Reading is an abominable hobby.

*Waits for the furor to die down, and then continues*

You must know by now, that I love books. Give me a book and a corner to curl up in, and you can easily forget my existence [except at mealtimes, when you will be painfully reminded of it.] If someone tells me, "Go ahead and read for the rest of your life, all your needs will be taken care of", I will do just that. Go ahead and proceed to read. And read. And read.

So now, why is reading abominable? That's because when it's as passionate as a hobby as it is for me, you wouldn't prefer to do anything else other than read.

I love to sing, I love to sketch, I like to go out for walks. I love to meet people, I like to keep my house clean, but the problem is that I'd rather read than do any of these things. I have a truckload of dresses I cannot wear, because they don't have matching dupattas/accessories, coz I'd rather read then go out and look for them.

In fact, I didn't take up writing as a hobby for very long, because I felt I would prefer to read instead. [So, it is quite a wonder that this is my 100th post on this blog, not a mean achievement for someone who refused to start a blog coz "she didn't have anything to write about."]

My problem is that I read everything that can be read. I read signboards when I am on the road. I read idiotic ad posters while waiting my turn in a queue. I even read stuff like articles on how well Hum Aapke Hain Koun is doing, in a 1995 India Today while waiting at the doctor's! For heavens' sake, I even read the stuff on the paper covers made of magazine pages, in which they wrap bananas or medicines!

Sometimes it gets very irritating. It is as if there is a demon inside me which has to be sated. When I lived in TamilNadu for a while, I went crazy for a while coz I couldn't read Tamil signboards when I travelled. So I went ahead and learnt how to read and write Tamil, and the demon inside was happy.

When my sister needs to talk to me, she first clears the place of all reading material (and food), and only then talks to me. Coz it is only then that she gets my complete attention. Poor kid.

Sometimes, I have to confess, it is an escapist technique too. Something bothering me? Something unpleasant happening? Drown myself in a book.

As much pleasure as reading gives me, sometimes I wish I had never been introduced to books. I would have had so much time to do other things! An uncle once told me about his friend who doesn't read, his reasoning being that he would rather go out and experience life, rather than experience others' lives. I had scoffed at it at that time, but now I think he did have a point.

Oh I know, I know, all that I need to do is strike the right balance. Give the demon as much reading as it wishes, but wake up and give as much importance to the other things in life. Oh, I do have my priorities in order. I don't neglect important things, blah blah. But when something can be avoided, I most certainly do.

But, as they say, a problem recognized, is half-solved. I intend to cut down on reading drastically, and start smelling the flowers. I've even taken a few first steps. I have bought drawing sheets and pencils. I am going to leave my Tanpura/Tamboori at the music shop tonight, to get it repaired, and will resume singing once it is ready. I intend to even find a tailor and get all my dresses and gift sarees in order (most disgusting of tasks, but yet). Wish me the best, please.

What I want from Google

I don't have enough words to describe what Google means to me. I can't think how I went through life before Google. Or for that matter, before the Internet. Or to think of it - before the computer. Or, before the.... Ok... I can go on till I get to The Wheel, so I'll stop right now.

Anyway, what I want to say is that Google is an integral part of my life. I find myself depending upon Google for everything - to the extent that Google has made me lazy. Anyway, I don't expect that I am saying anything new.

But. There is a lot that Google cannot do yet. And I am waiting for the day when a search engine comes along with capabilities that I am about to enumerate.

1) There is a creepy-crawly that lives in our bathroom. I have no idea what it is. I want to take a picture of it, post the image in the search bar of the search engine, and hit enter, and I want Google to tell me what that insect is.

2) I have been humming a tune for some days now. I can't, for the life of me, remember where I heard it, and whether I will hear it again. Meanwhile, it is driving me crazy. So I want to record myself hum that tune, post the wave file onto the search bar, and click on Enter. And I want the search result to contain the name of the song, the singer, and everything related to it.

3) I am trying desperately to remember a poem that we had, back in primary school about "Trust". I don't remember the name of the poem, nor the name of the poet, nor any line in the poem. But I know the meaning - the poet says that there is nothing great in trusting a person you know. What is amazing, is that we go through life trusting people totally unknown to us. We trust the cook at a restaurant not to poison us, we put our lives willingly into the hands of an unseen pilot on an aircraft, we trust an unknown doctor to cure us, etc. The latter kind of trust is greater than the former.
I want to paste this gist of the poem in the search bar, and click enter, and I want the poem retrieved for me.

Oh, I know it is not impossible to find out even now. I mean, there are poetry forums and insect-lovers' sites where I can get the info that I need - with a little effort, and some patience. But that's precisely the point. I want it done without lifting a finger. Or rather, lifting a finger just once (to click).

And I have complete faith that the day will come when I will read this post and laugh.

A tag in which I reveal my innermost secrets.

So, I have been tagged yet again, by the irrepressible and talented Ano [Check out her bloap (blog soap)]. So here goes!

I’m thinking about:
Food. Nothing new.

I said:
"I'm the greatest", but nobody believed me.

I want to:
Go around the world.

I wish:
I could just wave my hand, and set everything right in the world. Well, almost everything, otherwise, life would be boring, huh?

I hear:
Voices in my head.

I wonder:
What it is that makes people intolerant of people who are not like them.

I regret:
Nothing. No use wasting time thinking about the past.

I am:
Eternally hungry.

I dance:
With joy. But only with all doors and windows shut.

I sing:
Well. Ok, I can sing well, but I don't sing much nowadays. Pssst...I have taken the first step towards setting that right.

I cry:
Buckets when I’m emotional - too happy, too sad, too angry, too helpless....

I’m not always:
Patient.

I make with my hands:
The most delectable, soft, perfect, fully-blown Phulkas. Or so they say. [Modesty takes over.]

I write:
Coz I love to. Coz I cannot not write.

I confuse:
People ;)

I need:
Lots of love, lots of food, lots of music, lots of books, lots of friends, and lots of solitude.

And finally:
I tag, mmm... let me see... hmmm.. a different set this time - Anu, Bhargav, Srikanth, Bellur, Shastri.

Oh, and about the "innermost secrets" in the heading? That was just to get you to read this post! ;)

Four brief book reviews.

I just had to tell you about a couple of books that I read. My aunt gave them to me as a gift.

One was "The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency" by Alexander McCall-Smith. This is a charming novel about Precious Ramotswe, a "traditionally built" single woman who lives in Botswana, and is the only lady detective in the whole country.

The book is fully of small mysteries, that she solves singlehandedly, using just logic and a perceptive knowledge of human nature. In the background of all the simple little problems of life, lies a sinister mystery waiting to be solved, and she does this too, with her usual elan. Comparisons to Agatha Christie's Miss Marple are rife in reviews about this book, but where Miss Marple is a sweet, old, mildmannered armchair detective, Mma Ramotswe is a firm, opinionated, independent, strong-willed, compassionate, Red Bush Tea-drinking individual on the threshold of middle-age.

You will love the protagonist, as will you love the other characters, the most prominent of them being Mr. JLB Matekoni, the expert mechanic who hopes to marry Mma Ramotswe. The book paints a beautiful picture of the little-known land of Botswana, for which Mma Ramotswe nurses a fierce love and pride.

I can assure you that you will not come away from this book without feelings of adoration, amusement, and warmth. I highly recommend it! And of course, now it has me thirsting for the other books in the series!

The second book is "I don't know how she does it" by Allison Pearson. It is the story of a working mother. It is funny, sad, and incredibly chaotic. Kate Reddy, the protagonist is highly likeable but at the same time insufferable. Her story is probably one of every working mother. Kate is torn between love for her job and the desire to be with her kids. Add to this, a feeling of profound guilt, and a long-suffering husband, and there, you have the story.

The book is a very good read. In many ways it was a revelation . It was like the answer to the endless discussions I had with friends during college days, about whether we would work when we have children - and then finally say - ok, let us cross that bridge when we come to it. This book has the answers. Oh no, this book doesn't preach working motherhood, nor the opposite, it just tells a story, it just gives you the facts. It is up to you to pick what you want from it. It was slightly disturbing, I must say. But it is very interestingly written. Full of laugh-out-loud similes, and spot-on behavioral observations.

Actually, while I am at it, I must tell you about a couple of other books. One is "Moulin Rouge" by Pierre La Mure, yes, the same book on which the movies (one old, one new) are based. I haven't watched either movie, but from the reviews, I gathered that the movies deal with just a small part of the book. The book is about the brilliant painter Henri Toulouse-Lautrec. Crippled, and a dwarf, his entire life is spent in the pursuit of love and acceptance. Meanwhile, he paints. Paints outrageous pictures, which shock society. While he pursues love, fame and success pursue him. But all that he wants is love. It is a heart-rending story - another must read.

Then there is the story "The Blind Assassin" by Margaret Atwood. This is a magnificent book. The basic story is about two sisters, Iris and Laura Chase. Laura dies under questionable circumstances, and Iris is now an octogenarian. She is writing a journal about her life, for her estranged granddaughter, whom she hopes to meet some day. So, parts of her story is revealed to us through this story. Then in parallel, there are extracts from the novel written by Laura Chase. The name of this novel is "The Blind Assassin", and it is a kind of a diary maintained by a young girl while waiting for her lover. And the story - The Blind Assassin? It is narrated to her by her lover. Then there are bits and pieces of the story revealed by newspaper clippings. The novel keeps going back and forth in time - and looks like a hotchpotch of excerpts from a journal, a novel, and a newspaper, but it all comes together superbly at the end.

Confusing? That is why I never attempted a review. It is too difficult. Anyway, the way Margaret Atwood has woven all the stories together is amazing. As for the writing - it is fantastic. By the way, this book won the Booker Prize in 2000.

So there you have it - Four books - one charming, one thought-provoking, one heart-rending, and one awe-inspiring. Take your pick. Happy reading.

I wrote a story in my dream but I don't remember it.

Last night, in my dream, I wrote a story. It had a surprise ending. Even in my dream, I knew it was a dream, like it happens so many times. I also knew that I would not remember the story when I woke up. So I considered waking up right then and jotting the story down. But even as I was thinking that, the salient points of the story began to blur. So I did what I thought was the next best thing. I tried to engrave some key points of the story in my head, so that I would remember it when I woke up.

I don't know if I did it, or if the darkness of sleep overcame the momentary clarity. But when I woke up, I did not even remember about the story. But a few minutes back, it came back to me that there was a story in my dream. I tried as hard as I could to remember what it was, but all that I remember is that the surprise ending consisted of one line, and that one line had a longish word, starting with "S". Surpassed? Stupendous? Stargazing? Is there any use?

I am insanely jealous of all those scientists who got solutions to their problems in their dreams. Take for example the scientist Kekule. He racked his brains for years, trying to find out the structure of Benzene. Then, once, in his dream, he saw six snakes slithering about. Suddenly they all got together, with each snake holding the tail of the next in its mouth, thus forming a circle. Bells rang in his head, and he probably woke up shouting the German version of "Eureka" and gave us the structure of the Benzene ring. (Which, by the way, is the only structure I could remember for Chemistry tests).

Then there are writers who say that they get their literary ideas from their dreams.. Robert Louis Stevenson says that he got the idea for "Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde" in a dream.

Now, my question is this. How did Kekule and Stevenson wake up and remember their dreams? If I were Kekule, the moment I started dreaming about snakes, I would have woken up screaming. And then I would have forgotten why I woke up screaming. Sigh. That's what makes Kekule, Kekule and me, me.

Don't dreams just drive you wild? With their can't-understand-them characteristics? You spend a whole day thinking of the Himalayas, and two minutes thinking of Dracula, and when you sleep, what do you dream of? Dracula of course.

And then there are those dreams where you know that it is a dream, but you cannot get out of it. It is like thrashing about in a web that you are caught in. If it is a nice dream, you don't really mind, you can even ask the person trying to wake you up, to hold on for five minutes while you finish your dream. But really wild are those dreams where you say, "I hope this is a dream. It sure feels like a dream". But it is never-ending, and bad things keep happening, and you can't control it, and at the point where you feel, "No, this is not a dream, it is really happening", the tears start flowing, and then you wake up, my cheeks wet with tears. And what a relief that is!

Then there are times when you wake up, and know that you have been dreaming, but don't remember the dream. Then the next time you go to bed, the dream automatically comes back, and you can easily continue it. Strange indeed.

Then there are dreams where a certain person makes an appearance, but you have forgotten it. And the next day, when you meet that person, you blurt out, "Hey I dreamt of you last night!" and then you have to listen to the sniggers all around. Sigh.

Anyway, the whole grouchy point of this post is that I have forgotten the wonderful, prize-winning material, Roald Dahl-ish story that I wrote in my dream.

Tea

I love tea.

My idea of bliss, is to curl up with family/friends, and have a nice long chat over a hot cup of tea.

When I say I want to drink tea, it is very rarely for just the tea itself. It is for the entire ritual - taking a break, preparing the tea, sitting comfortably and drinking it with somebody, enjoying their company. In fact, when I am alone, I have tea only when it is absolutely necessary -- just to get rid of a mild headache, or just to drive away the vestiges of sleepiness.

I like my tea with just a teaspoonful of milk, and just a touch of sugar. Honey and jaggery are interesting substitutes too! For a change, I love ginger tea, especially when I have a cold or a sore throat.

The Sundays of my childhood was full of lemon tea, made oh-so-perfectly by my father. Just that little lemony tang, and the fragrance of tea, and sugar enough to please a child's palate. Papa, why don't you make lemon tea any more?

In fact, it was my dad who taught me to prepare tea. I followed his instructions to the T(ea). And it always was fantastic!

As I grew older, my tastes called for lesser milk and lesser sugar. But the process still remained the same. Then my aunts taught me a tasty new alternative - brewing tea - just like the oh-so-propah English. Just add those tea leaves into hot water, wait, and drink. Wowie! And this tastes best without sugar or milk.

The best tea I have had out of home are at Darjeeling, right inside a tea garden, and at Kemmannugundi, though this one was very milky and sugary. (I have no doubt that the places had a lot to do with it, though!)

When I am slightly hungry, I love dipping a biscuit into the tea and eating the soft, squidgy result. This is an art in itself; you hold the biscuit in the tea for just that right amount of time - to make it soft, but not long enough such that it lands into the teacup and forms a gooey residue.

I love trying out varieties of tea. Darjeeling, Assam, Earl Grey, Lemon, and that yummy Chocolatey Sikkim tea that my uncle brewed for us the other day - wow!

So, imagine the effect that a tea bar would have on me! That's my latest post on Metroblogging Bangalore - hop over and have a look. In fact, if you browse a bit at MB, you will discover some fab eating joints for you to try out. Bon appetit!

The angel in white.

A few years back, Isha Yoga Foundation conducted Sahaja Sthiti Yoga classes at our college. Finding that we would be taught breathing exercises, and being aware of the benefits of Pranayama, I enrolled for the course. It went on for two weeks, and I quite enjoyed it, especially the 15-minute Shoonya meditation, which I find very effective.

[For a time, I did the entire exercise cycle regularly, and was surprised by people asking me why I was glowing with health. But in spite of knowing that it is good for me, I don't do the exercises, nor the meditation, and I have no excuses for that.]

Anyway, back to the course. On the last day, it was arranged that we would visit the Isha Yoga Foundation at Coimbatore. I was persuaded to go with the promise that it is in a very picturesque setting. So off we went, in a bus from college.

Arriving early in the cold winter morning, I found that the place indeed is beautiful. It is in a kind of valley, with low, green hills all around. It has pristine green lawns and beautiful trees, and pretty buildings - in all, a very peaceful environment.

After a painful, but refreshing bath with freezing water, and a sumptuous breakfast, we were taken around the grounds by a couple of volunteers. It was cloudy, and there was a slight drizzle. Beautiful weather for a beautiful place.

As we roamed around, it started raining. We ran, enmasse, across the green lawns, towards the main building, for shelter. As I reached the building, I kind of lost my bearings, and wondered aloud, "This way or that?" A soft voice behind me said, "To your left". I turned to thank the source of the voice. And the picture I saw took my breath away.

In the background, emerald green hills, grey clouds, green lawns, with the rain coming down. And framed in this setting, stood a vision, swathed in spotless white. The pure white in stark contrast to the bright green lawns, freshly washed with rain.

She was pleasantly plump. Her round face was crowned with short black curly hair. She was smiling very sweetly. Her expression was one of serenity and joy all at once.

She must have thought I did not hear her, coz she repeated, "To your left", and she pointed with one finger. And she smiled again. "Thank you!" I said, and ran in to get shelter from the rain. I caught up with a friend R, who saw that I was looking bewildered, and raised her eyebrows questioningly. "I just saw an angel", I said, at the risk of sounding corny, but I meant it. R looked at me funnily, and we went in.

The angel also came in, and walked over to our group. She introduced herself as Tina, and said that she was our guide for the day. Another pleasant lady, Angela, joined her. They were resident volunteers at the foundation.

They took us around, and patiently answered all our questions. The day was good. We ate, played games, did the breathing exercises, meditated, went around the place, and relaxed.

I saw with amusement that I was not the only one upon whom Tina had had that extraordinary effect. R agreed with me about her being like an angel. As for the guys, they were following her around like puppies. ;)

When we got some time to sit down, we chatted with Tina. She was funny, friendly, enthusiastic, but more than anything, she seemed at ease with herself and the world. Always smiling that tranquil smile.

She said she was from Lebanon, and was staying at the Foundation for a while. We did not press for more information, nor did she say anything else.

After a round of photographs, we said goodbye and left. In retrospect, it might be that I followed the exercise regimen so strictly in the hope that I would also turn out as happy, calm and graceful as Tina. ;)

Tina, I have no idea where you are now, but I hope you are safe.

Waiter Rant

I recently discovered Waiter Rant. If you haven't heard about this, it is the blog of an anonymous waiter of a restaurant in New York. Oh is he popular!

Now if you, dear reader, already know Waiter Rant, and if you are thinking, "Huh, has this girl been living in a cave all this while?", then please bear with me for a while.

If I just say that I find the blog entertaining, I would be doing a disservice to Waiter, as he calls himself. The blog is totally enjoyable, and frighteningly addictive. Since he started blogging long back, I have a lot of stuff of his to catch up on. Whenever I am bored, or have ten minutes to spare, I go to his blog, click on the archives, and proceed to read.

What does he write about? Just about his work. About co-workers. But mostly about his customers. Their eccentricities. Their cheapness. Their silliness. The funny side of his job. The sad side. Everything. His stories are hilarious, wicked, poignant, all at the same time. He grabs you at the first line of each post, and holds your interest right down to the end. Anyway, in short, Waiter Rant is just a Waiter's Rant. And man, is it enjoyable!

Now, this blog got me thinking. If I were to write a blog only about my work, what would it look like? Left home. Boarded bus. Got stuck in traffic jam. Reached office. Checked mails. Drank tea. Pretended to work. Took some calls. Had lunch. Blogged a bit. Drank tea. Pretended to work. Left office. Got stuck in traffic jam. Reached home. Yawn.

So, a blog of which profession would be as entertaining? It has to be a job where you come across a variety of people. Just machines cannot be too interesting.

A doctor? Might work, but you might not really want to read it in your lunch break.
A lawyer? Maybe, but the legalese might get heavy.
A beautician? Now this one might be interesting.

But I can't think of anything more interesting than a Waiter's blog. (Can you?) Coz at a restaurant, people come in groups. And they spend some time there. You get to observe not just the person, but you also see his behaviour in a social setting, which tells you a lot more about him. And Waiter of Waiter Rant has this habit of drawing conclusions from the little slice of life of his customers, that he gets to observe. It might be slightly cruel at times, but for a bystander, its funny!

I guess that's what makes his blog popular. By Waiter ranting about his customers, you feel a certain superior goodness. That you could never be so rude. You would never tip so badly. You would never be so mean. I guess people read this blog for their daily dose of superiority!

Naturally, as you read this blog, you start viewing waiters in a totally different light. Now, as a rule, I am pretty polite and nice to waiters. After all, they bring me food. :) But what about tipping?

Waiter is very vociferous when it comes to tipping. How he treats a customer the next time they come in, depends on what they tipped him the previous time. Waiter says that the decent minimum is 15 %. If you are really happy with the food and service, you tip much higher. I googled a bit, and found that yes, this is the expected figure - but that is in the US. My momentary pangs of guilt dissipated. I googled a bit more, and arrived at some sites, which say that the average tip expected in a restaurant in India is 5-10 pc, which is comfortably equivalent to what I am used to. Phew! [Some restaurants add a service charge. So you are spared the agony of wondering how much to tip.]

But, really. I am sure I will never look at a waiter the same way again. What if one of the waiters at Aromas of China is a blogger, and writes about the crazy creature who always comes in, orders a plate of Honey-Pepper vegetables, attacks it and finishes it all, not letting her hapless husband take even a bite? *Shudder*

[Reading this through a feedreader? Here is the link to my blog until the end of the blog ban in India.]

To Kill a Mockingbird - Impressions.

A teacher once told us that you shouldn't read too much when you are too young. You should wait until you are mature enough to really be able to appreciate good writing. Of course, who listens to stuff like that when you are too young?

I had heard a lot of good things about "To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee, and so when I came across a copy, I browsed through it and saw that the narrator was an eight-year-old girl, and so I went ahead and read it. I was least impressed with it. I don't think I even understood it.

I usually avoid reading books a second time. I am of the opinion that there are too many books waiting to be read, so I'd rather read them than waste time reading books I have already read.

But I know many people who name "To Kill a Mockingbird" as the best book ever. And I wanted to know why. It bugged me that I had read it and did not remember the story at all. And try as I might, I could not remember any significant birds in it, let alone a Mockingbird.

So I broke my rule. I read it again.

And I want to read it again.

This time, it is not because I did not understand it. But because it is such a beautiful book. Moving. Touching. Thought-provoking. Wonderfully written.

The book is alive with incidents and characters. But everything happens in a sleepy, laid-back age and town. The book sometimes thrills you and sends chills down your spine, sometimes it just makes you feel warm and fuzzy.

The characters - The eight-year-old narrator, Scout Finch, is very likeable, as is her brother Jem. Though all the colourful characters in the book are from an unfamiliar land, and a distant age, they are very real, and believable.

Atticus Finch is probably one of the best male characters I have ever encountered in the world of fiction. Wish there were more people like him in real life.

I will not review the book, but here is a very nice review if you are interested. If you haven't read the book yet, you really should!

A forgotten poem.

A few days back, appreciating somebody, I found myself quipping, "May his tribe increase". I stopped with surprise, for it had been years since I used that expression.

I learnt this phrase from a poem, "Abu Ben Adhem" by Leigh Hunt, which we had learnt and memorized sometime in school.

At first read, the first line "Abu Ben Adhem (May his tribe increase)" had seemed a very funny thing to say. I had assumed that Abu Ben Adhem was the headman of a tribe in the forest, and the poet is just hoping that his tribe prospers. Until our English teacher explained what it really meant. We kids, of course, used it at every opportunity, regardless of context, over the next couple of days.

The dreadful thing is that, now, after all these years, when I tried to recollect the name of this poem, I desperately tried to remember the name that preceded the phrase under discussion, and the only name that kept popping into my head was "Abu Bin Laden". Ugh!

Metroblogging Bangalore

I received an invitation to join Metroblogging Bangalore as a contributor. When the invitation came, I was in two minds. One part of my brain said that it would be a good experience, and the other part said, where will you find the time to do justice to posting at two places? [Coz one of the agreements at Metblogs is that you don't crosspost at your own blog!].

But then, the urge to be part of something new won over. Time will find itself somehow, if I am really interested, correct?

So I am now officially a Metroblogger. My profile is here. My first post is just up. Do hop over and have a look at it. And please don't forget to comment away as usual!

If you would like to read only my posts on the site for some inexplicable reason (like if you are my parents), then you could subscribe to just my posts using this in your regular feedreader - "http://embed.metblogs.com/authorRSS.php?author_id=1224". Or if you look at the sidebar, you will find the links to my latest posts there.

What I need from you, my dear readers, is a load of ideas. Come across anything exciting happening in Bangalore? Drop me a comment. Come across an interesting story, about anything connected with Bangalore? Write me a line. It could be anything at all. If you have posts about Bangalore, do let me know, I could link to them if I am doing a story on a related subject. You could also directly hop out here and suggest a story.

Posting on this blog will continue as usual.

Into darkness.

One moment they were watching the hypnotic sway of the handles, thinking of going home to a dry set of clothes, and hot food. The next moment there was darkness.
Shattered lives, destroyed dreams.
But yet, life goes on in Mumbai.
Hope the families of the dead find the strength to live on.
Hope the injured recover soon. Both physically as well as mentally.
More info at Mumbai Help.

An Ice Cream to Remember.

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!

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.

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,

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?

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.

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.]

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.]

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.

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.