered you otherwise, but could you please pay your rent for this month quickly?" I was surprised - I had already paid the rent for the month. I reminded her, but she was confused. I then jogged her memory, told her that I had brought the money to the kitchen, but her hands had been busy and so she had asked me to keep it under the sugar box. Enlightenment dawned on her face and she grew extremely apologetic. "How could I do this to you? You are always the first one who pays the rent, and always within the third of the month - and I doubted you of all the people... " She apologized until I was worried I would get late for office. I said "Aunty, it is ok, such things do happen...." But she called me even at office - twice - to apologize, "Bura mat maan-na, Shrooti, please, kya boldiya maine, kya sochegi tu mere baare mein..."... I finally had to tell her "Aunty, aap mujhe sharminda kar rahe hai"... She stopped, but she was extra nice to me for the next week!

She wasn't in town when I left Mumbai. Her daughter who lived in Indore was not well, and she had gone to visit her. It was good in a way, because she would have become "senti", and I, being the softie that I am, would no doubt have cried.

I still call her sometimes, and I once even wrote a letter to her in Hindi - it's very touching to see how thrilled she always is to hear from "her girls", as she calls us.

Good times and bad, I have had them all in Mumbai - but there is no doubt that by and large, my stay was comfortable and convenient - and a lot of the credit for that goes to PG Aunty!

Rising for the National Anthem - below your dignity?

Republic Day is round the corner and this brings me to a topic that I have often wondered about.

I am sure I am not the only one to have noticed it - but why do we Indians hesitate to stand up when the National Anthem is playing? The last time I remember an entire gathering rising at once when the National Anthem was sung/played was at school.

The first time I noticed this phenomenon was years ago, when I visited Delhi with my cousins. We were watching the Light and Sound show at the Red Fort. The show ended, and the National Anthem was played. The audience sat rooted to their seats. My then eleven-year-old cousin looked around in surprise, then stood up promptly, ramrod straight. We quickly did the same. Since we were somewhere in the front, the rest of the audience followed our example, and slowly, everybody rose. Did they really need an eleven-year-old to tell them to rise when the National Anthem is played?

I remember a campaign from a while ago. I remember watching it in theaters before the movie began - I don't quite remember having watched it on TV. A wizened old man is sitting on the footpath (at a shoeshine stand?) along with a number of young boys. The old man tunes the radio with knobby fingers. The national anthem starts playing. The young kids sit where they are. But this old man struggles hard to get up, and then stands up - on his only leg. It starts raining then - and the picture is of the very old one-legged man standing, chin up, in the rain, as the anthem plays in the background. The other kids look at him, and stand up too. It is followed by the message "Respect your national anthem" or something like that. Even then, I thought - do you actually need an ad to tell you to rise when the national anthem is playing?

I have seen this attitude - this reluctance to rise, everywhere. For example, in Mumbai, the anthem is played before the movie begins. Only half of the hall rises immediately - the others do follow suit, but only after embarrassed looks at each other. And some people remain seated throughout, one leg over the other, munching their pop-corn.

Why are we expected to rise when the National Anthem is played? For the same reason that we rise when a senior person enters a room - as a mark of respect. Is it below our dignity to display respect for our Anthem?

I don't mean to say that people who don't rise are unpatriotic or that they don't respect the anthem. For that matter, just standing up for the anthem doesn't reflect your patriotism. But it is just a gesture of respect. And I don't think these people mean any disrespect. But then why the hesitation in standing up? Why the embarrassment? Why the sheepish smiles? In fact, when only one person in a group rises, I have seen him being ribbed and teased. I am sure he will not rise the next time.

I have no idea what the scene is in other countries. I doubt that this is the case there. If it is not, please enlighten me, all you well-travelled folks out there. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you tell me stories about an Indian in the US rising immediately if "The Star-spangled banner" is played, and remaining seated when "Jana Gana Mana" is played.

On the lighter side, what do you do when it is being played on TV and you are sitting at home, alone or with family? Do you change channels? Or do you rise? Just curious!

Life, memories, and contemplation.

[Warning: I wouldn't recommend this post to you if you are in a depressed frame of mind.]

Many times, I wonder - Why do we behave the way we do? Why do we do the things we do? How do we learn to say the things that we say?

When she died, even before I could digest the fact that she was no more, even when I was reeling under the shock of the terrible news, I found myself speaking about her in the past tense. "She was so full of life, how can she be dead?" I said. And realized even in that state, how fragile life is - how soon one can change from being spoken of in the present tense to the past tense.

As I tried to grapple with the reality that I would no more see and hear her in the tangible sense, I found myself clinging to things which were her - intangible or semi-tangible. Or things that had her mark. I didn't delete her mails when cleaning up my inbox, I saved her last message in Orkut. I looked at her photo for a long time - observed how her hair falls around her face, how wide and spontaneous her smile is. I find myself thinking about the lac bangles she got for me from her trip to Gujarat. They are in my mom's house. I know I had wrapped them up and kept them carefully - they are very delicate - but are they safe enough? I have this urge to pop down to mom's place immediately and keep the bangles in a safer place. I know I will never wear them again. But I also know that I will treasure them forever.

Does that mean I didn't care about her when she was alive? Didn't I delete her forwarded mails without a second thought? Did I look at her photo for a second longer than was necessary to recognize her? Other than the fact that she had cared enough to bring me those pretty lac bangles, were they so precious to me when she was alive? Then why does this happen the moment the person dies? Is it just that you see the person in those things, in those objects, and feel - she is not there any more, let me at least keep these close to my heart..?

But what is death? When a person ceases to exist, we call it death. But what is existence? Is it just that she is not around any longer - we will not hear her speak any more, we will not hear her laughter any more, I cannot put my arm around her any more?

But what about her image that exists in all of us? That image that has no death? It might fade a little with time - ten years from now, I might have difficulty remembering how exactly she laughed, how tall she was - but her image will never disappear for as long as we live, will it? Doesn't she still live on, in that sense?

There is a very touching and poignant Raccoon episode in Calvin and Hobbes. Calvin finds a wounded baby raccoon and brings it home, hoping to nurse it back to health. But in the course of the night, the raccoon dies. When he hears about it in the morning, Calvin bawls his lungs out. His father tries to comfort him, and Calvin says, "I'm crying because out there he's gone, but he's not gone inside me". [This particular strip is here, and the entire Raccoon episode here.(A must read for Calvin fans)].

Could it have been expressed more beautifully?

Then that means death is not when a person ceases to exist. It is just when the physical form of a person ceases to exist. So what is the right word for "death" in the physical sense?

Questions as usual... and the answers, elusive as always...

But life goes on.

"She" is a much-loved cousin who passed away in a road accident ten days ago. She was very active, cheerful, and lived every moment fully. We'll all miss her.

Lakes of Mysore - photographs - continued

The previous post had snaps from Kukkarahalli Kere. Here are snaps of Karanji Kere.



The main pathway at the entrance, leading to Karanji Kere.












Karanji Kere as seen from the watch-tower. And if you are wondering why the tree is white - those are bird droppings.











I find myself wishing that I were this duck - floating blissfully in the cool waters of Karanji Kere.











A butterfly in the butterfly park, Karanji Kere.

Lakes of Mysore - photographs.

We were in Mysore last weekend. I have already written about how cool I think Mysore is, and I don't need to reiterate that I had loads of fun.

This time, I went determined to visit all the three lakes in Mysore. Kukkarahalli kere, of course, being about a quarter of a kilometer from my grandparents' house, I visit every time I go. But I hadn't visited Lingambudhi kere and Karanji Kere.

So, I did it - visited all three lakes, and did a lot of leisurely walking and birdwatching. We saw pelicans, painted storks, cormorants, egrets, herons, moor hens, kingfishers, bee-eaters, woodpeckers, snake birds, ducks, teals, and many more birds that I cannot even name.

Kukkarahalli - I have already written about it here, was perfect as usual. Lingambudhi kere is good, still quite undeveloped... but has its own beauty. We witnessed a marvellous sunset here. Unfortunately, I didn't have my camera with me that day. I had heard a lot about Karanji Kere, and I was not disappointed. They have developed the surroundings very well, and it is a treat to walk around the place. The view from the watch tower is great - you don't feel like coming back down. There is also a butterfly park, on a little island, which is lovely, well worth the long walk to the place.

I will not write any more, but will just leave you with these photographs.



Kukkarahalli kere, with Chamundi Betta in the background.












A pelican swimming meditatively in the waters, Kukkarahalli Kere.












A cormorant in the reeds, Kukkarahalli Kere.















Tranquility, Kukkarahalli Kere.











The rest in the next.

Of fountain pens.

When in Mysore last week, I saw my grandfather's fountain pen. And I found myself picking it up and admiring it and gushing about how no one uses fountain pens these days and how long it was since I had even set eyes on one.

And that, as usual, took me back to school. How precious fountain pens were! Especially as we had just left "childish" pencils behind, and now were considered old enough to actually write with pens! Though some of us thought that ball point pens were better, we were told to use only fountain pens until our handwriting "gets set".

I remember that mine had a black body and a gold cap, and the nib was a small, elegant, one, not one of those "atrocious" large ones. I took great pleasure in taking upon myself the responsibility of filling ink carefully into the pen, with an ink filler. I loved the colour of the ink in the ink bottle. Rich, dark, blue - Royal Blue, said the name on the bottle - truly royal it was. Of course, I hated the same ink just as much when it got onto my fingers.

A little later, I got a new pen, which did not need an ink filler. It had a mechanism built into the pen itself - you depress the little button at the side, dip the pen into the ink bottle, and let go - and the pen "drank up" the ink. This pen even had a tiny window that told me when the ink in the pen was getting over, and it was time to fill up. In spite of all this, I very often forgot to refill my pen and discovered the slip only after going to school. And then it was time to take the help of the adroit fingers of a friend who would share some of the ink from her pen, by pouring it directly into my pen. For you see, you couldn't borrow fountain pens, because "the nibs took the shape of the inclination of the owner's writing, and if anybody else used it, the nib would split".

When the topic of fountain pens came up, my parents talked about ink wells and blotting papers, both of which were alien to us. Blotting paper, at least, I have laid eyes on some time in my life, but ink wells? Those were ancient! To think they actually had to keep dipping their pens into a bottle of ink to write! [A piece of chalk in our boxes absorbed any accidental leakage of ink from our pens - we had no need for blotting paper].

Fountain pens had lots of other uses too. We had a game in class, where we took a sheet of paper, drew a broad, curved path from point A to point B, and rubbed a piece of candle wax along the path. We then let loose a drop of ink from our pens on the path at point B, and by turning and twisting the paper, we had to bring the drop of ink to point B, without it smudging the paper. The narrower the path, the greater your skill. Needless to say, I was pretty hopeless at it. My expert friends had to get new rough books every week, they tore that many sheets to play this game!

Fountain pens were great weapons too, against unsuspecting classmates and detested teachers. A surreptitious flick of the wrist, and drops of ink settle on the target's back - and the perpetrator could virtually go undetected, because the target doesn't discover the misdeed until much later, unless, of course, someone squealed (and squealers were so quick to be ostracized, that this was a remote possibility).

When we were given permission to graduate to ball point pens, fountain pens were forgotten... I don't even remember where mine went.... but have you noticed, the handwriting is never quite as good as in a dot pen as in a fountain pen.

Now of course, pens themselves seem to be getting outdated - the last time I used a pen was to perhaps sign a cheque or a credit card statement (that might give you an impression that I am very rich, but that would be wrong). Just as I say, "Ink wells? Wasn't that messy?", my grandchildren might ask me, "You actually held something in your fingers and wrote with it? How painful!"....... Who knows?