All Hail

O Captain! My Captain

2011-08-24T12:26:00.000+05:30

Whether we are over-ANNAlyzing or not, the fact remains that this movement is being fueled by the heart. The mind only follows. Either I get that or I don't.

Difficult to argue with an angrily beating heart.

And memories of cowardice.

The editorials, the conversations. Nothing comes close to the one decisive thump that says Bas, bahut ho gaya.

While I discuss, I cogitate, I criticize and I wonder what damage The A Team could potentially do to the constitution, where was I all these years when crores drained out of the system by creamily smiling Fat Cats looted us and robbed the poor in a so called bloodless crime? Impotent, seething and cowed, too small to stand up alone. Whatever the A Team has done and whatever damage they might do, I will stand on my desk and salute this man, his team and this time for giving us the courage and platform to speak. Even though it was always there.

O Captain! My Captain..

Over Anna-lyzed?

2011-08-24T12:21:00.000+05:30

I'm bombarded by edits, responses, essays and rebuttals on the Anna phenomenon. And I hardly watch the news, so I am not going down that road either.

Arundhati Roy, hereafter referred to as the Mind of Small Things wrote incisively in her Hindu Article " I'd rather not be Anna" Manu Joseph made a telling point in his new York article on India's Selective Rage over Corruption . Both made me cringe- as both were targeted at the general public, the so called middle class, the Us. While many points rang true, and made my toes curl, overall, I think, who the hell are you ?

Its like these guys, while certainly making cogent points, are contemptuous of the 'voice of the people'. I agree this may not be the way to go , but shall we go into a gigantic huddle, frozen in time and space for the next decade, while they and the govt figure it out? On our behalf?

They ( The People) don't understand the finer points , they sneer, and while that might be true, it is plain stupidity not to recognize that the rampant, almost institutionalized corruption that The People suffered and chafed under , has brought up a Roaring Tiger that has opened its mouth wide, and said 'Enough'. So what if it isn't following the rules and hasn't read the fine print? Its roaring.

Looks like the govt has to figure out how to ride the Tiger or be devoured by it. Not a happy situation, since we ARE the govt but there it is. Deal with it. It certainly isn't pleasant negotiating in a hostage environment with your back to the wall, but perhaps its only then, one can plumb deepest as to what one can truly give up.

Or give in.

---------------

Carrying Hatred

2010-09-19T12:04:00.000+05:30

A kindergarten teacher has decided to let her class play a game.

The teacher told each child in the class to bring along a plastic bag containing a few potatoes.

Each potato will be given a name of a person that the child hates, so the number of potatoes that a child will put in his/her plastic bag will depend on the number of people he/she hates.

So when the day came, every child brought some potatoes with the name of the people he/she hated. Some had 2 potatoes; some 3 while some up to 5 potatoes. The teacher then told the children to carry with them the potatoes in the plastic bag wherever they go (even to the toilet) for 1 week.

Days after days passed by, and the children started to complain due to the unpleasant smell let out by the rotten potatoes. Besides, those having 5 potatoes also had to carry heavier bags. After 1 week, the children were relieved because the game had finally ended....

The teacher asked: "How did you feel while carrying the potatoes with you for 1 week?". The children let out their frustrations and started complaining of the trouble that they had to go through having to carry the heavy and smelly potatoes wherever they go.

Then the teacher told them the hidden meaning behind the game. The teacher said: "This is exactly the situation when you carry your hatred for somebody inside your heart. The stench of hatred will contaminate your heart and you will carry it with you wherever you go. If you cannot tolerate the smell of rotten potatoes for just 1 week, can you imagine what is it like to have the stench of hatred in your heart for your lifetime???"

Moral of the story:

Throw away any hatred for anyone from your heart so that you will not carry sins for a lifetime.
Forgiving others is the best attitude to take!
True love is not loving a perfect person
but loving an imperfect person perfectly!!

A break in the weather

2010-07-24T20:54:00.003+05:30

A break in the weather, originally uploaded by Kevin Day.

A superb photo stream by Kevin Day
" My friend the dead tree"
Both poignant , and full of hope.
It walks through time sof day, seasons, the artists moods, and the cycle of time.
And every time its different.
Teaches us something while I scroll through.

I love the series. Absolutely love it .

Catch the rest of the stream at http://www.flickr.com/photos/kevinday/694963014/

Memories in Brine

2010-07-05T21:50:00.002+05:30

‘The clock talked loud. I threw it away, it scared me what it talked”. ~Tillie Olsen, Tell Me a Riddle

I finished watching Marley and Me on TV a few minutes ago. Apart from the sudden scrabbling for paper tissues towards the end, I was reasonably stoic about this lovely tearjerker. To dog lovers like me, they really should give an advance warning sign (just like they do with PG and A ratings to general viewers) saying ‘Waterworks Just Ahead’.

It’s the last few minutes of the film. John Grogan, the chief protagonist and author sits with Marley, his tempestuous, loving and utterly mad Labrador, as he’s put to sleep, and talks to him about the life they had. Marley has travelled from barmy child-in-chief of the house to an older, wiser brother as Human Child 1, 2 & 3 are born. Time then passes in a happy haze, and the kids are now older. Marley with a loving life and his growing family is now ill, dying. Somewhere in that gentle, murmured conversation, something strikes a chord. ‘Remember when, when you came home for the first time? You were so naughty Marley. Your fear of thunderstorms, your eating up everything in the garage including the wall? There are a lot of memories in there, aren’t there, boy? Maybe you don’t remember all of them -things tend to all run into each other don’t they?’ Marley’s boot-black eyes look at John’s in a moment of complete connection and understanding. Yes, in a full, happy life, memories do tend to ‘run into one other’.

Seeing the whole movie telescope into that few minutes of a flashback between the dying dog and his human made me remember that after a while, things truly tend to run into each other. You try and remember school graduation, or the winning of an award, or the time of pure happiness holding hands, and gazing into a caldera in dreamy Santorini. But in some giant accordion press of time, incidents and anecdotes just tunnel into each other. You don’t remember timelines, exact dates and milestones. But when you do, you catch your breath; you can only remember how it made you feel.

At which point do you turn around and discover with predictably bittersweet sadness, that these are memories, and they clearly belong in your past. At which point do you notice, while you are counting the beads of day in the chain in your hand, that there are likely as many such memories behind you, as there ahead of you, and that most of the happiest ones are, in all likelihood, those from the past. At what time do you discover that infinite just got mutated and boxed, based on the pain in your knees as you ascend stairs n, or the fact that happy yawn and stretch as you awoke in the morning, is replaced by a desire to turn in for another 5 minutes, or get out of bed, feet dragging, duty bound only by a grumpy bladder or a time clock at work.

I always wondered when the ‘now’ would be a future memory and would do everything I could to hold that moment, into something that I would truly, intensely remember. The Good Old Days were in Present Tense. Sometimes I wonder if photographs are our frantic albeit futile need to preserve, freeze and stretch such moments in time. We rarely go back and revisit those photos, although it is clear that most all of them are preserved, however mixed up, in some curdled brine in our minds. We stir it up, and one or the other come up, reluctantly, and not always in great condition. There nevertheless.

There are times I long to catalogue the moments in my head. Pedestrian or otherwise, I wish I could write or record every single thing I’ve experienced. I envy bloggers, diarists, story writers who are able to experience and comment simultaneously. What a filofax to look back on, maybe embrace...

I wouldn’t mind even an old fashioned file with thoughts labelled under Love, Magic, Sad, Food, Life, and School etc. Like Miss Lemon’s much touted perfect filing system in the Poirot series, I too want to be able to docket, file, and cross reference all the wonderful things in my life. I want to be able to slide open that creaky filing cabinet , with a sense of purpose , knowing with certainty that I will find exactly what I want , and where I had kept it last .

In my head , I see that room with the warm lighting , and I see the cabinets on the left, But in the darker , smoky section in the far side of the room, I know my eyes are really quickly scanning to ensure that are enough filing cabinets to hold what is to come.

Sometimes I just don’t know.

(Copyright)

Twilight

2010-06-19T20:21:00.017+05:30

Twilight. Twilight people
There are people who love it, those who come into their own at this time of day.
Not me.

I look outside my French Windows when the sun is still bright. Fading but still light.

I can see the trees, and between the branches and leaves, I see patches of light. That light is very precious to me. Spent, leaking, leaching into another time but its still day.

Daylight means that light is for real, its worked hard and ensured that the world has spun in a particular way .

Now that this view is trapped in a picture window on my left, I keep glancing at it.

Keep looking at it , as if once I do , the fading, dampening of colour , much like sweat darkly staining a blue shirt , will arrest. And then slowly , mauvely the colour fades out .

I keep watching – the patches become smaller , and the electric light is now reflected on the glass of the windows, and superimposed on darkening , increasingly menacing sky. There is no thunder and lightning , but there might well be, to portend the end of a day, a death of a promise.

The fear of an inexorable cranking forward grows within me - of something, time , space, whatever.

And an inner small voice is shouting under its breath, as loud as it can, to stop , stop, but no one can hear . It ought not to hear .

It’s the oldest march, and it goes on , and it goes on.

Walks over small ants, elephants, giants and choked screams like this.

Outside the light darkens, and now the incandescent light in the room has won. As the principal source of light, artificial is victorious over natural. Like today, the victory of modern times.

Its never simple .
Like with all serious, inward moments , the grunge of the everyday intrudes. Outside, there are two blue and white bath towels drying on the balcony railings. An element of the ludicrous creeping in justwhen the soul is testing a silent scream, a touch of the circus in the middle of a eulogy.

Life always does that .
Just when its scratching inky stains on paper to communicate portentous tidings to the world, letters start to form, meaning takes shape , someone squishes tomato sauce on a white , white paper.
In the shape of a clown’s smile, twisted.

There are Twilight people. There are people who feel the stretching of nerves, the spreading of arms and adrenaline when the light darkens inexorably outside. I don’t know what it is that does not allow me to celebrate the end of a day.
Is it about hope that falls away , and hope that decays?

And then darkness fell.

Those words always scared me.
Do I therefore love the sunrise and the promise it brings? Do I love the spreading fingers of light?
Yes. Somewhat.

Bu that goods train drones in the distance , chug chug, groan groan, unceasing , inexorable.
It stops for no one, be it light or dark .

Of Men and Memorials

2010-06-11T22:27:00.004+05:30

There is a lot of back and forth on the Indira Gandhi Park and the Memorial.

Today there was an eminently sensible , pragmatic and well written perspective by dear friend and columnist V Ravichandar in Bangalore Mirror. Ravi is admirably both able to look at this from a macro perspective as well as the civic viewpoint to look at this dispassionately.

However, on this issue let me categorically admit that I may not have the pristine perspective that Ravi does. As one with a vested interest- I do live close by- let me still tell you what bothers me about this effort. Let me establish a couple of things first One is that I used to be a frequent walker in this close by and beautiful park till lethargy got the better of me .I do want the lovely park to be let alone. Second, that I think that many things that Rajeev Chandrasekhar has done from both his personal and ABIDE persona have been commendable. He is one of the few with a strong leaning towards and representation for, the Armed Forces. More power to his elbow. Third, that I have only the facts as mentioned in the papers, but have neither reached out for not double checked the plans, details on Foundation etc. Maybe there is more there, and I should do so. Fourth, the etiquette on a Memorial of this nature coming up in Military land. Apparently bad form to have it anywhere but civilian land. India Gate at Delhi for example.

NIMBY is an interesting and sobering thought that Ravi gently reminded me about today, tongue in cheek and just a little dryly. NIMBY- Not in My Back Yard, you won’t. So all this is laudable and great, but please not in my backyard. I remember a chat with a senior Traffic Cop who mentioned how frustrating it was that neighborhoods would keep petitioning to shift the Bus Stop opposite their flats or home , a little further down the road. But where would it eventually go? It had to go somewhere. Perhaps opposite mine?

The background is this. With the constant pillage of the city – to widening of roads, to the Metro, all good for us, required, reminiscent of tightening belts, analogies of omelet and breaking eggs; in short every little homily that has set our teeth further on edge, here comes another. And this time it’s optional. I think we are bitter with seeing uprooted trees and a stump where there was green, where there was history. And whatever be the motivation, it cannot bring back the green sap that now dries like old blood in dark dead wood. There is anger of a people who have kept quiet over one more green corpse, bowed their head when we were told this was good for you. There is a cloud of betrayal hanging over our heads for all the history and life we chose not to protect in our city, because they had no voice. There are very few of us who have not felt the pain of standing down, of sitting still. Fanciful or not, this is the background.

And here are my thoughts.

An Army Brat myself I was so moved, when the statue of the Unknown Soldier unexpectedly came up a few months ago at the entrance of the same park. The uniformed, handsome young man stood looking out at grassy parkland shady paths and cool trees, perhaps a tiny reflection of the martyrs heaven that he was in right now. I am not ashamed to state that I stood there a full minute , tears in my eyes, unplugging my iPOD from my ears on that cool morning, looking up at the simple but proud bronze statue, and the engraved plaque mounted on the raised platform with a mixture of love and respect. Wondering on what his dream were. Why my fight was his fight. My body inadvertently snapped to attention, and my throat tightened in thanks for this wonderful gesture towards a thousand soldiers who selflessly laid down their lives over decades. Some names we will never know. I have military friends whose widowed mothers still believe their husbands will return sometime. I know about the Unknown Soldier, but only a little.
It was a moment. We could have stayed with that.

The motivation is excellent. Bangalore will have the first such memorial after Delhi. Laudable . and excellent intentions Who is this Foundation ? Why by a private citizen? That park is a happy lung space in crowded Millers/Palace /Ali Asker Road. This is going to make access stringent, rarified. There is a move to set up a memorial, but no one talked about a Motivatonal Hall of 11000 sft. Really, whom are we motivating? And is this ( mind you we are all getting cynical, and seemingly with good reason) really a Trojan Horse?

Even some military men are embarrassed about this controversy. A memorial yes, but all this encroaching of public lung space? NO. Before we know it, we as private citizens will have no access to this place, and I may bring my Dad’s Service Id card for admission. Exclusion, as always.

And d’you know where that is going to be ? I saw concrete marker stones being laid out. Right in the center of the park, In a bower of ancient, bending, gnarled and blindingly green trees , a quiet and serene spot , that is the park’s cynosure. So much so that walkers like us are not allowed by park attendants to hang out there lest we spoil the grass or something. We walk around the periphery, grateful to partake of such effortless beauty, such casual grace . And in all the 16 acres of space, in the periphery, sides, why was this central space chosen? Why a closed structure? Why here? What ownership will the Foundation have? There are millions of beautiful army spots. There are dozens of Memorial Museums within Army HQs like MEG, ASC etc that clearly have the history and salute our heroes.

I know its not a zero sum game, but before we commemorate their noble deaths, lets focus on their living lives. Let’s focus by not buying them sub standard equipment, boots, planes, tanks and ammo. Give them the material to succeed when they are alive , and attempting to protect our country and us; not a Memorial – so that its more accessible and convenient for us to bring out a hanky to mop up our salty tears when they go to their deaths.

Large edifices can only try but rarely take away public guilt. Putting aside the murder of the Hariyali aur Raasta , which is no quid pro quo for those brave lives, let the politicians instead turn their attention to ensure that not one military life is lost more than necessary. Truly and with their hearts .
The Unknown Soldier would salute you.

That would be a Memorial and a half.
And then let there be memorials galore.

Drifting Forward ..

2010-05-30T22:14:00.000+05:30

Drifting forward.
Questioning , endlessly searching, analysing , opening folds for answers.
Wondering if its time already to mourn happiness.
Wondering is the best in life is far far behind you . You will never know.

Its when the glass is almost full, that one can think of holding that moment and other past times back.
A continuum, a train, a speeding turtle.

And time to think .
A time where we curiously cut into our own hearts, just to see how it beats , barely pausing for anesthetic.
Because we dont ever want to be numb.

But we all get there , one day.

One day.

The Best Things in Life are Free...

2009-10-25T09:29:00.008+05:30

There is the loud but muffled sound of fireworks from somewhere outside of my room. I ignore it for as long as I can, and continue to work on my laptop, but later walk over, mildly irritated but curious, to the French windows, and draw the curtains.

Through the clear glass of the windows , and the mosaic of the dark trees that partially cloud my vision, I see the sudden vision of man-made stars - red, green and yellow- explode in dizzying, orchestrated , rainbow slow motion across the dark sky. I am entranced, and I open the windows fully to drink it all in. They fall slowly, dim and fading into the yawning shadows below. The whistling sound of the Skyrockets and Catherine Wheels pop away in a distracted, distant manner, while the marvelous fireworks opera across the sky continues to unfold. As I lean on the balcony railing, pinching myself for being invited at short notice to this unceasing, gracious magic show across my horizon, I am joined by my maid. Equally entranced, we wait breathless, wondering when, if ever, this pageant will stop. And it slowly whittles away, this star parade , it goes lower and lower to the ground, and what felt like a display for the Gods , is now clearly in ant territory.

The best things in life are free, I tell her, translating clumsily into Tamil, straightening up from the balcony. Her eyes linger at the now dark, unsmiling sky outside. She nods quickly, I think she understands. She has dinner to make, so she scurries down towards the aloo-methi on the stove with, perhaps like me, memories of magic and residual sparklers of light fresh in her mind.

Its true isn’t it ? The Beatles might disagree when they sang:
"The best things in life are free
But you can keep 'em for the birds and bees
Now give me money, (that's what I want) that's what I want."
I think that the joy of health, love, friendship, happiness cannot be purchased by money.
Capturing the ‘moment’ that future memory is made up of, is rarely chargeable.
The snuggle , and warm toes that belong to the extra 2 minutes under the quilt just after the alarm has rung, is difficult to explain , or put value to.
The scent of cool, yet rain warmed earth on an October early morning ranks among my best things, and I don’t remember if I have paid up a ticket for that.
Then there is finding strange animal shapes billowing in the clouds on a still sunny day , and smiling at the rabbit with a crown, or the disintegrating snowman on a train that you see.
And have I counted the recognition of the soaring music of an old and beloved ballad?
Or the sudden illumination of a dark room with an electric light or candle?
Or the joyous heartbreak of a fragrant flower?
The snuffling sigh of your pup as she turns to cuddle deeper into the crook of your arm.
Going to bed with the comforting weight of an unread book tented on your chest, chasing away the worrying thoughts that are a frequent prelude to slumber? ?
The sudden redolence of a steaming cup of tea in the early morning?
Strolling through a roadside art festival, with creativity and colors spilling in exhilarating bursts around you?
What about the ripples on a transparent puddle of needle sharp rain?
The sudden sniff of the aroma of comfort food when you walk into your home – rich and fragrant, redolent with the promise of fulfillment?
And the changing patterns of sun-dappled green in the trees crowding outside your window? The desultory yet wise conversation about life and living with your dad?
The inexplicable but deep connection with yourself that comes as your bare toes connect with green grass?
Re-reading an old classic, and smiling with a satisfied sigh at the predictable happy end?
What about the explosion of vanilla aroma as the oven door opens with a baking brownie inside?
The moon looks down at me in silvery splendor – she belongs to no one.

A giggle with a friend, or the smile of understanding on a shared memory is priceless, and stored away in a happy pocket of the mind. The arm around the shoulder or the warmth of your loved one’s hug brings a sense of completeness – one of the best things that you again don’t have to pay for . Unless your coin is love and affection.

While we might mambo to Madonna’s ‘Material Girl’ , I admit I prefer waltzing to Frank Sinatras version:
The moon belongs to everyone,
The best things in life are free.
The stars belong to everyone,
They gleam there for you and me.
The flowers in spring, the robins that sing,
The moonbeams that shine, they're yours, they're mine.
And love can come to everyone,
The best things in life are free

(First published in Bangalore Mirror)

Jacko

2009-07-10T12:42:00.006+05:30

Said a colleague passing by ‘By the way, you do know that Michael Jackson died this morning, right? ‘

I didn’t know. I am shocked. I spend a few minutes trying to figure out why I suddenly felt so sad. I haven’t heard his songs for ages. It’s the passing of an era I guess. Moreover, MJ seemed ageless, not time bound. The sweet faced young boy, with ‘Don’t Stop Till you Get Enough’, is replaced over time with a strange mutating creature, and his songs are cleverer than his personal life. Michael Jackson moved from music to mime, from a beloved boy rock star to a strange clown-liquid faced person in a time bubble. Bubbles the Chimpanzee, pet Llama, amusement park and all.

I sat up nights watching the iconic Thriller videos when I was a teenager, and the music is still in my head. I watched him with Paul Mc Cartney with the incredibly sweet, teasing duet ‘ The Girl is Mine ‘ as well as the darker ' The Way you Make me Feel’ with its sadistic overtones. And the poignant ballad ‘One Day in Your Life’ which was a favorite of (surprisingly !) my mother’s . ‘We are the World’ was another. In the incredible ‘Black and White’, where one face ironically merged with another, she looked with increasing dismay at the rapidly changing landscape of his color and nose . ‘He is such a handsome boy, why is he doing all this to himself’, she would ask me. I shrugged- his plastic surgery was his vanity and a joke, and I never thought about the fear and fragility that may have motivated him. When was he 50? I recall this ageless wizard when I was in school and college, at work and in growing older. But he was always Peter Pan. In Never never land perhaps, but never a number.

He was a genius, clearly one in a lifetime born, used to fame and the spotlights right from a 5 year old. Clearly meant for spangles, spotlight and then stardust. Who can forget his songs, that signature vocal hiccup, his path breaking entertainment on MTV, those eye-popping dance moves , which went from dazzling and fresh to strangely robotic and cruel , but no less brilliant nevertheless. I remember that incredibly sweet, almost shy, little boy smile and that high falsetto voice, that progressed to the peculiar lip gash smirk and the Michael-I’m-Barbie face. One day he became the sad clown under the circus top, and while other clowns rode their bicycles over him, or pretend-hit him with a paddle, he blinked and cried , but we all still laughed and clapped at his antics.

We owned Michael, and he did us justice. He lived his life in front of our eyes and his world tours and live shows demonstrated his unsurpassed ability to entertain. He became increasingly eccentric as he grew in that glass bubble, and we watched him distantly amused and enchanted at the same time. I admit I wanted Never Never Land too, but I am not sure about either the nose or the time capsule. Increasingly his isolation, wild spending, and later child abuse charges, and clearly eccentric star status lent him the mystery that finally degenerated into the tawdry.

Apparently when the news of his death flashed, the ‘volcanic’ nature of the searches were such that Google was inundated and Twitter and Wikipedia did briefly crash.

This iconic, delusional, flawed yet gifted pop star lived his life in the glare of 80 million eyes. There was nowhere to hide, even in the most painful of times.

The spotlights stripped him naked and shriveled.

He lived, he loved, he fell apart, and pulled himself together, he grew , he shrunk, he performed, and he paled , he sang his heart out , and then he withered .
He tottered, rose, and fell in our gaze.

Many times.

He was a soap opera unto himself , and I wondered if he knew that when he woke up in pain that day in LA , thought about his graying, flawed life, injected himself with Demerol that afternoon, suffered a cardiac arrest and died. Even his death was Reality TV at its best.

His daughter Paris broke down at the Memorial for her Daddy, the best Daddy in the world, and suddenly the kaleidoscope shifted for me. The voyeurism and the TRP’s became real, personal, and a bit too much. I turned off the TV. I had forgotten that he was also a person, and not just an entertainer. I forgot that even if we all felt like we owned him, as he lived his life and times in front of us; he actually belonged to a chosen few. Those who loved him and lived with him. The real Michael , however tortured - Daddy , Brother , Son , Friend .

He moved voluntarily from the music stage on to a mounting board, this brilliant, dazzling butterfly . As one of those gawping 80 million who were captivated by his talent, read his antics with increasing perplexity , poked at his scabs, stood on judgment , and still loved his music, its sad to let go this fragile, fluttering butterfly impaled on a pin.

RIP, Michael.

Down the Drain..

2009-06-06T13:29:00.001+05:30

Abhishek’s drowning has become a symbol of all that is indifferent and uncaring in Bangalore. The buck that passes, the shoulders that shrug, the pen that slides over paper, and the defensive voice that says, ‘gothilla saar, its not my responsibility’ . The child was 5 years old. He was walking in the safest place possible – holding his mother’s hand. And then the heavens opened up. The mother who has let go her child’s hand for a minute because she slipped while on slick road in a raging rain , is never going to forgive herself or forget . It was just a second. And she never saw him again.
Can you imagine a child being sucked in to the subterranean hell under the road, in a vortex of powerful eddying waters in a drain, filled with plastic, rats and garbage? One moment, the heavy raindrops are falling on his face, and he is probably huddling closer to his mother. The second moment, he slips and a yawning chasm swallows him up, while water fills up his lungs , and he never sees the dark sky again .
But perhaps Abhishek and his mother took grave risks. They should not have been out, walking on a Bangalore road. Insurance companies will now shift Bangalore as high on the risky cities list. They should have crept indoors in a nuclear shelter the moment that it rained. Instead they did what most others would have done. Like the security guard, and a couple on a scooter who also drowned that week. Drowned while doing the simplest thing in the world. Going- back -home.
So we now must be careful . Not while serving the country on the border , mind you . Or testing new fighter jets. Skydiving . Being a trapeze artist. Being on an oil rig. Being a fire fighter or a policeman.
We have to be afraid all the time. Doing any of these things:
Standing . Sitting. Walking. Getting into a car. Crossing the road. Farming our land . Being in a bus.
Are we going to look surprised and confused , be unprepared every monsoon , every summer , for drowning , electrocution, road accidents? Every time. Every single darn time? Sorry. No can do. Even rats learn by experience. And cockroaches.
This happened because one underpaid employee or unconcerned malcontent decided to leave home early , closed his eyes , yawned , walked past unfinished work, and just didn’t care . Chose not to care. Left early to grab a coffee with friends. Had a cigarette break with colleagues on the chouraha. And did not cover a crater on the road, close a drain , or disable a live wire . Just that once. A human life is too expensive a mistake to say, ‘Regrettable . But its part of the game’. ‘It happens’.
It’s not.
Its manslaughter, plain and simple, and whether it is the department or the person is culpable, let them own up . Its dereliction of duty. If an army person leaves his post during the war, he is tried and court -martialed for desertion. And what happens to our fatcats at the BWSSB or the Bangalore Corporation, or the BEST? I am tired by people telling us to get involved. Could the government be active in doing just what its supposed to do ? If I did their job, I may neither be able to make a living, nor deposit taxes to pay their salaries. The government will sit back happy while citizens like me , a part of the so called community partnership come in on Sundays and cover drains, plant trees, fill up road craters while they find more to criticize and even less to do .
The Government has to do their job, and nothing less. As a citizen, I demand a minimum level of infrastructure , and safety , and nothing less. I am tired of the word ‘the authorities’. ‘The evils of government are directly proportional to the tolerance of the people’ said Frank Kent. So its time we should get really intolerant. For the authorities, doing a job cannot be that hard. If they are paid a salary, and get a pension, why are they always finding excuses?
And what about us? Its about time we should take some control of our own lives, and demand what Abhisheks mother lost out on . A simple measure of basic provisions. Of safety, security and dignity. And public servants and the authorities better take care of ours as well. That’s what they are paid to. Twice over. Paid over the table, and sometimes under it.
Little Abhishek paid twice over too.
It’s a shame.
Shame.

God Rest your soul , young Varun

2009-01-02T15:30:00.005+05:30

Varun was a few days old when we first saw him. Ela and Bryan’s first born lay in his baby bassinet, at his grandparents house at Rest House Crescent, all crumpled, bright and fair, legs kicking, looking at us with faint interest in his beautiful brown eyes . A lovely baby, even given my bias being his mother Ela’s childhood classmate, friend and therefore by definition, his fond aunt. He was the second baby born in our close knit group, and I recall us bachelor girls crowding around a flushed, tired but proud Ela-Mom in some excitement and wonder. I think we just stopped short of prodding him to check if he was for real. They were great parents Ela, Bryan, and with a phenomenal infrastructure and extended family and grandparents. No wonder Varun flourished and bloomed as he did.

And then he grew. The sisters Veena and then Esha came along, each cuter than the other , beautifully mannered , with that happy heart , confidence and great charm we took for granted in the family . Varun was a great big brother , and his sisters quite obviously adored him. We watched as a tiny lil fellow stood out in sports, elocution and was so popular with his friends and classmates . We just didn’t know how much. I remember meeting him at age 13 at Kadambam on Manipal center for a dosa breakfast where he had come in after a cricket match at school , all sweaty and happy , and he walked right up to us , smiled with that delightful gap toothed smile we remembered so well, and said hello . A teenager typically would cross the road to avoid his parents’ friends ( I completely understood - they are so un-cool ! ) , but there he was ,as well mannered, fun and affectionate as always.

Years pass, we see him on and off. We read about his cricket and sports in the papers, and raise our eyebrows. He’s doing well, our Varun, we say to ourself. The next time we met that I particularly recall was when he had a small cycle accident with his sister and was at Lakeview Hospital with broken leg and abrasions . Eyebrows raised , and wryly smiling in teenage embarrassment , but tolerating with some good humor the ‘ almighty fuss’ that people were making , including his normally matter of fact parents. They are a lovely family, just perfect, and you see their love and easy togetherness in good times over Christmas and birthdays , but it shines through particularly when there is adversity .

The last time I saw him was last Christmas, when I was amazed how much young Varun had grown. There he was at home passing around the cake and eats , and generally being a terrific host in addition with his phenomenal height , great looks and easy manner , this was one handsome boy ( despite the fashionable and horrendous goatee that all teens seem to sport these days ! ) . And a right grown young man. Centered, rooted, matter of fact, and yet such a cool dude. We could talk as grown ups, and I was amazed that the transition had happened , and when my husband Raj and I drove home, marveled at this whole new person we had met , and secretly congratulated Ela and Bryan in our mind for raising such a fine young man. And I knew she would be even more proud of him. He was in Law School at Pune, and Ela -Mom was just starting to worry whether he would be okay away from home. He was.

Until now.
It is so sad to speak about this gorgeous young boy, the collective son of our entire group, in the past tense. Its intolerable cruelty to think a single minute in a car accident changed so many lives. Varun deserved to be spoken in the Present Continuous, in the very least. In fact, he deserved a Future, at the very least. I cannot bear to think that he stands in our minds, frozen in time , 19 going on 20 , and that we will never attend his graduation party , check how his first interview went , his first job, demand a treat from his first salary , congratulate him and the family on his marriage and family , not see him watch his sisters walk down the aisle one day , or be an uncle to their children or organize a slap up party to celebrate his parents golden anniversary . Or see him live to experience and conquer the world as he so obviously meant to do. That’s heartbreaking, it just is.

He would have been twenty years old on Jan 16th this new year , this little crumpled baby I saw nearly two decades ago, in my friends arms . I have no words to share how tragic this loss to the world is. However there is another side that can comfort us . Kahlil Gibran said ‘When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. ‘ And its the truth , its our delight that we all weep for now, because its past .

Ela’s worst ticking off to me was entreating me not to ‘fuss’ ( the most scathing word in the vocabulary, I think ). Her children grew up happy and confident with her no fuss, lots of love approach as well as Bryan’s sneaky pampering. ‘‘Priya , no fuss now . No drama queen vibes, if you please".
You will have to excuse me this time , Ela , Bryan. You have your son to mourn and grieve, but we too have a young boy who we treasured , loved and will miss. We feel your pain, and we will fuss this time, with your permission. He deserved fuss, love and so much more.

He deserved life.
And the world at his feet.
Not a mound of earth.

God rest your soul, young Varun .

Happy 2009 and some meanderings

2009-01-02T15:22:00.003+05:30

2009 has been a year of much moment. Or perhaps at year end , we feel that because there is a logical beginning and end to much joy, sorrow, graying and achievement. We know some of the highs and lows of the year past. We stood at ineffectual candlelit vigils, or just ached at being emptily, but proudly Indian after the pain of 26/11. We discovered resources and togetherness in a nation. In recent recessionary times, we saw how flat the world was when companies and pillars collapsed, jobs were lost, and prodigal sons returned with empty hands from their promised land. But we still went to the moon, stood proud with nuclear powers, we still remembered it was good to be Indian, and be a citizen of the world.

Perhaps we need to desperately put a retrospective diary to a time span thats whizzed by. And being pretentious and measuring is one of the ways we do that. We need to look at endings before we start a real beginning, dont we? "Everything has been said before, but since nobody listens we have to keep going back and beginning all over again." Andre Gide.

Here is Day One: January 1st 2008 brimming with optimistic resolutions and spring in our step, and as moments start avalanching one to another, we flip pages right up to Day 365 . Here is December 31st 2008 now, while we wearily sit down on the nearest spot, catch our breath , to count both our love, our scabs and our laurels. We want all the stuff we felt, saw, experienced, rejected, to be neatly boxed in, examined one last time, retracing both the joy and un-joy, before its sealed away in a mental attic. It is our natural book keepers mind, looking at the accounts and ledgers and anxiously trying to balance the figures. It doesnt always add up. Its not always neat. And yet we tie the last bow, and put away the books with some regret. Its now some one elses problem. Perhaps the Great Auditor on High.
Nothing wrong with that.

"He who chooses the beginning of a road chooses the place it leads to. It is the means that determine the end." Harry Emerson Fosdick . I hope we always remember to choose the fairest, kindest means to our goals.

As we chew the end of the pencil, and inhale the crisp new smell of a fresh notebook, we can gaze at the promising emptiness of the sheets with anticipation of things better, happier, more intense than what we may have known. I wish for good things, and if there must be anything else, I pray the learning from it gives you anchor and lights up your path. I pray for enjoyment of the present, the stuff that future memories will be made of , and treasured . Og Mandino spoke eloquently of the mix of joy and sorrow, of opportunities and learning when he said "I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars."
So , in the new year , I wish you and your loved ones a year of wonderful beginnings , of great joy , of many deep breaths , of many celebratory moments and successes , and of shining light, yet some stars to find.

All the best to you and yours in 2009 ..

ComingTogether

2008-12-03T21:05:00.005+05:30

Am watching a TV channel showing the spontaneous coming together of thousands of Indians at Gateway of India. Quiet, thousands of candles, no single organiser. Just a coming together of very sad, grieving, angry people. Sharp minds who took a stance on what they wanted from the new India. When they said Jai Hind, the voices had a different resonance . In my heart too. For the first few times, I feel ownership of our Indian tag.

What do our politicians feel when they see this outpouring of grief, this rejection , disgust , hatred and condemation of their presence . I hope they remember we are Indians - expressing what we feel . And for us, they are Enemy No 1, the one they are trying to get us to hate is jsut slipped to Enemy No 2.

As my husband said just now, I once again feel proud for a second, to be Indian. After the Ultimate Cleanser Raj Thackeray ruthlessly divided us, an external tragedy has now united us. Maybe I am swayed easily , but since its on the good side of the continuum , I want to .

I am glad I am .

Bring out the Muzzles - their bark is worse than their byte.

2008-12-01T20:37:00.007+05:30

Our Boys with the Z Security really stooped to conquer.

We all know the politicians' shoe sizes now.
Their foot is so often in the mouth , that we wonder whether we should shift the mike appropriately. Foot in Mouth Disease is alive and well.

Apart from the Patils and the Deshmukh pearls , here are some fresh jewels:

Shri Naqvi , VP at the BJP is appalled that people, who should be going down on their knees to praise the politicians in this glorious times, are saying otherwise. Outraged at the way we are following western tenets, he rants, "They should not say ... "politicians murdabad". Who is instigating these women groups to hold such protests? Why do some lipstick-cladded women, wearing jeans are protesting against the politicians on the streets of Mumbai'. "There is a clear attempt to divide the country and break the trust of people in India's democratic fabrics. That's why such protests against politicians are taking place", he further added (wearing shirt, trousers and a jacket) . Being sadly guilty of a candlelit vigil myself, I am absolved , because I wore neither lipstick nor powder. Oops - does deodorant spray count ? Shri Naqvi, please advise appropriate future dress code and locational preference. We must know. We must .

And Shri Kerala CM Achutanandan , greasy smile intact , but stung by my new hero Mr Unnikrishnan 's feisty response , says " If it were not for Sandeep, not even a dog would have visited that house ' .
Tch tch , Mr CM.
I love dogs , so let me rephrase that insult for the future . "Not even a politician would have visited that house ' . Mind it.

And the conversations are endless. Everytime they open their mouth , we help them buckle their shoes. Your bark is worse than your sound byte, Neta-ji . Muzzle up. It's safer . For you and for me. More for you , I think .

Rest in Terror, Mr Politician . Your time has come.

Stay Out

2008-12-01T08:33:00.003+05:30

Major Unnikrishnan's father had reason to throw out the politicians. They came , like vultures, to pick over the carrion. A little late , but there was always a sound byte possibility.That slap on the their face found many echoes. A dignified man in his grief till then , the father finally crumbled - in righteous rage.
Shame on you .
I am not fodder for you. Or media mileage. My loss will not be trivialised.

That's what we all say .
We are not grist to your mill. Don't trivialise what happened.

Clueless in the Capital ..

2008-11-30T14:45:00.005+05:30

Heads have started to roll now.
Shivaraj Patil steps down, dapper as ever . He is relieved , in more ways than one.
Who's next ?

The Capital does a quick count in their party of who is expendable, and who will ' understand ' and be a good soldier , and starts damage control from the PR perspective. (Elections around the corner , do not forget . ) Pakistan ministers starts playing a rapid volte face to save-face as they realise implications of what has happened . I love their strong , passionate 'politician' voice. Mr Pratap Rudy says it is too little too late ( yes, I see that he reads the newspapers ) and that the entire cabinet should resign . Hmm. Naturally I can believe that is a completely unbiased comment , not issued in the politicians self serving cant . Right ?

I have a suggestion. We stop paying our taxes , until the government delivers. We are entitled to liberty , free expression under the Democracy. We are also entitled to live free and secure , have food , water , a roof over our head , and medical care . Guess what the government is NOT doing?

So here is the thing . When I go to a hotel , Taj or the Darshini around the corner for a cup of coffee, I pay them, and guess what , they give it to me. Sometimes with fancy napkins , a warm smile , and a great CRM system , or a brusque ' Strong kaapi bekaa? .
But I get that coffee.

However, we are not getting it .
We are not getting roads , systems, security, good equipment, ability to fix a creaking machinery. But what we are getting is the warm politician handshake , and a thanks for our custom. And if we are waiting for the coffee , with our tenner in our hands , and it is just not there , why are we still leaving our money on the table?

Mahatma Gandhi brought in Civil Disobedience .
Lets admit we are a trifle more materialistic as a civil society today , and smart enough to know the one place that will hurt the government .

The first movement we need today is Economic Disobedience.
We want KRAs to be actioned , and deliverables evaluated regularly. We want a monthly assessment ,and we want results and explanations. You work for us , not the other way around .
As individuals and corporates , we pay Advance Tax, Income Tax, Service Tax, VAT , Sales Tax, Fringe Benefit Tax. Far too many taxes . And I have no idea where it goes.

When did you last see it work for you ?
So:
Does this sound fair ?
Does this sound like a plan?
Lets start. Dig in our heels.
Lets tell them, and lets start.

War on Terror? I just wear my black arm band..

2008-11-29T23:14:00.002+05:30

‘It is not burning there’, says a protester to the journalist , pointing to his head .
‘It is burning here.’
Pointing to his heart.

Maybe that is the problem. We are burning in our hearts, while what we should be doing is coldly thinking with our minds, what we collectively should do next. I am sure our netas are polishing their next impassioned speech, working on a well-worded rebuttal on why they were inside, hiding. Lets use the time to plan what we need to do as citizens. We have a larger enemy. The enemy within. Not just terrorists or extremists . But the larger system that has sold us down the river. And laughed all the way to the bank. But not now.
No Sir, you will not be laughing now. Not now. Not ever.

And we sit in front of our TV systems, as the war ends. We are breathing lighter now. But the fact that its over means less than it should. Its not over , and it will take some time , and some results, before it will be. We watch the story of gritty survivors, unusual heroes, and some who have just crumbled in their grief. And I feel for you. But everywhere, and within me , I see anger . And yet I sit in from of my TV set, like all of do almost compulsively , and mourn.

We need to hold people to account. But how ? Get the powers that be to leave ? Should we withdraw from our citizenship , should we secede from our democracy ? You are right , we cannot . So we are still being held at ransom. Our politicians tell us about the number of terrorist attacks that have been foiled , that we didn’t know about . ( I hear the subtext . ‘ You ingrates’ is what he is really saying ) Oh dear, say I , were we supposed to curtsy and thank you for just doing your job? I wish you had told me that before . I should have been more polite , known the rules, and sent you thank you letters. We are formulating answers , says one, with a straight (honest-trust-me- I-am-like-your-brother) face . What do the people want , anyway ? You are right , I have no clue what we want . But I think it’s their blood.

Politician A , a well known, and smooth gasbag at Delhi speaks with ponderous finality on what needs to be done. The barbs from other panelists are beginning to unsettle him, though. Feeling the Hot seat , Mr A ? Strident Ms J comes in on the TV screen squealing like a cut pig, furious with the media for giving the public a platform for expressing their hatred for politicians. She is right , maybe. Ms J , how does it feel to be part of a an endangered species? Do you feel you now need reservations for your kind ? Do you hate the feeling of insecurity ? Of being backed into a corner , back to the wall ? Do you ? Well then, welcome to our world . Or do you want to up your Z class security to 20 additional , hard working, bleary-eyed 24/7 Black Cats ? Think about it . Your neighbors will be SO envious.

Perhaps I am behaving like a reluctant rabble rouser . I am not apologizing just yet. I am normally collaborative, diplomatic, trying to see the common ground . But I talked to my colleagues and friends today with passion and frustration and rage. With a request to not wipe the slate clean, and move on. Robots move on. We are people need to do something . And I tried . I set up a small group to do a peaceful sit-in at the Gandhi Statue at MG Road. We got police permission, which was surprisingly easy. Time slot of 4 pm to 5.30 , no preparation, no need for press, armed with black arm bands, placards and lit candles -and us. (Close to 5 , we had the addition of a political party protest armed with flags, posters and an agenda, so we did not overstay our welcome, and we left ). It was a drop in the ocean, didn’t change anything , depending on how you look at it . It did not take away the pain , and the anger . But as we lit the last candle for those who senselessly lost their lives, and left it on the stone wall at the Gandhi statue, and as the flames sputtered and stayed , I went away a percentage point lighter .

Mr Karkare’s wife restored our dignity and belief by declining an ex gratia compensation of a crore for her husband’s brutal death . His teenage son had a painful yank into adulthood today , as reluctant and lost , he conducted his fathers last rites. I think we did too.

Mr Karkare , Major Sandeep Unnikrishnan , that doorman at Taj, and all the others who turned up for work that fateful day , just like the rest of us did , and died for no reason , we salute you . God bless your soul and your families.
I wear my black arm band for you , and I grieve.
Rest in peace .

Enough is Enough

2008-11-29T13:22:00.000+05:30

Enough is ENOUGH
It seems to be a night without end. More so because its being played out in 4 camera angles on every TV channel.
Its Die Hard 4, if it were not so tragic.
From Day 1, all I have been filled with is a seething sense of rage. I sit like many of us with my fists clenched , and no where to go. I can imagine the politicians pouting and preening before the mirror , practicing the perfect sound byte for the cameras. This is not the usual Priya, sanguine and optimistic. Like many of us though, I am filled with helplessness watching tragedy unfold, but also a growing sense that we need to do something about it this time. But what , but what ? But we must .
Lets put our heads together . Not just vote . We need to do more. I refuse to be Collateral Damage .Or let my fellow Indian or overseas guest be Collateral Damage either .
There are people dead , there are people who were minding their business who suffered and died agonizingly. Our brave forces went in and did the clean up for the mess that the system created . They did it with their duty . And what is your duty , Mr Neta. To us ? To your caste ? To your bulging wallet ? But people DIED. I am sure it didn’t stop our politicians chewing on high energy dry fruit , drinking a glass of milk , and ensuring their white clothes were starched and ironed to perfection . So yes- maybe we as the public need our whipping boys, but hey you Neta in the crisp cotton, walk right up . You'll do .
Your sacrificial lambs were the police , the firemen, the RAF , the NSG , the commuters at CST who went in and took what you should have . Responsibility for being an Indian citizen. It does not always come with a bullet in your back, though .. For them , it did.

Who takes responsibility for this ? Lets find you excuses, Mr Neta . Poor ones. For example, do you want Taj and Oberoi Trident, to admit to a security failure? They pay the taxes , dammit , they deserve to be safe, not to ensure security. But they did what the Netas didn’t. Put their neck out , saved people, ensured sanity , and stood their ground. A Taj GM did his job, handling his team , frightened customers, in a burning building at siege. He did his duty with all his heart when his own heart was breaking . While his wife and 2 kids burnt to death in the most agonizing way possible.
And where were you ?
A frightened woman who gave birth at the Camas and Ableless Hospital between explosions , talks about her son coming into a loud world filled with blasts and mayhem, taking his first breath in his new world with not a sound or cry. When he grows up , she whispers , I will tell him he is made of steel.
I close my eyes - that statement just tears me up .
And where were the political might , the systems , the awareness that could have avoided this horrendous, catastrophic situation ? Staying indoors. Come right out , now that it is nearly over , you cowards and useless flotsam. We have no use for you anymore.
I have anger at against the terrorists who tore us apart for the last three days. Helpless knotted rage. But I have even more anger and rage against the politicians, the system and the in-fighting , posturing of this waste of DNA , the politicians, who not only weakened our system , brought us to our knees , but colluded to ensure we stayed there.
Wear the black arm band today .
We have a lot more than the helpless , the dead , the injured and bereft to mourn

My Saffronart - Manasjit Datta

2008-10-02T16:42:00.001+05:30

My Saffronart - My Gallery - SaffronArt

BALL PEN BANDITS - A First person account from one of the Dreaded Gang

2008-05-27T17:07:00.001+05:30

Never find a pen when you want one? Me too.
Where do they go to ? I look at working spaces as areas packed with dozens of invisible , mythical elves maliciously and magnetically gathering up ball pens by the armfuls, leaving defenseless souls like me with just an iPAq and stylus.
I need you to answer this question, hand on heart. It’s in the public domain, so I cannot guarantee siren-screaming carloads of policemen will not be hotly following your trail. Perhaps it’s categorized as misdemeanor and not a grand felony. Who knows, maybe they will just send in the rookies.
Right, let’s get down to it. Have you ever purloined a pen? By happenstance, glue or intent ? Confess. Well, ( deep breath here ) , I have. In fact , among the two pens nestling right now in resplendent plastic freedom in my capacious handbag, and playing a constant hard to get, let me admit, with my head hanging in abject guilt, neither is mine. There - I said it . I am one of the accursed ones -a Ball Pen Bandit. It’s the blight of the modern generation, the fast city life that we lead, the resultant lack of moral fiber and upstanding ethics. The expensive ones I have had last a day ,but the Rs. 5 plastic pens have done time of nearly a week , and in one instance ( it was a fat little red Kingfisher Airlines pen ) , it was almost an entire fortnight that we were together .
No , no, don’t worry , I watch all the detective serials on TV, and I have kept two of my lawyer friends on stand by , since I am aware , everything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. My young lawyer friend just called to check whether there was any incriminating evidence. I said, yes there is, and it’s in the bag. I think he thinks it’s a gun, and I have finally lost my marbles and put a bullet through the pesky Car loan Telemarketer or my much hated Kitchen Designer . It’s tough, he knows, and there is provocation enough from these people, but still, a person in my position ought to be more careful , he says. . Get rid of it, he mutters inaudibly. But I’m still using it, I counter, so why should I ? Is it loaded, he asks? Why else would I carry it around in my purse, I shrug. That’s the whole point isn’t it – it should work in case I decide to use it. He says he is coming right over, and not to move or say anything till he reaches there. He asks me quickly if he and I are okay , and if I feel he has ever upset or irritated me in any way in the past . I am little flummoxed , and when I vociferously deny that ( he is such a great guy ) , he seems to be oddly relieved .
Let’s start at the very beginning. As a child, I moved from short sharp, pencils to leaky fountain pens and then regular ball pens. And then like Art Buchwald, after pens vanished within a blink-second of being with me, I started believing in the Ballpoint Fairy . After I lost my fathers two Parker ink pens, and one Mont Blanc in quick succession , I found that he would make a sign of the Cross , and start sprinkling Ganga-jal when I approached his study table to write something . A little over the top, I felt . I remember when the shiny Black and Gold Parker pen that he had kept safely since his graduation in early 1820 . It was ‘lost’ at my 10th Standard Board exams (no doubt to another smooth practiced Ball Pen Bandit), after which he has lost all faith in me . Not a single pen will you get from me ever again , he thundered, profoundly affecting my impressionable 14 year old mind, and possibly wrecking my delicate mental equilibrium forever . My surviving 1840 vintage Parker Pen will now be willed to my elder nephew, some one who is a darned sight more careful then you , and knows how to value important, sentimental things. Or possibly, even to the Battersea Dogs Home, he adds . I quaked. (Or is it I Quook?)
I wonder whether there is a movie script here. Richly defined characters, lots of early trauma , random pens, and glimpse of dark soul. Maybe they can get Vidya Balan or Chitrangada Singh to play me in the 70 MM version. And Amitabh Bachhan to play the Pen Proud Father (PPF). Well really , The Bachhan and the PPF do share a rich baritone, and both do thunder at you so beautifully . A potentially delightful display of righteous wrath.
Somehow all my pens get lost. It’s not surprising that the most expensive pen I bought was Rs 25 because it wrote in both blue and red. My shrink tells me that these initial incidents had a profound effect on me , and having suffered this horrible loss, I never fully recovered , and although I have fought the urge desperately, I have succumbed to the final ignominy of this abuse ,and became willy-nilly one of them – an inadvertent but definitive Ball Pen Bandit. We had a wonderful intervention when a group of nearly a hundred people helped me confront this horrible truth. The Ball Pen Bandits Anonymous (BBA ) is a little known Group. We value our privacy, and keep a low key profile. Bangalore Chapter Meetings are held in the football stadium behind the William Penn Store in Koramangala. Sometimes the current Group Leader exhibits his show of strength to his flock by a simple trial by fire. He strolls through the 10000 square foot Stationery store, lined with every writing instrument available, and even whistles a tune. We do notice that this brave, brave man trembles uncontrollably after he returns, and gulps like a fish, but the thunderous round of applause after his triumphant return is a big motivator for him and all of us. Good people, these.
For the first week of therapy, I had a BBA Buddy who went ahead to every place I went , and recommended that they lock up their plastic pens. We have therapy sessions once a week, but she is clever this shrink – not a single pen on the desk when I walk in . Not one. The attendance register at my office now has the ball pen tied and knotted with string to the spine of the book. When I sign the roster, I have tried a discreet tug , now and then, but darn, my colleague at the front office , she’s good too, I must admit . Very good.

Well, I must go. The young lawyer is here now and has just asked me to sign a document ad attest a copy of the shrink’s certificate . He pushes paper and pen toward me. It’s a Kingfisher Airline Ball pen, one of my favorites. And such a steal. I vaguely put it away in my bag after we sign off. He sighs, but knows it goes with the job, and gets added to the bill.

(First published in Daily Mirror , Bangalore )

Mobile Addiction – New Age Ball and Chain

2008-05-19T23:20:00.004+05:30

I rarely read about a newly found disease without being convinced I have an early version of it . Nomophobia refers to the fear of being without your mobile . Its a goner ,I thought - I have it for sure . The UK Post office has coined this one ( NO MObile PHOBIA ), so you can send the congratulatory mails off to them , while the rest of us poor saps wonder whether (a) we do have it , (b) just how bad it is and (c) do we have to go to sanatorium in Switzerland for a cure .
I read reports on cell phone radiation and its harmful effects on the brain. Apparently prolonged mobile usage worse than smoking or exposure to asbestos. In my case , and considering my extent of mobile usage , its probably like smoking asbestos ! In fact I think the infinitely more dangerous situation is stepping out of home ,and discovering the dark reality and definitely greater evil that you have forgotten your mobile. Brain damage ? Pshaw - a mere nothing. Maybe the stem cell research guys can help us grow a brain back from the medulla oblongata onwards in the next few months . On the other hand , no mobile ? That’s a possible paralytic stroke , or asthmatic attack I would wager , no less. Tch, difficult choice , this one.
There is a space between my ears where my brain was earlier resident , but that’s been charred to smoke by now. The sizzle I thought I had is now really the sound of pale gray matter being deep fried on a mass of radioactive waves. The radiation from my blue tooth ear piece , coupled with my advancing years has clearly put paid to my earlier hopes of a life term membership at Mensa. Ironic really , when you think of the mobile supposedly helping you do your work better , optimize performance etc, How then how do you explain standing around with an idiotic simper on your face because you are talking to someone important , and when they ask who is calling , and I have forgotten my own name . Today I referred to a visitors colleague as Tinku , when his name was actually Tarun. I talk about a Shanta when I mean Sheila .My colleagues well used to these strange twists of names , immediately join up the dots , and nod . In fact, kind souls that they are , they say they actually now prefer Tinku, an indication of their solidarity and nay, supportive acceptance of that airy-gap-between-the ears. I am grateful for their unselfish support in these trying times . There are some times when asked a tough question like How are you , or How is business, I am forced to pick up my mobile , google the phrase , and possibly double check my answer by sending a text to a friend, and then reply monosyllabically with great triumph – ‘Fine’. Very often I am even right . The Marvels of Technology, I tell you .
A casual reference to getting some rest for the wicked , and attempts to prise away the mobile from my claw like fingers are met with strong defense . Nothing can part us . As smoke continues to discreetly billow out from behind my head , and an increasingly vacuous look clouds my countenance, the mobile remains crooked against my arm, for all the world like a favorite teddy bear . The opposable thumbs so valued by primates, are evolving into claw like structures more suitable to super fast texting.
The Significant Other once made serious attempts to get me to go cold turkey , and carefully ‘lost’ the mobile one weekend . However even his stern heart was wrung by my pathetic but determined attempts to connect up the TV remote , the Worldspace receiver antenna and a piece of plastic, and try and then desperately attempt to make a call with this contraption from the balcony. Apparently there is a discreet sanatorium In La La Land where these desperate addictions can be attended to , but it requires time , and patience . However relapses are common and the sage specialists rarely give guarantees. Strangely, their visionary recommendations of Tree – Houses for all, Jungle Drums or ESP as an alternative method of easy and instant communication have not been met with much acceptance .
So it’s a choice between brains and convenience, and (Maggi 2 minute noodles fans will bear me out ) convenience always wins. However, the human spirit never gives up . I have overheard discussions on range and costs of jungle drums , and just yesterday , saw the Significant Other downloading ‘Communicating in The Amazon Jungle in Ten Easy Lessons ‘( trainer drums come in free ) .
Until then, the mobile gets heavier , and is starting to grow roots at my wrist .

(First published in Bangalored Mirror, My Views )

Tales of Kings and Kindness

2008-05-19T22:48:00.005+05:30

Once upon a Time, a Kind and Gentle King traveling through the forests was accosted by a group of skinny mendicants who wanted to know where the river was, as they were very thirsty . As he walked them to the river, they attacked him . The dacoits, for that’s what they really were, beat him up, and stripped him of all his wealth- his coins, gold and jewelry. The gentle royal let them take all they wanted and when they were about to leave with their booty , bruised and battered, he asked them for one favor. Delighted with their booty , they readily agreed . ‘Do not ever share this tale with anyone outside’ .’Oho’, they sniggered , ‘so you don’t want it to be known that the great king himself was robbed in his own land , do you ?’ ‘No’ , he replied , ‘its because I don’t want them to feel that kindness could be repaid with betrayal and loss. They will never take pity on another fellow human again. And where will that leave all of us ?’
Cut to the Modern Ages. Read yesterday’s news paper. A man who has had an accident in front of a good Samaritan , who then takes the apparent accident victim to the nearest hospital finds himself surrounded by six thugs who take away everything he has got . Its reported – and parents tch-tch and say he should have been careful , not to get bamboozled by these goonda types. A man at Mekhri Circle flyover helps out a poor chap trying to change a wheel and gets jumped by the ‘ poor guy’s friends , loses his cards, mobile and cash , and gets his arm broken when he resists.
We all sat in school and on our parents laps and heard how we must love my neighbor, that we must be kind to our fellow men. That’s all very well , but there is an urgent undertone now - first assume the other guy , bandaged or bloody , is not first armed and dangerous. Else wait for the next car to come cruising and let them be ( snigger snigger ) the good Samaritan. I mean you can be kind , but you don’t have to be darn stoopid !
It seems sometimes, the law itself is against kindness . Moral and legal obligations seem to be quite different from place to place , and person to person. The first question is of course whether we need the law of the land to define what kindness is. Apparently it does matter. The French Criminal code makes it a crime not to help someone in need of assistance when help can be provided at no risk to oneself. Common Law under which the English and American systems are part , says the law cannot compel active benevolence . When the law compels a person to act in a certain way, it limits that person's liberty, and it does so more severely than if it simply tells a person not to do something.
In India curiously, a person who kills another in an accident is held for manslaughter whereas if the victim is only injured , its attempt to murder . So for the accused, causing death impacts him less than injury – strange. Till 7 years ago I think people were scared to even take an accident victim to the hospital as they could get needlessly involved in a long drawn police case . The law later passed absolved good Samaritans of any problems, and things became relatively easier .
Kindness seems odd to mandate. We all know instinctively what must be done in case there is an emergency or assistance required , but somehow get better at responding to that kindness in a group. All alone, and no one to count who’s standing, there is an increasing reluctance to lend a hand -Both for our own safety and the inability to showcase one’s kindness to an audience. My kindness is limited to time spans that I am free , and also to the typical convent school education that we have had , stepping aside for an older person in the elevator, helping someone to pick up scattered belongings . But this isn’t selfless. I also feel irritation when someone I have assisted at a department store to pick up all their bags , does not even acknowledge the gesture with a simple thanks.
I am no angel, nor am I the King. We need the barest of excuses to give up kindness. . I deeply feel what he says when he wants the innate desire to help to be protected at all costs. One day it could be you and me out there , and that is an awful argument to use , and a selfish point of view, but nonetheless true. And what do we want to have done unto us? Do we want our neighbour to cruise by, assuming I am a potential murderer and thief and that by helping , s/he is only causing himself inconvenience and pain ? I do what I can, but I do try my best . I hope I do not become so hard as to walk away when it matters.
Despite the headlines, I still hope that you and I can continue to depend on the kindness of strangers.
(First Published in Bangalore Miirror - My Views )

Just Another Day

2008-03-16T21:41:00.002+05:30

Too much made about these Days, I hear – Father's Day , Valentines Day , Women's Day . Possibly .

I read with interest articles on why on earth we need a special day for women . Much of it true. Another drop in the ocean, another way to be able to make a noise , albeit for a short while.

But here’s what I think . I too don’t believe that one day doesn’t suffice to celebrate or address women of this world. Maybe 365 would do . For the urban , privileged, the off the cuff reaction is ‘ C’mon. Why all the fuss, hey why don’t we have a Men’s Day too ‘. (Well for one, men don’t need the leg up.) It seems a little indulgent , maybe a tad self conscious – to go to seminars and walks and events to celebrate women, ourselves. Or then again, maybe not .

Women Leadership and Empowerment , albeit from a corporate perspective, is an important issue with me. At several of these events , there are women who are listening , who haven’t realized that other women have similar experiences , problems, concerns, and they grow stronger with that knowledge They talk to the experts, listen to role models, they pick up advice , and many go back , validated , relieved , empowered, a trifle more centred , and happier . They know how much better off they are compared to many of their rural, poorer sisters who have not the luxury of discussion or debate, just the fight for existence. .

At one event , one young woman spoke impassionedly about the guilt she feels. Guilt when she walks in through the door after work , and looks at her husband , child and mother in law. Time away from them is time she cannot justify , but she is economically independent . 50 other women respond as one. They know how she feels , all of us do . And she has to take ownership for her own life and space in the modern world, and she has to stop letting other push her buttons. A 50 year old woman is keen to get to work , but she did a year in an NGO before she was married, and its been 25 years since then . Who will employ a 50 year old, she says and her perplexed husband is asking her why work NOW . So is she , but she thinks she wants to , but she doesn’t know why . A few hours bonding with other women present , and she is stronger , and she realized she is ‘allowed ‘ her time in the sun, and now, she now knows how. If just these two women felt stronger , better , I think it would be worth it . And if the woman’s husband just feels like he should order in dinner to treat his wife for the day as a token , maybe that isn’t such a bad thing either .

Of course its foolish to have just one day dedicated to Women ,and maybe we should legislate 365. Of course it doesn’t make all the ills women face go away , it doesn’t address the sickening issue of female feticide, the appalling fear in which many women live, the abuse and fear some face. Marketing promotions, special offers at supermarkets, pubs, boutiques and shops may undermine the importance of the event , and convert into a gigantic circus, but its superficial-ness does not take away that it is well meaning , it’s a spotlight , provides a platform, its gets focus on women’s issues . While we may pick up the candy floss, we also need to get the structure and foundations right . Lets suppose we are able to address 3.6 % of the issues faced by that one day and its resultant conferences , seminars and boring speeches, the centre stage that it brings women. Oughtn’t we fix all the 100% at one shot , and isn’t this all tokenism , you might say . The fact that because of the one silly day you and I look differently at our maids, our friends, and perhaps some of the less fortunate, is a tip of the iceberg . However, I think we should step back, be a tad less churlish and let that 3.6% percent happen. World Hunger Day hasn’t stopped Ethipia, but maybe its made a dent . That’s good.

There are dark places in this room, and there are some corners smoldering with age old neglect and fear that is fetid . Here is candle that is lit in this near corner, flickering shadows off the ceiling . Yes, we absolutely do need to light up the whole room, harshly expose the whole space , scrub the fungus off the walls, pull down the smelly walls perhaps, Surely extinguishing that one happy candle in the room isn’t quite going to save the world . On the other hand, on the off chance that it might, perhaps we could just let it burn .

My views – lets get the electricians , fix up the fluorescent tube lights, lets clean up -but in the meanwhile , there’s no need to blow this candle out.

Rani , the Traffic Dog

2008-03-16T21:38:00.003+05:30

There she is on the mid right of the picture -a small dot curled up under the traffic umbrella, if you can spot her .

I first saw her crossing our road soon after we moved home. It was just past 8 am . She sniffed at , but ignored the biscuits I had scattered for her , but moved on to the traffic signal . All the school traffic, crisscrossing cars , pedestrians , I was a little worried . She curled up near the traffic umbrella, right at the middle of the road . And then returned to pacing , much like a mother waiting for her carousing son to return home. Not overtly anxious, and seemingly in control , but intently listening, ears straining, to any sound or sight that signified the return of the prodigal. Her tension was palpable. Up down up down. And then 8.30 am the Traffic Policeman arrived . She greeted him with relief , but with restraint and dignity , and promptly settled down at his feet , as he started his day guiding traffic , and went to sleep . The anxiety was now history .

That was my first introduction to Rani , the pragmatic High Grounds Canine Traffic Mascot .

She is an indeterminate furry tan , triangular ears, black nose and swishy tail. She doesn’t look like anything special , just your average ,well maintained street dog . But she’s a dog on duty .

I watch her nearly every day as I get to work . The routine is the same , day after day . If her informal owner is a little late signing in , she moves up , and waits discreetly outside High Grounds Police Station , and then accompanies him at a safe distance to his place of work -wherever he is stationed that day . There is no great moment or display of canine affection , even a bark or lick to signify pleasure or belonging . I watch the daily routine from my car , waiting for the signal to change to green , always a little worried that she should not come to harm. With the ease born of long experience, she moves across busy traffic , crossing effortlessly , almost casually weaving through whizzing cars, but anxiously picking up pace if she sees the uniforms moving elsewhere . But quietly and efficiently , she is never more than two feet way from one or the other pair of khaki clad legs. I think Sundays and late nights are her worst times. Neither is her Traffic Cop in chief there , nor the Second in Command. She goes off to curl up somewhere , I am sure , but have no idea where .

But I know she back on duty at 7 am pacing the road , more focused than an attendance register . I have never again attempted to feed her after her several dignified rebuffs, and I know they take care of her . One day , after I found her missing for over a week and asked one of the policemen on duty – who though initially taken aback , immediately suggested I should adopt her ( yeah right, but has he met CJ the killer spaniel !) . I asked him her name , and he looked nonplussed – "Er um , no name as such , but I think we call her umm ..Rani’ . Good, now I have a name, I thought . Rani was back to duty the following week, this time with a bright red collar , but that too mysteriously disappeared a week later , and I must say she looked a little demoted in rank . She has got her own beat , she is sensitive to changes in traffic lanes , which traffic island is the shadiest in the afternoon heat . Rani is one cool dude .

One Sunday afternoon, the bossman caught us for a traffic offense. We didn’t know that a traffic light had been introduced that day on an earlier free right , and the policeman chased us down to stop. I looked at him appalled , while he licked his pencil to start writing the challan. First , I was in the right , I thought ( I wasn’t , but I didn’t know that ! ) and second , this was Rani’’s boss man , and therefore , our friend by canine relationship. "But the rule is new – you know its been implemented today. Moreover, ( as if he ought to know, and it was the final argument ), I am Rani’s friend. How can you book us? ". Now its his turn to look completely taken aback . CJ my spaniel , bent on protecting me, adds to the ruckus by perching at the car window, screaming choice canine abuse at an impassive Rani , who looked at her stoically , but still moved just trifle closer to boss man . The policeman is unused to large, voluble women jumping out of cars , claiming friendship with his dog . Bosses yes, DGPs, sure , Goons sometimes, Ministers maybe, but a dog ? That’s a first . His mouth and eyes widen appreciatively, and he waves us on . I think he will have an interesting anecdote for his colleagues and wife that evening ! Rani gets up , and pads after the Bossman , who is now chasing down yet another hapless culprit .

The picturesque High Grounds Police station has just been torn down, the traffic rules have been radically changed , there is mayhem at peak hours. I think Rani is confused , her job portfolio has changed , and sometimes I see her skittering away when a truck bears down on her , but the sight of familiar pair of khaki clad legs settles her down.

So when you see the familiar sight of a standard issue tan dog, alertly lying at a traffic umbrella on Palace Road , ensure you follow all those constantly changing traffic signals. Rani the Traffic Dog is on duty.

Doggy Blogs

2008-02-10T23:43:00.000+05:30

http://adoptstrays.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default
Lots of stuff about animals that need to be adopted in India. So nicely done

Anand Chhaya - a story of a good deed gone horribly wrong , and 170 dogs starving until we clean up all the paperwork required http://anandchhaaya.blogspot.com/. Need to raise some funds for this.

Not Being Shahrukh

2008-02-03T22:01:00.000+05:30

I’m so glad my brilliant husband listened to his mother , and stayed out of the film industry . Also Sports, the Music industry , TV, and the Arts . Poor chap , he was forced to turn , broken and battered , to the lowly worlds of Engineering and Management like all thwarted wannabe true achievers/celebrities do. We could just have had a ShahRukh in residence , but it was just not meant to be. Sigh .

After ShahRukh Khan being served a notice for sneaking a cigarette puff in the recent 20-20 cricket match , I admit I am seriously concerned. I have frequently called in my husband in from the balcony at home , while he is having a quiet ShahRukh moment , in the worry that we will have groups of activists and lawyers from ASH ( Association against Smoking at Home ) , clambering up the pipe , hissing legalese and pulling out rule books and Lung Xrays to throw at him . His adoring public could be seriously affected , I gently remonstrate with him. He really ought to be careful . My husband wryly tells me that his viewer-ship for the nonce is limited to the two pigeons perched on the air-conditioner , and the next door gardener . Never mind , I reassure him , this base that he must abide by. The long suffering look on the usually impassive spousal countenance deepens, for some reason. He also mutters that if someone pays him an 8 crore endorsement fee , he would definitely try and cope with the pigeons (two ) and gardener .

Look at the other superstar , Amitabh Bachhan . He was served a notice for posing, horror of horrors , on a movie poster, smoking. I understand that he is a non smoker , a teetotaler and vegetarian , but that is neither here nor there. I also hear that he was portraying a gangster warlord, and was merely trying to look the type. Pshaw, I say , pshaw. The undeniable fact is that SUPARI , the premier association for retired gangsters, took strong objections to the typecasting of their community , and confirmed categorically that no less that 76 % of their brethren were non smokers. The incorrect depiction of the members has caused them much pain and suffering . They are considering their legal options. That one AB poster led hordes of loyal fans like myself , screaming and shoving, to the nearest paan-beedi shop, buying up stocks of the cancer stick , like it was going out of style . I understand the concerned cancer stick companies were considering a ‘buy one get one free’ offer to those who carried the poster to the paan – beedi shop but were thwarted by their legal team . The lawyers who have observed the increasingly militant stance of the concerned organization ( popularly referred to as Look Ma, No Lungs ! ) thought it could be a possible smoke out. Hmm , I need to think about what I have just said, or first show this draft to my lawyer .

One really must be mindful of one’s image and public these days. Look at my Dad for example . A retired Army Colonel , he had been frequently seen sporting a dapper pair of shorts , on a non sports day ( I must admit they are starched, ironed, four pockets and belted ) , and although I have gently chided him to wear appropriate attire , he barely listened. Well, once the strong letter from the Association of Moral People against Display of Arthritic Knees (AMPADAK) arrived ,he sat up and took notice, I must say . Though I do feel that his wearing two trousers , three pairs of socks, and long sleeved shirts with a spiffy cravat, is a trifle over the top. In fact he has even been asking me for a Balaclava. The trouble is they just don’t listen. And then – they simply cave.

My spaniel CJ is in the doldrums too , and can be spotted tripping dejectedly over her own long ears. It seems that her enthusiastic and loud singing along , in a manner of speaking, to the well known ‘Happy Birthday to you’ ( it could well be ‘ Hips Don’t Lie ‘ , but one cannot really commit on this one ) has created a distinct pressure in and around. I hear that Elders from the shadowy BARC ( Brethren against Raucous Caterwauling ) have been spotted , shaking their head , pursing their lips , and getting into a distinct huddle around the conference room . We fear the worst . Our legal team shares that due to her long spaniel ears , and her possible inability to listen to her own vociferous vocal support , she deserves more pity than censure . In fact , he suggests , we could even put in a counter suit , suing them for insensitivity to her disability . But we resign ourselves to the inevitable. She might well be sentenced to go , unaccompanied , to the Trinity School of Music , in London , for upto a year .

My maid has now asked me for the name of a good lawyer as well . She got a stiff note from the Society Against Clothes Hanging in Public Places (SACH-App) and has tearfully sworn to their Treasurer , that a drying wet towel , saree or sheet will never grace our home balcony again . However , her frenzied attempts to enter a small clothing shop and tear a well draped saree off the glass display counter while we went Diwali Shopping recently, was certainly a trifle excessive, and I have reassured her that a Society has not been formed for that as yet . ( I didn’t tell her that I had heard rumors of a retired insurance adjustor in Telpur, who has been trying to rally support for this cause as well ) Her sobs of relief were tragic to hear .

I must admit I hesitate to complete this article . Certain persons well acquainted with those in high places have whispered in my ear that the formation of the Bangalore Chapter of BARF ( Blowaway Authors of Ridiculous Fiction ) , could well throw a spanner in the works . Dear , gentle readers, bear with me while I recoup on this one. Or until the resident Shahrukh finishes working on his Six Pack and Smoldering Gaze .

Heroes in Waiting ...

2008-02-03T21:24:00.000+05:30

The daily grind instead makes cowards of us ..

I come back home, and the silence near the security area , instead of the usual welcoming leap and bark of Bonzie the community pup who was stolen earlier this year , hits me . Its been 3 months and my heart tugs worrying about where and how she is . I have called to remind the police station , have re – sent mails to friends and relatives with the picture . The " Pup Missing’’ poster with her bright eyed picture ‘ is faded and peeling near the building entrance. The mobile rings and I focus on the call, and I walk through my front door .

I haven’t followed through enough , and that reminds me what a coward- in-waiting I am .
As I get older, I see daily tragedies of incomplete opportunities, of incorrect prioritization, and the sadness of " I should have ". Knowing doesn’t change the reality , knowing that you do what you can, not what you should.

Do we view ourselves as essentially kind and decent people ?You can be good , do the right thing , but do you follow through ? Does experience make you nervous, cynical, resistant, lazy about going out of your way ?
I don’t know.

When I was 11 or 12 , I ran up to a teenager in a tonga who was mercilessly whipping his pregnant mare , while the wounded animal whinnied in pain. In rage, I yelled at him to stop , and when he didn’t , I caught the whip and hit him instead . Abuses and threats followed and he moved away quickly when my mother emerged , but stayed within visual range long enough for me to see that he was taking it out even more vengefully on the horse . I can still see his grinning face at the end of our road . I knew that the horse was going to get a further whipping later . And that was a realization that it wasn’t black and white . Righteousness could be misplaced, slayed dragons would breathe fire again . I was crushed – but maybe I should not have been so impetuous in my anger at the unfairness of it all . I felt I had done right , but the mare was the one who paid .

The same thing happened with animals that passed our old house , being taken to the abbatoir . I just could not understand how cruelty was being heaped on a animal that was going to die anyway . I had my moment of rage , but the owner would just hit harder when I was out of sight . There was a little I could do .

About 10 years ago , when I heard a young maid at the house behind us , crying bitterly etc, I intervened with the nice mother of two, that the little girl had some rights too , and she should not hit or abuse her . After a couple of chats across the two bungalows, I stopped hearing the cries, and was glad that I had been assertive on this . I was wrong . My maid told me that ( possibly mortified and angered by my interference ) the family simply sent back the girl to her village. Her father was very poor farmer with 8 children, and could not afford to feed her , and she was sent to Bombay with some relative, and like many others , was never heard of again. Intervention, righteousness and do – gooding, said my maid Why didn’t you just let it be. At least she had two meals a day , and a safe roof over her head . I hear the unsaid reference to our Ivory Tower , and I cringe inside .

The little children at traffic signals, the drooping druggedl ittle heads lolling from their ‘mother’s ‘ arms , dangerous trapeze acts or sometimes simply begging are especially difficult to handle . I see a 3 year old crying bitterly , but with his hand still stuck out , weaving dangerously between vehicles , pushed further by his older ‘brother ‘, who is maybe 7 years . The familiar helpless anger comes over me as I look at the tear streaked face of the boy , and I roll down my window ( A five rupee coin held ready though) and yell at the brother to stop bullying the toddler and take him back to safety . The signal changes and the car pulls away . My head is skewed back to see them, and I see the brother using the steel ring for his circus act to hit the tyke on his back . He catches my eye , grins, and hits him some more . Rich Memsahib has a voice, huh ? But woh kya karegi , she’s gone now right ? Yes, I am . And after few minutes of familiar clenching frustration, my mind glances away to focus on the appointment I am delayed for . Cowards in waiting .

But that evening , I see a TV advertisement for a publication , showing a familiar traffic jam , honking vehicles and frustrated commuters. The politician predictably finds a way to slime out of it . Alone. A small , curious school boy works through labyrinth of vehicles ,and finds that a fallen tree trunk straddling the road is the culprit . Others slowly join in when they see the determined youngster and in the pouring rain , it is fabulous to see the magic of collective action ( if not me, then who? ) . Needless to say , the tree trunk is collectively shifted , the traffic moves, and there is a happy ending . My heart lifts .

And there are heroes in waiting – quiet ones who just believe what they believe . Daily dal-roti heroes . Yesterday I read about a van filled with dogs enroute to Hyderabad ( to be made into something disgustingly called bow-wow biryani ) being noticed, chased down, and apprehended by a couple of animal activists who turned them into the police. I notice the names of the persons who chased them down . I know one of them . She is a tiny thing , soft spoken and perhaps one of the gentlest persons I know . But this woman saw the suffering dogs , and pushed herself to chase down and take on 3-4 men in the van . And she succeeded . She rescued the dogs, got the police and corporation attention and went back to her life of daily quiet heroism . Kudos, Sujaya .
I haven’t found the answers, and I admit its too uncomfortable to keep searching . But I want to hear of the Sujayas , the schoolboy with the fallen tree. Coward-In-waiting , I want to hear stories of courage of conviction, because who knows, one day , I might get it right , too .

Maa Tujhe Salaam

2008-02-03T20:43:00.000+05:30

For mothers and daughters - for remembrance, loss and for life

Three best friends sat chatting over this weekend , discussing how scary it was that we were becoming just like our mothers . All of us are neither 18 nor at college anymore . Life has taken us to different countries and mindspaces . But when we come together, its still like the old days , giggling at sleepovers , talking about everything and nothing till 3 am in the morning . Respective Moms groggily coming in to the bedroom and asking us what on earth do we find to chat about so late , and do we need to sleep or not ? And then indulgently offering a cup of hot chai, or a whack on the head All three of us have now lost our mothers in our adult lives . Somewhere in the transition of chatting like teenagers and cribbing about our moms as kids, we became our moms. All three of us – I see it . Maybe earlier we were defensive about it , but right now , Viveka, Nilam , if someone sneers we are becoming like our moms, I’ll darn well take it as a compliment .
We have spent time being mother-henned, loved and bullied by each other’s moms, and when we three look back at that suddenly empty space in our lives, we realize just how much of our childhood has gone. We are grown , we have our own homes and families , but there is a big hole that remains in a way few will understand , who haven’t felt the same loss . Childhood is not an age , it’s a feeling - a feeling of cocoon, comfort and innocence, a warm lap you can bury your head in . And however strong , you are never more bereft , and lonely and adult than when you lose your mother .

January 31st would be thirteen years since the death of my mother . It happened suddenly over a period of two weeks, a short illness where we just had time to swallow that this was for real , and that she would be gone forever . She was sweet , big hearted and ironically she died of complications from diabetes and a enlarged heart . She broke my heart . And she never lived to be old .

Unlike most people who believe that death lends instant halo to a departed soul, I have no illusions about this very fallible , completely madcap, and hugely warm woman . But I loved her , edges and all , from my gut . It was an unquestioning love, visceral fights , big hugs , magic moments and all. Its difficult to define a mothers love, and the sometimes claustrophobic living inside each others heads . Its difficult to explain the look of pain mirrored in her eyes when things sometimes start falling apart in your life. The sacrifice , the desire to want the best for you , the constant worry, the last hot phulka that always seemed to appear on my plate . Each high , each joy, each disappointment was intensified and lived through in her own life , and its like playing your life through an amplifier . I look back at all the things I took for granted .
Looking through her hand bag after she died , I found the tattered news clippings of the few articles and poems that I had published when I was teenager . She had kept every single one, and I cringe with embarrassment to think of how many people she must have shown the puerile stuff to . I found my report cards , my first visiting card, the letters written to her on school and college holidays, my baby booties . Holding the oft opened press clippings that day, with the scent of lavender and mothballs rather than the scent of life wafting around me , I sat down and wept for her, for the finality of it all, for my loss , for life . But she was fiercely proud of me, of my small successes , my every progress and independence . She truly believed that the sun shone out of my eyes , and was foolishly convinced, like all mothers are , that I was destined for great happiness and high places . However embarrassed I was , I must admit she gave me whatever confidence I possess .

She could be in your face, she was funny , silly , nonsensical ,loved people, was a friend in a million – you could always count on her , but was easily hurt . She found joy and laughter in small things, lived life kingsize , could be happy with next to nothing , would never let my father and I sulk for too long ( we both had ticklish feet, you see ) , had a big laugh that was hard not to join in , had a temper and a half, would run your life if you let her , but was intensely protective of her own. Impulsive, well dressed , ( Beta , are you wearing that ?!!) she loved parties , was a great cook , and took her duties as an Army wife seriously. Her life was completely consumed by her husband and daughter . Your regular garden-variety mom . And suddenly the house that rocked with that vibrant life force, bubble and laughter became silent , and quiet spaces slowly became voids that could never be filled.

I see glimpses of her face sometimes, when I look into the mirror these days, and I wonder , if like me, she felt the swoosh of the sand in the hourglass . I realize she must have been a person too, not just a mom. I still hear the echo of her laughter , and her delighted voice almost shriek my name when I occasionally would call her from work to say hello .I would twinge with embarrassment . ‘Mooom, pleeeeease , stop IT’. It was so easy to make her happy . But its an echo now , and a memory .

Despite the passage of years , there are some things I still cannot do , without being wrenched . I cannot watch her favorite majestic crimson gulmohar trees explode with the advent of summer without remembering her . I can never pass a tailor without recalling the number of times she chided me regarding missing pieces to be stitched in my wardrobe. I can never hear the rain lash at a window without remembering her face pressed against the glass, fall with anxiety for the homeless people and dogs out there ( while I would go outside to do my Snoopy Happy Dance ) . I cannot hear the word Beta without turning around and looking for her . I cannot see a film or news clipping about the 1947 Partition without remembering her tears at leaving her homeland as a little child . I could not understand her pain then , but I think I do now. I cannot hear AR Rahman’s Maa Tujhe Salaam , without closing my eyes , and mentally sketching a salute to a great mom . I cannot open a Tarla Dalal cook book in my bookshelf that illegible, sprawling writing on the flyleaf, saying ‘Dearest Darling Priya, Happy Birthday ! This year , you MUST learn cooking , Beta. Love lots , Mom. ‘’ without grinning .
I still can’t cook.

There are too many memories clamped between my ears and years , and I think many things still to say , that weren’t said . I know , that all grown up and independent today , whenever and wherever I take a small step forward , even now, in my mind , I hope I am making her proud and happy with the daughter she raised .

And thanks Mom , it was a helluva ride. From all three of us , (although we would have been happy to stay kids for little longer ) :

This one’s for you, Mom .

I dont want to blog

2008-01-20T23:26:00.000+05:30

After Bonzie went missing , I cant seem to write a post , or get back to this page . When I do , I see the bright coloured , happy pictures of the kids and Bonzie , and it breaks my heart.

I haven't moved on really, but at least I can find the stomach to pick at the scabs when I returned here today .

New Years Eve..

2008-01-20T23:13:00.000+05:30

New Years Eve …
For whom the Bell Tolls
Lets be rational - Its just another day in the year .

But there is something about New Years Eve that gets my eyes popping, heart racing and entire ganglions going nggggggg in a straight line. I am quite convinced that I have to give an account to someone upon high , and state name , age , qualifications, in addition to a quick but thorough summary of what I have achieved in the last 365 days. I can hardly say I washed the dishes , and watched American Idol .

New Year's eve is like every other night; there is no pause in the march of the universe, no breathless moment of silence among created things that the passage of another twelve months may be noted; and yet no person has quite the same thoughts this evening that come with the coming of darkness on other nights. ~Hamilton Wright Mabie

I admit it . New Years Eve makes me frantic.

Teetering as I am on the fine line between today’s report card results , and getting ready for the next grade , I have enough time to nervously gulp and swallow, and figure out whether I have saved the world as yet or not . Turns out I missed out by a whisker on that one. So that’s still on my check list , I am afraid .

Friends take pains to avoid me, picking up their skirts in a marked manner and quickly swishing past before I accost them with an impassioned eulogy on the Meaning Of Life. At my second querulous iteration of " But WHAT are We doing here ", or ‘Who am I really ?’ , ( while firmly holding a Frank Kafka book ) , some run off to the nearest restroom, holding sal volatile to their nose . Some gift me with a plaster reproduction of Rodin’s Thinker , in the hope that I would focus my energies on the statuette , and understand that if indeed the pained expression on his face came from thinking , it was clearly better to suffer indigestion instead . Others assure me that the adage " I think, therefore I am ‘ was not meant to be taken literally by me , and I could now go and lie down, and give my tiny but overworked tired brain a rest .

I understand completely why people madly party to drown out the sounds of a quietly dying old year , and the promise to a young , yet untested new year . Charles Lamb , in his eponymous essay on New Years Eve captures the sentiments beautifully :
EVERY man hath two birth-days; two days, at least, in every year, which set him upon revolving the lapse of time, as it affects his mortal duration. The one is that which in an especial manner he termeth his. In the gradual desuetude of old observances, this custom of solemnizing our proper birth-day hath nearly passed away, or is left to children, who reflect nothing at all about the matter, nor understand any thing in it beyond cake and orange. But the birth of a New Year is of an interest too wide to be pretermitted by king or cobbler. No one ever regarded the First of January with indifference. It is that from which all date their time, and count upon what is left. It is the nativity of our common Adam.

New Years Eve indeed makes a temporary monster out of me. Normally sanguine, I am assailed my doubts and sense of wanting to make up for lost time. The door to the next room is ajar ahead of me, but I want to stay in the room for longer – there are so many corners I have not explored , and I haven’t even admired the antique furniture , the carved ceiling, or dusted the cobwebs on the mantelpiece . And most importantly , I can see the sand inexorably running down the hourglass. But sometimes that’s what we want , to have that one chance to again rearrange , create and pack into the last 12 months all the things that we hoped to be, wanted to accomplish , hoped to achieve .

New Years Eve mails I receive from others typically read : ‘Dear Friend , Here’s wishing you a happy new year . Best wishes for Happiness, Peace and Prosperity . Regards , X ‘ . In the meanwhile I write long paeans padded with ponderous quotes about the year past , unfinished business and new beginnings. Nervous recipients write back to appreciate the mail , and also to make gentle queries into the last time I visited my psychiatrist or counselor . They talk me about the benefits of Prozac , and the tremendous advantages of joining a remote Asiatic sect , which focuses on a quick blow to the head as initiation ceremony and blessings. It’s a very secretive group, they whisper , but they kindly promise to send me the website , and the Chief Head Banger Monk’s mobile as well . It’s a wonder that I have not sent half my email address book into either a cycle of depression and a psychiatrists couch , or perhaps made them into madly motivated dervishes working maniacally on mile long to-do lists . Start points among the first 100 could include :

Item 1 : Stop World Hunger . Item 2 : Ensure World Peace . Item 3 : Be nice to the pesky neighbor and his wife . Item 4: Be a better Person . Item 5 : Let there be Love , Peace and Goodwill to all Mankind .Item 6 : Will to do that African Safari this year . Item 7 : Get India’s growth rate into the double digits. Item 8 : Lose weight , or negotiate bulk liposuction rates from friendly neighborhood cosmetic surgeon .

You see what I mean .
Me, I am starting with easiest one on my list .
I am going to save the world.
It’s a little late now , so perhaps I will get right to it after breakfast tomorrow.

The Simple Things ..

2007-07-11T23:48:00.001+05:30

The simple things

Warm flaky croissants, curved on your plate with a dab of melting
butter.The aroma of the accompanying hot coffee.

Piping hot phulkas, straight from the tava, with yellow daal, aloo
mutter, a dangerous green chili to bite into in between .

The first cup of tea in the morning, with a couple of crisp rusks, the
hot fluid sipped with great reverence. Aaah.

The wiggle-snuggle down into your quilt, and the soft whirr of the
fan, as you drift into sleep .

C o m f o r t .

The wet nose of your spaniel, and her snuffly breathing , as she
burrows into the nook of your arm, as you awake.

Yep, the simple things.

Car Pooling Website - Greening of Bangalore

2007-06-20T16:46:00.000+05:30

I got this link on car and bike pooling from a ecologically tuned in buddy .Commute Easy is a website that allows you to car pool , set up a buddy network , figure out logistics and costs , and also tips you on car pooling etiquette . Don't forget we are still new at the formal car pooling system ! We have had informal system for years , but with distance growing , and the city bursting , its great to see such an initiative in place . My spouse and I have shared a car and driver for quite a few years as our places of work are adjacent . So yay, we are doing our bit . I know I do tend to hold him up in the mornings as I always have a last minute call or mail to send before I leave. Well, we need to iron out the edges .

It would be great to see the usability statistics of this initiative. and how it growing .

Bangalore leads in Diversity and Inclusion

2007-06-20T00:22:00.000+05:30

I was at a CISCO Diversity and Inclusion Event today . Great panel , excellent breakout sessions, I loved it . IT companies are aggressively and seamlessly carrying in Global Gender Diversity practices, and are increasingly becoming employers of choice for many smart women. Some of the panelists from Dell, Infosys, CISCO, Motorola and IBM were upfront and matter of fact about their company perspective , their own take on the subject , and as importantly its impact on the India of today . Ranjani ranganathan , the effervescent Sr MD of CISCO had some probing questions for the panelists, which got everyone in the audience thinking .
Some of the systems in place in companies like this ( as well as Motorola, Intel, Accenture et al - all Bangalore headquartered, by the way ) like for Mentoring, Leadership, Networking and Growth are truly excellent .
And they truly believe.
The top management truly believes.
I see happy endings. I see awareness . I see it work.
A bit far fetched , all this , and will it really work , said one cynical media person to me . Why not , I said . Things have changed . Its based on the realities of business as usual , certainly not in order to patronise or placate token women in the workforce.

That aside, the business pressures on other companies in India , created by strong organisations like this and India's booming economy is going to result in a far more open ended opportunities for Women, and a seismic shift in perspectives . The bar is being raised , and all women will benefit , as will eventually , the economy . And Bangalore with its plethora of Global IT and Off shoring companies is leading the charge .
I am delighted , I truly think this is fantastic. More power to their elbow . I am rooting for them.

Bangalore , take a bow.

I think there is going to be tremendous scope for the Womens Business Council (WBC) at the Indo America Chamber of Commerce (IACC) if we just get these wonderful heads together - why reinvent the wheel ?

Bonzie aka Blackie Update

2007-06-19T23:21:00.001+05:30

Refer earlier post on the arrival of Blackie, the smarty-pants /Apartment Invader/Pup.

Here are a couple of updates.

She is now called Bonzie, because we think she should be a Bonzie. Not Bonzi because thats a boys name . The 'e' is definitive .

She has g r o w n .

She has three proud ( but young ) sponsors in the building who are delighted to play , feed and look after her , much to the chagrin of their parents . As you can see, to young Abbas, Shraddha and Ain , she is pretty much still a PUPPY!

She thinks she's a baby , and will submit to being carried around for hours!

She does not have blue eyes - its just the camera !

Coltish and lithe, she is Queen of the Porch , and is warmly welcoming of all building visitors. Noise levels are deplorable.

I think my entire building hates me for letting her be , but she is so cute ! The kids love her .

She has a little record book from CUPA which confirms that she has had all her rabies, lepto and distemper shots , and that she belongs to the Building Association . She is due for spaying next month (ouch!)
She is great buddy with next door neighbour Prashanth's six month rescue pup, Ginger . Watching them roll around together , and play - fight till they are exhausted, is really cute . She is feisty , this one.
This does not stop Bonzie from a deep desire to explore the neighbours garbage dump .Three determined and undignified baths by Ain have still not fazed her.
She has had her smart green collar and leash taken away three times by the neighbouring building's security guard . Once, I hear , a box/can was tied to her tail , much to my Army dad's fury. Perhaps for above reason. I still think its mean , because without a collar or license attached to the collar , the Corporation/Pound could seize her or put her down because they think she is stray and dangerous.

After Whitey passed away , in some way , Bonzie is perhaps my chance at redemption.

I hope she finds a good and permanent owner/home soon.

Looking .

Flying cheaper skies, Part 2

2007-06-15T21:11:00.001+05:30

Enroute to Mumbai now.
Air Deccan this time.
We arrive at 6 pm for a 7 pm flight- I wear a halo, as I have never been this early. Of course the flight is 20 minutes late. Or 'tawnndie minnids' as the Air Deccan ground staff tells me.My husband asks me if they have separate lounge seating for the Cheapie, sorry Low Cost Airlines. I think I'm seeing the emergence of a new caste (cawst? ) system , but on an airline platform.Important sociological trend,methinks . I think my significant other is being politically incorrect. I think its possible he's not a very nice person.

There are serpentine, winding queues (separated in an undulating way by high cawst/low cawst boarding passes). It takes ages to reach the window. We start the boarding process, packed 50 to a bus, seemingly traveling miles and miles in fits and stop-starts to reach a row of 6 identical Air Deccan planes. In mofussil buses and planes, how do we know we've got the right one , he mutters worriedly. To confirm his suspicions, an Air Deccan groundsman , runs past, saying 'Bombay,Bombay', and the entire busload runs helter skelter along with him,hopefully to the right plane . Free seating in low-cawst, r'member? We now board the airline, Yellow and Blue air hostess Anu smiles n welcomes us in and we find some free seats.. Good so far. Husband starts to look human. Neighbour in window seat and bright orange shirt in gets his laptop out , after stepping over both our aching feet. Sorry to disteb maydom, but I vaant to use my laptop. I'm impressed, and I immediately also whip out my HP iPAQ, to also keep up with Vadivels. I blogin a serious and focused way. What on earth is he doing , whispers Signigficant Other. I glance over - n see him with an Excel sheet typing in numbers madly. Making crores as we speak,I'm sure . We are all being politically incorrect, tch.

Enroute to Bby for my sister in law's birthday today. SO and I sport black t -shirts saying 'Happy Birthday,Liz', with a cheesy TIME magazine cover shot of her n my niece. The SO (Significant Other) is embarassed, I'm not. When I went thu physical security check , the lady guard curiously asks me who's the photo. She smiles delightedly as I explain. She thinks its fun. SO is looking increasingly glum. Yelling 'surprise' in identical tshirts to the delighted Birthday girl does not redeem the awfulness of it all. In his eyes, he has established himself as a sensation seeker , an exhibitionist, no less, and is trying to avoid meeting anyones eyes.. Wearing matching tshirt with the wife is giving him much trauma. He starts to trip on his chin.

Hyuk. Wait till the unwilling exhibitionist reaches the Mumbai airport and finds even his brother who's picking us up, wearing one.

Burrp, a new Food review site

2007-06-13T20:55:00.000+05:30

I liked this one .

A friendly, fun India Food review site http://www.burrp.com/ that I chanced upon today . Has reviews on restaurants et al in Bangalore, Mumbai, Calcutta and I think Chennai . Has a nice building -block , light, collaborative feel to it .I logged in as allhail , and I wrote two sample reviews on (you guessed it Vijay !) Kadambam and Infinitea . Check out my profile at Bangalore Burrp. http://bangalore.burrp.com/user/allhail

Masala House - Review

2007-06-13T17:15:00.000+05:30

Dear friends arrived from cyclone torn Muscat , and a restaurant caled Masala House on Cunningham Road was brought up as an option to catch up and spend time .

Never heard of it , but what the hell , sounded exotic, thought we would give it a shot . Seems to be a plethora of these old bungalows that have been converted to swish new restaurants , all formal seating and soft cushions. Masala House in a little lane next to Accenture office on Cunningham Road. You could blink and miss it . Nice ambiance , pleasant service .

Ordered three different items, after the arrival Assorted Tikka Platter ( exquisite !) while we waited for our friends to arrive . A brinjal thingy , a Chicken in Coriander and a Fish in Mustard . All the gravies ( when they did finally arrive ) were identical . Thick red tomato base with either coriander or strong mustard. This despite asking for clear details on the dish composition .( my keen gourmet sense veers between - ' so is it a green gravy base or a red one. oh-ohkay its white , hmm right , sorry' ) .

Rotis ( the Indian bread assortment , saw-reee!) arrived sporadically .Most of the time we had a radidly congealing gravy on our plate with nothing to eat it with , and frantic signals to the waiters ( all looking studiously down at drinks menu , or the bills ) were in vain. I do hate that when food arrives in instalments. These tiny restaurants like Aangan and Queens (fabulous home type food - the paapdi chaat and the tangdi kababs have been couriered from heaven ) on Church Street are so quick, and efficient . Side dishes and regular roti updates from keen-eyed waiters ensure a nice meal . Average desserts a Masala House - rasamalai , and hot gulab jamoon.

Dishes were average to expensive at Rs 220-50 a pop , and food apart from being flatly the same, was so-so. Good , not outstanding .

Maybe for starters / or snacky evening next time, but would pass for a meal .

Twice bitten thrice shy BCCI scouts for an Executive Search Firm..

2007-06-12T13:05:00.000+05:30

Yet another contendor wiggles out from the dreaded /coveted post - on today's Times of India Front page .

BCCI, a financially strong Cricket body in India requires :
Head – Learning & Development .

The candidate must be :

A strong Media Specialist
Have excellent cricket exposure and should have undertaken similar overseas assignments at Kindergarten , School or College Cricket Training level
Willing to work with the Losing Side
Have good training and coaching abilities. Clucking at players is a positive.
Ability to battle endless press conferences, politicking and internal bickering , in addition to diplomatic management of ageing superstars is an absolute must
Must be able to take in stride , the occasional alleged murder of the Opposing Sides ‘s Head of Learning and development .
Being photogenic, having a swish dress sense and ability to smile for the cameras a definite plus .
Ability to handle late night meetings with the BCCI and patiently listen to endless arguments, counter arguments and retractions required . Most of the confidential discussions take place on the front page of Times of India .
A clear insight and acceptance that everyone in the cricket team, BCCI ecosystem and the Indian 1 billion knows more than you about Coaching the Boys in Blue
An expressed desire to write an autobiography after the assignment would be a distinct negative .
In case cricket exposure limited , previous experience in Hockey, Table Tennis or a Political party may also be considered.

The Search Firm needs to focus on getting the candidate to immediately sign on the dotted line and JOIN. Acceptance or Rejection directly to the Press , immediately disqualifies the candidate .

The Search Fee is payable and contingent on India winning the next World Cup .

Why not say five words, when one will do?

2007-06-10T10:55:00.000+05:30

My husband is the one-word king , and I'm the Ten. (What say, Vijay?) Or as he says, making a long story longer.
Actually ,I have noticed , a lot of 'you know', 'and then' etc when I write. What happened to crisp prose ? I think I write now as I talk . And, it seems, sigh , I talk a lot.
Remind me ,when I next see someone's eye glaze over in the middle of a really interesting (for me, that is) anecdote.

Crisp.
Charles Lamb, Francis Bacon, Erma Bombeck , here I come.

So who is Tulsi anyway ? And whats the brouhaha about ?

2007-06-09T20:05:00.000+05:30

Who is Tulsi ?
Why is the nation analysing to death , the fact that she is going to die on Friday ?
Dying on a TV serial that is.

I don't recall seeing the serial Kyonki Saas bhi Kabhi Bahu thi क्यूंकि सास भी कभी बहु थी ( English translation - A Mother in Law was also once a Daughter in Law )that Tulsi is the chief Protagonist in , but I know several people who are hooked to this daytime Hindi soap. Its a topic of discussion , and generations of women discuss and chat about it . Not being snobbish here , but I have enough English serials ( Heroes, Greys Anatomy , Scrubs) that I am hooked to anyway, to start to create fresh addictions for daytime watch, thanks very much !

I have seen discussion, analyses, criticisms , social commentaries and some interesting blogs on whether Tulsi तुलसी truly embodies the Indian Woman ( yep, I needed to Capitalise, I am afraid ) or not .
Hmm.

Am I missing something important here ?
I think not , I saw one episode an age ago , while I channel surfed , and the perfect hair dos , the symmetrical bindi on the forehead and over the top histrionics got my goat a bit . Not to mention the sweeping music orchestration, and appropriate pre commercial break , dialogue build up . I think I 'll pass.

Ok, so we have lost perfect Tulsi . But producer Ekta Kapoor tells us there will always be a place for her when actress Smriti Irani ( who played Tulsi ) decides to return .

I'm holding my breath.

Tech Acessories - Semi detached

2007-06-09T18:20:00.000+05:30

Why cant Tech accessories stay attached ?

I hate my Sony Ericcson Blue Tooth Hands-free. It is now become a semi detached hands free, ear free . Its plastic earhook ( that allowed me to anchor it around my ear ) has detached and I wear it plugged directly deep into my ear which makes all my hands free sound like the voice is booming in the exact center of my head . Ouch . Repair ? Replace, more likely .

My HP iPAQ ( how I hate that mobile now ) PDA is also now semi detached - as it has had the cover for the touch screen detach (as a small corner chipped, never to return ) , while I was at the airport yesterday . So basically the sensitive screen is lying bare in my bag , and redialling away , and a large number of irate call-ees, have got several blank calls from an insouciant iPAQ . I have tried to get a replacement , but try getting a cplastic over from the site . The shop didn't get this item - its not available on the net . A plastic piece will cost me 500 bucks, its not anyway available and its SO irritating . And if I don't get it , I damage my expensive iPAQ. Call HP , and they look shocked that you actually want to replace the plastic cover, rater than buy a whole new iPAQ. Why don't manufacturers of expensive de-daddles make less flimsy stuff or give you a spare .

I lost the iPAQ mobile stylus, and apart from not being available , I found it costs Rs 1500 for that slim plastic stick. Hmpf. I could buy a Reliance Mobile with 3 months talk time for that . But I do make a funny picture scabbling in the mud , or the road where I last walked ,by looking frantically for a black piece of plastic. My office security have got used to me running back from the lift to the porch , as I often drop it when I reach the building and get out of the car .

A fancy piece of leather luggage has arrived , but the zip has detached . The EFFORT to get it fixed .

Why are accessories so darn difficult ? Can't they just stay where they should ? I have got a stress knot in my forehead that will get a bulldozer to remove .

Is there some one up on high who is listening ?

An M-blog for Bustling Cyberabad

2007-06-08T19:15:00.000+05:30

Please note I am mobile blogging - such a techie-whiz , i tell you!

Just a day in the city, but impressions are crowded. Big buildings ,flyovers, bustling pace, eclectic bright people, fancy hotels, global brands everywhere.
Yes , I must agree Bangalore has some competition.
Sitting at 7 pm in another low cost airline indigo air , wider seats as its an Airbus, i'm all fr zip- zap economy travel. Flight departs at 7.40pm , but at 7.20 pm everyone is in. Very effecient . Business class, why Bother?

Flying Cheaper Skies

2007-06-08T11:00:00.001+05:30

Changing Face of Flying

Am enroute to Hyderabad today. Sitting at the airport, one can see how
things have changed since the airline industry has opened up. There is
an eclectic mix of people, every seat in the lounge is taken, attire
is far more casual than business, and people are younger. Yes, queues
are gargantuan though ,and the Bangalore airport, poorly structured
as it already is, groans under the additional traffic. Differently hued
airline uniforms - the in your face Kingfisher Red and Deccan yellow
, and the more sedate blues of Jet and Indigo teams seem to add visual
texture . The many baggage check ins, skulking in various corners trip
you up. In the matrix of window seats , boarding cards, swish and
bustle, the impersonal security check, rolling trolleys , and an
occasional familiar face, is the underlying hummmm and vroom-vroom of
a caged monster. One must remember, this is serious business, aviation
technology, large aluminium birds and an army of people that make sure
this fragile metal mesh, takes off to friendly skies , remains there
and lands on hard ground as it should.

Its my second Air Deccan flight. Timings are good- 7/730am that
allows you to reach in time for a 930 am meeting . Jet was at 0605 am !
One to Bby was excellent, large seats ,as it was an Airbus. And on
time. This one to Hyderabad is tiny, an ATR , with 2*2 seats. Cramped,
but clean, comfortable. Every seat taken. Polite smiling crew, you can buy a coffee and
cheese sandwich (Coffee Day, so quite decent) . You can buy and bid (
aw, COME on!!) for bags, sunglasses, wallets et al.

I remember flying both Ryan Air and Easy Jet while on a course in UK,
and it was cheap and such fun. Functional, free seating, on time, no
frills. 14 pounds to Paris, can you imagine! And we are seeing low
cost for the last 3 years here and its working well ! I look at the
gujarati family of 4 , in front of me- they packed their own burgers,
and first flight or not, they are having a blast.

The heart of this is internet availability, and comfort with booking
online. I booked through cleartrip.com rather than on an individual
site, and it was really easy,seemed to be efficient ecommerce tools
in place ..

I booked three days ago online, and my tickets cost me under Rs 4000
return, inclusive of taxes (the taxes were a whopping 2300 by the way- I
wonder why its so much ). Affordable travel anyway.

I think we've arrived.

Mobile blogging on google..

2007-06-05T23:20:00.001+05:30

Now we can blog from our mobiles on blogger.com
What next?
Text messages that get instantly updated on your blog?
Are we intruding too much on our own lives ?

CEO Salaries in India - what is the fuss all about ...

2007-06-05T00:14:00.000+05:30

Jug Suraiya of the Times of India wrote an interesting article this Sunday about the brouhaha on CEO salaries. I thought it was well conveyed , particularly in comparison with the take home CTC of the Netas of Today . Dr Manmohan Singh has a point , but the issue needs to be seen in perspective of the scorching pace of the economy .

Related articles on How Much our Netas are Costing us , as well as India Salaries being more Equal than that of other Countries made a good foil .

Powerpoints and Wreaths..

2007-05-24T21:29:00.000+05:30

Today was a mixed day .

I was a guest lecturer today for the Women Entrepreneurs Program at IIM Bangalore , and it was wonderful to interact with 65 sharp young women . A great hour and a half , very alive, very high energy , plugged in . Lots of give and take. A realisation that I was so much older than these young women , just a touch of grey . But as I rushed off for another meeting ( that I was of course late for ) , and I heard some of their feedback , specific questions, requests for email address, I was all puffed up in my own esteem.

I return back via the long traffic jams , to Hosur Road to attend the burial of an old friend's wife. Anna was a psychiatrist at NIMHANS , a very kind and caring woman , who sustained and patiently supported many a distressed person, fand their family . Many reached out to her in a crises, or a problem , and she was always there . I hear often about people being described as angels when they are gone, as if non-life automatically entitles you to a set of wings. But Anna really was a Angel - not a bad bone in her body , just kindness and caring . She died of a sudden asthma attack , and although brain dead on arrival to the hospital within the campus , she was resuscitated, and kept on ventilator for nearly a month before she passed on yesterday .

I see fresh earth on her grave , covered by a colorful profusion of what seems like a 100 bouquets , her grieving husband and young daughters beside it , and I take a moment to remember Anna. As did hundreds of people who came by to pay their respects to her . As I stood there looking down at her covered mortal remains , with the profusion of green grass and the bleak black graves and headstones , the splotchy orange of the drenched gulmohar in bloom ,and the increasing moody rain ; I said a prayer for her . I dont know what I want to leave behind when I am gone , but good deeds and caring is a start .

A mixed day.

Terri , Breakfast at Kadambam is worth the visit

2007-05-23T23:32:00.000+05:30

A great review on Kadambam Restaurant . Worth a Sunday pilgrimage to Vani Vilas Road.
The food is poetry. And yes, there is Sambar .

Check out the excellent , although dated review of Ajit Saldanha, Bangalore's premier Food Critic . I was going to get into detail , but maybe some other blogtime . Update - check out my food review on Kadambam at www.burrp.com/allhail

I have seen Vijay's redolent reviews on Brahmin Coffee Bar and Vidyarthi Bhavan , and there's much resonance.

Bangalore Traffic Jams - The Official Rating Guide

2007-05-23T14:07:00.000+05:30

BANGALORE AS AN ALTERNATE DESTINATION

Here's one good piece from an unknown author. Worth sharing with fellow Bangalore lovers..

Over these last few years of living in Bangalore, I have slowly grown to like the jams, which this city provides in abundance. These jams do build your patience and character. Is it a coincidence that India's most patient cricketers, Dravid and Kumble, hail from this city of jams? (Dravid is even nicknamed "Jammy"). Does it tell you something? SriSri Ravishankar.does he get his daily dose of spiritual inspiration while in a jam?? And will I also get a halo after a few more years of this "character building"?? There are, I am sure, thousands of future Anands stuck in the Adugodis and Anand Rao circles, who are plotting their moves against future Kramniks. those poor little Kramniks stand no chance. And if you see a professor-like guy prancing around the Palace road jam, you can deduce that a postulate in Physics has just been proved.

A few days back, I had a thought - If we can have reviews of movies, which occupy only a few hours of our life in a month, why not reviews of traffic jams, which takes up significant hours of our day?? So here is my review of some of Bangalore's famous and not-so-famous jams(in no particular order). But before that, a general comment - As they say, the taste of food in a restaurant is dependent on the ambience ; similarly, the way I see jams,cozy inside the office shuttle or public transport, is different from the way the owner of the swank new SUV sees it. (btw, if you are the owner of the swank new SUV, don't run me down).

1. The Hosur Road Jam - Unarguably, the mother of all jams. We (ex-)Infoscions are proud of being (once) associated with a great company. We are equally proud of contributing in no small extent to this jam. This jam givesa great glimpse of the Other India - colorful music-blaring interstate buses, garment factory workers, highway trucks, smoke spewing lorries and such. Provides ample food for thought for socialist minds. (Rating: ***1/2)

2. The jams around K'mangala/Forum mall - Definitely the best jams in town.PYTs (Pretty young things), fancy cars, and fancy restaurants; this has itall. But you can't afford any of those. Never mind!! Your sadistic brain can take pleasure in the fact that the guy in the fancy car next to you is cruising around for a parking space, feasting his eyes on the PYTs , while his family is having dinner in one of the fancy restaurants. (Rating:****1/2)

3. The KG Road jam - To be experienced in the evenings before a long weekend. Every auto/taxi in town seems to be stuck while going towards the City railway station - your hair stands on end, you start sweating, the heart beats faster, and you get the rush that a Michael Schumachaer gets on his last lap. And just as the auto moves, a movie show ends and a few hundred more vehicles pour out. Which was the train that hooted just now??(Rating: ***1/2)

4. The Jayanagar jam - The puzzle-lovers jam; Jayanagar is maze of by lanes,one-way streets, no right-turns, no left-turns, traffic signals and whatnot.It is an established fact that Point A to point B, in Jayanagar, can be reached in 6436 distinct ways. But whichever way you take, you are left witha hollow feeling that another route had a better and bigger jam? (Rating:**1/2)

5. The jams around Marathahalli/Whitefield - The IT professional's dream jam; As she sits in the office shuttle looking at other office buses, she can make her career plans. A typical evening in this jam goes thus: Voice from Company A bus : "Any J2EE developers in your bus?". Three guys from Company B bus respond "Yeah" and get down. By the time, the bus crosses the Marathahalli bridge, the first guy is hired as a J2EE developer. The second guy, who didn't know what J2EE meant, is hired as a project manager and the third guy is rejected as he realised late that he has already worked for Company A last year. (Rating: ****)

6. The Airport Road jam - Similar in taste and character like the Koramangala jam but has socialist twist. This jam treats the rich businessman, who will later travel business class on Jet, the same as a poor programmer, who had unusually come to office early in the morning, 3 months back, to buy one of those cheap airline tickets. (Rating ***)

7. The BTM 7th Main x 7 Cross jam - Close to my home, so close to my heart.But alas, the spoilsports at BDA finished the flyover at the Jayadeva circle and brought an end to this jam. But for a couple of years, this jam used togive me pure joy as vehicles of all types created a tangle in the small bylanes of BTM layout. The BDA is now planning a new flyover at the Udupi Garden junction; so there is still hope (Rating ***1/2).

We jam lovers - currently this club consists of only me - have petitioned the government to protect and preserve traffic jams as a cultural asset of Bangalore. Just so that traffic jams are not endangered in the future, we have these suggestions:

1. Build more flyovers - Flyovers do not reduce jams. They just transfer it to the next junction. And in the 2 years that it takes to build them, you are assured of some joyous jams. I am drooling...

2. No public buses - If everybody goes by buses, where will our culture go?

3. Make Tata's 1-Lakh car cheaper by making it tax free - Imagine every two wheeler replaced by a car...The prospects are mouth-watering.

Paid for recieving SMS's ? Now why didn't I think of that..

2007-05-23T12:49:00.000+05:30

Bright idea, this one. Simple , and direct .
I would love to track this company !
Adwords/Adsense worked for Google. Why would this not work on mobiles ?

Now get paid for receiving SMS ads
23 May, 2007 l 0106 hrs ISTlPTI

CHENNAI: SMS advertisements, which used to irritate cellphone users, could soon turn out to be money-spinners with a Bangalore-based firm claiming to pay those who willingly receive the messages. mGinger.com, started by three engineers, works on the principle of "permission-based marketing". "People can make anywhere between Rs 300 to Rs 1,600 per month through this," Chaitanya Nallan, its CEO, said. "When users get paid by us, whether it is Rs 300 or Rs 500, it can at least cover their mobile phone bills," he added. Chaitanya, an alumnus of IIT Kharagpur, who graduated from the Indian School of Business, Hyderabad last month, said the idea originated from Veerendra Shivhare, COO of the firm. The third member of the team is the chief technical officer, Anil, an alumnus of IIT-Kanpur. "People generally get SMS carpet-bombed. Advertisers get mobile phone numbers illegally and bombard them with unwanted ads without permission. Veerendra was so fed up with such messages. We hit upon this idea of targeted advertising with users' permission, for which they get paid," Chaitanya said. He said people could log on to mGinger.com and register themselves along with their mobile phone numbers and the ads they want to receive. They can choose any number of ads and these will be sent at the time they want. "For each ad received, the mobile phone user gets paid 20 paise. They can refer their friends and relatives for which they get 10 paise per referral and 5 paise for every ad their friends referrals receive," he added. Chaitanya said that the referrals go up to two levels and then stops.The CEO claims out that mGinger will pay a user by cheque once he crosses the minimum limit of Rs 300.

Blogging in Solitude ?

2007-05-22T13:12:00.000+05:30

A colleague was intrigued to know that I blog .
( Well, 20 posts make me a near veteran in my eyes , so the eyebrows can descend !)
Yes I do , I said with increased certainty . Umm, well, occasionally .
What do you blog about , she asked - Some personal stuff, some philosophical, and perhaps personal moments , some fluff, some just-like - that stuff. You know.
Me too, she said
But I never receive any comments, or feedback on my blog . I have googled myself and never found my blog , she continued .
Do you want to , I asked .
Nope, this is just for me , she replied .

Not really , I replied. Not unless you want to be found . If one wanted to just write for oneself , one would use a word document , a diary , even an email to a buddy , whatever , but surely not a blog . Maybe its not vanity writing as such . One writes and softly chats with oneself , perhaps, but there is always a unsaid hope somewhere , that there will be an answering aha, a soft echo of understanding , some resonance in thought .

I see a friends blog , (which is why I got motivated to start one, actually ) and I think I have understood him much better than I have in years , because he writes with dismissive honesty, great style and humor . And I see the comments that he gets , a whole tapestry of a virtual life out there . Fascinating.

Does he write for himself ? Maybe yes,and then again ,maybe no .

I look back at some stuff I have written, and there is a bit of this and a bit of that .
I have blogged when I had something mildly amusing to giggle about ,something interesting to share , sometime perhaps just vanity writing , because I like to look at words i have typed ( ewww, I just said that ! ), and sometimes when i have felt so much loss , that the only thing I could do was write . And somewhere into the wide blue blogosphere , went the words , like clouds , like sun rays and like rain , lasting for a moment , and then again lasting for as long as I wanted . Its like looking into a well, or into a tunnel , and saying , just because you like to hear the echo - 'Is anyone there ?'

Hello, is someone there ?

Its a Snap !

2007-05-20T22:26:00.000+05:30

Just installed Snap Preview .

The change is interesting - it pops up a snapshpt of the site when the mouse hovers over a link .
I found this on my pal ( and a Mc Smartie ) Vijay's site , and I kind of thought that its only for wordpress users. Some deep delving on the snap.com website , and I dug up the html code to put into blogger.

Slow , but it seems to work .

Kinda like it , but I have always been a gadgety , widgety person ..
Any comments on the change ?

A Sense of Sunday - Cubbon Park, Bangalore at Noon ...

2007-05-20T18:24:00.000+05:30

Done to death? Nope, not really .

Because CJ our spaniel (creature of habit , this one ) has to have her ball chase at Cubbon Park on Sunday , the trip home after grocery shopping is almost always followed by a stopover to Cubbon Park on the way home . ( I can distinctly hear a 'ooh , how infra dig ' from some !)

Her excited barks as we near Cubbon Park in the car , have close to broken my eardrums many a time. And we park , get the newspapers out , and trudge with CJ straining at her leash, across the trees to find a shady spot . The long brick path on the right is what CJ uses as her private runway , while we sit on the bench .

Sitting on a stone bench in the Gazebo in the brilliant sunlight today , was marvelous as always, not withstanding a deep and resonant barkathon from CJ . The sheer undulation of dappled green lawn, the gulmohar and jacaranda trees in full bloom , a delightedly panting dog by your side completely in her element , and the families and kids on a picnic - such a Sense of Sunday.

Strongly recommended Sunday Spot.
But find the right one .

I think its time to pass on mobile ring tones...

2007-05-15T16:24:00.000+05:30

Do you know what your mobile ring tone is ?
Chances are since you don't call yourself too often , you have probably forgotten .
In all possibility, you, your spouse, dog or friend had downloaded Roobaroo, or Dus or Kajra Re or Bryan Adams '18 till I die ' and have no idea that it still lurks like a miasma in mobile reality.

If I hear the once sweet , but now saccharine Pal-Pal Ek Pal , from Munnabhai one more time, I may go beyond gritting my teeth to screaming ! Or any of the other tunes , actually .

Interestingly , a lot of people use ring tones to reflect phases or moods and for a observer of human nature , its fun to track , However, if the ring tone is a reflection of ones personality, a lot of us have to get our acts together , or just think of how we come across to a stranger .

I had 'Roobaroo' from Rang De Basanti as a ring tone , as a lark , and completely forgot to about it for 3 months, till a irate client offered me a kingdom of riches to change it . The embarrassment was a bigger motivator !

I recall the times I have cringed when I heard Madonna's belting out 'Like a Virgin' , when I called the very 50 year old secretary of a client! A devout bhajan as the ring tone for a distinctly naughty doctor ... And Nelly's rapping ' Its your Birthday ' when I called another serious search consultants ( he blamed it on his son !) . And not to forge the famous 'Bheege Honth Tere' from Mallika Sherawat's film Murder with innumerable candidates.

I think we should pass up the Mobile VAS team's marketing messages, and return to the days when a ring tone was a ring tone. And if you expect a tring-tring , when you call someone , that's exactly what you should get .

Bangalore Blues..

2007-05-11T22:58:00.000+05:30

Apart from a dear friend who has a blog by the same name , we all take our cribs about Bangalore seriously . However like all Bangaloreans, I feel I am still the only one who is allowed to do that . Three hours in traffic including the half hour meeting I had gone for , made me sore as a gumboil this morning .

But I will defend Bangalore to its non existent limits if it were to be challenged by a genuine Bangalore baiter . I can , this is mine , no one gave you the permission to do so.

Contrarian , and childish, but no matter ...

After Whitey , came Blackie...

2007-05-05T22:21:00.000+05:30

After Whitey passed on , it seems there was a Blackie waiting in the wings.
How corny is that .

The fact is that the building we live in suddenly became a home to a scrawny black 2 month old stray pup . I heard it yowl one morning in the basement parking , and went searching for the sound . No one could locate her , and with all the cars and the main road outside , one can only imagine the possibilities.

Well she emerged later, not even a foot high, an all black energiser bunny with the longest colt like legs and big perky , almost Doberman ears. A small white star on her chest , a long nose, melting brown eyes, and a tremulously raised paw, completed the picture. She got some biscuits that she hastily devoured - she must have been starved . The kindly security people looked out for her , and for the next two days I could see her dart out of the lawn, the front car park, the space between the two front lobby doors, in the foliage near the swings. Her mother was no where around . She got her three times a day diet of bread and milk from me , but I worried - about getting attached or connected with her - this was an apartment , not a house,and CJ my spaniel does not take too kindly to puppies . And then about the kids playing with her . All said and done , she was a stray , and not vaccinated - what if something happened ? I also dont think the Building Association would take too kindly to this new canine security addition . It was getting to be a responsibility .

So two evenings ago I put the little tyke in the car and drove down in endless traffic jams to CUPA animal clinic , along with my neighbours daughter , Ain.
And the so far intrepid pup started shivering and drooling with fear as the car trundled along . They have an instinct .

She got her rabies, distemper and deworming shots like a Trojan, squealing only a little. (Now I could feel comfortable with the kids playing with her ) .The vet was pleased with her excellent condition, and also confirmed that she was a female . He hoped that she would get adopted in due course - she was so pretty and obviously lovable.
We bought her a forest green collar and leash , and she suddenly looked - well - owned !

She threw up twice in the car on the way home, and had a fever , due to the injections. But she settled into sleep after we returned, a little upset with our perfidy , but trying to cope. Well , she has gone back to her space under the security chair , and regularly does her St Vitus dance everytime one of the kids, security or I come along. She knows how to avoid the cars, and some of the adults who don't like her . Its interesting that the walking into the building is now a while new experience , with an excited reaction from the pup every time .

She has chewed through the leash , but still flies to greet the kids, almost somersaulting in the air , and is proprietary bout the security chair , the swings and her water bowl . I am trying hard not to fall in love, and I am glad that she is no more an abandoned and lost baby . We call her Bonzie for now , until the building kids decide her real name. She has a number of people who care for her . She has an identity card from CUPA confirming her vaccinations, a near name , a collar around her neck , and some loving .

Although she still doesn't really belong , I think maybe she has some sort of a home now , and , she will be OK .

No more late hours for Women in Bangalore ?

2007-05-05T20:28:00.000+05:30

Last evening , I was interviewed by CNN-IBN on the Night Shifts for Women issue .
Karnataka Labor Minister Mr Ansari had announced on May Day that Women (outside of IT/ITES/Hospitals and Essential Services ) would not be allowed to work after 8 pm.

Many eyebrows raised, I think .

A little retrograde, and definitely a tad patronising I would guess . Women's equality and the right to work is enshrined in the Constitution.
Why are we throwing out the baby with the bathwater , to use a rather over worn phrase .
Why these knee jerk, populist measures ?
Aren't men and women working at any hours entitled to expect good law and order , and adequate security at all hours?
Isn't infrastructure also an important issue to check safety of employees?
When did darkness become the official cut off time for crime?

The move has an unlikely chance of going through, but it did certainly engage a lot of debate .
Women center stage again. For all the wrong reasons.

A Tribute to Mediocrity - Revisiting Prufrock

2007-05-05T17:29:00.000+05:30

I don't know why I remembered it today . I was chatting with a colleague on authors and poets, and I shared that the poem that had most impacted me was - The Love Song of Alfred E Prufrock - by TS Eliot .

I googled it instantly , and read through the poem on the Internet , revisiting and lingering on the words , after many years . Prufrock is a doff of the hat to mediocrity , of exhausted spirituality , set in an orderly , numbing urban 20th century background .

And as one reads through the dry crackle of the words , there are many resonances. As one reads aloud ( yes, one must read the poem aloud. One's voice catches the quickstep of some of the words and the slow numbed winding down of yet another line. One must let the colour stray through the words - the inherent grayness, and the occasional split of white light ) . The smell of rain , ash and polite failure that wafts through the lines , as you read . For those of us who have also tiptoed around , not daring to disturb the universe, for the many times that one sees one's moment of greatness flicker, there is an echo .

Its still time for the magic and the mermaids , not yet for the human voices who wake us, and we drown .

But that is not what I meant at all,
That's not it ,at all.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S'io credessi che mia risposta fosse
a persona che mai tomasse al mundo,
questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma per cio che giammai di questo fondo
non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, ' What is it? '
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room , the women come and go
Talking of Michaelangelo .

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ' Do I care? ' and, ' Do I dare? '
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: ' How his hair is growing thin! ')
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: ' But how his arms and legs are thin! ')
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

* * * * *

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

* * * * *

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep...tired...or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: ' I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all'--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: ' That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it at all. '

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along
the floor---
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen;
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say,
' That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant at all. '

* * * * *

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old...I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Its getting Noisy in Here

2007-05-04T13:37:00.000+05:30

I was talking to a Technology CEO early this week .We got into discussions on the Women in Leadership , and a conference I had organised a couple of months ago .

I am a great believer in this , he said, and we are trying hard to hire as many senior women as we can . But sometimes this whole inwardness of these women's events bothers me.

Too much biting about men goes on at these meetings . Instead of being a productive , positive experience , many degenerate into , 'we do more ', 'we are better', 'men are stupid', kind of rant and rave parties.

I thought about it , and although intellectually I disagreed , and I do realise that sometimes when women get together ( no generalisations here ) there are a couple of women who do just that . Its not politically correct , but it is heartfelt , and its honest . So instead of being open to what needs to be done , one sometimes ends up indulging in some male bashing . Being pro women is not being anti -men, but there are some who feel so. Neither is being pro women mean being patronising , or worse , anti - competent. Active women leadership itself has not evolved as much in this country as to look at this issue as working towards a larger pie , rather than fighting over getting a larger chunk of the pie. So sadly, these type of comments get a rueful echo and a definite laugh in an all women gathering . The situation is all too real , some of the realities of multitasking quite stressful , and I can understand, but we must behave ! We cannot want to bring men down , in order to climb up - surely there is a better way than that ?

However, lets face it , men are our biggest sponsor in the corporate world, so it seems silly to alienate them, especially when they are trying to cope and respond positively to the new business and corporate reality of Women Leaders.

My thought - public events are not a platform to vent frustration, get some laughts and jeer at the guys. That one can do at an all girls coffee morning . We need to ensure we do not alienate others , be inclusve, and to build on both genders , if we are to grow as we ought .

And the good guys need a pat on the back , and often.

Canine Carnage in Bangalore..

2007-04-21T18:10:00.000+05:30

http://www.ibnlive.com/videos/36949/cj-blore-kills-healthy-strays-too.html
Todays clip on NDTV and CNN IBN filled me with horror .
We are not killing dogs , says the Bangalore Corporation । It is anyway illegal as only vicious , sick , diseased animals are allowed to be culled. We all know that . Or do we ? Then who killed those healthy dogs in Anekal ?

The image of carnage is frozen : a hundred adult dogs or more , all healthy and fine, in the last stages and rigor of death caused by a cyanide injection to the leg , being unceremoniously thrown in to a growing heap , in a waiting garbage truck by workers.

To see their faces contorted in agony before they died and their bodies being tossed around like a garbage bags ( thanks for telling us the value of their life ) , and finally cascading from the crane lift truck emptying its tragic load into a waiting landfill; kerosene liberally thrown into the canine filled crevasse before a match was carelessly flung on the heap - it made me sick and very sad . We have all felt the shock and the pain of the family for the loss of a child's life because of a marauding dog pack , and its a tragedy that one cannot even begin to understand or explain. But it happened . And like the bus driver who carelessly reverses and kills a playing child , the electricity pole that fell on a teacher, and the dozens of car accidents that happened to unsuspecting victims , this terrible accident too happened . No one can understand why this did, or what suddenly happened to the dog pack . But isn't the time for retribution over ? Are we done with the blood sport ? Are we done with the ritual sacrifice? Can we now return to our kindly selves, our desire for blood and revenge satisfied ?
Thanks, Ms Badami for sharing this gruesome video I wish I hadnt seen it , but I have.
It stuck in our throats , and turned our stomachs, but will it turn the souls of those people who are part of this genocide by participating , or by sitting back and allowing to happen ? It seems that innocent blood must be shed before we wake up and remember Gandhijis words of an eye for an eye will ensure the whole world is blind . It has been shed now, we have burnt the martyrs at the stake. Now stop it . Must the entire canine population pay for the sins of a few dogs ? These dogs had two big problems “ they could not read the daily papers “ so they did not know they were carrying a bounty on their heads , and the second , they knew and trusted the humans around them . And they paid for it .

And they are still paying . Have a look at the pictures of the dogs picked up in that truck . See how many of them have a collar , albeit tattered , and the tell tale ear clip /cut which clearly stated that the dog is neutered and injected . There is a Whitey , a Tommy, a Savithri and a Karpa somewhere out there . There are dogs out there who have given us a friendly wag , and a grateful glance, when we have given them some time , a few scraps, and some affection . There is a school that has killed all its friendly campus dogs. There is a squealing , squirming little puppy being picked up by its neck to be thrown into a pick up truck , licking the hand of the catcher all the while, looking forward to its little treat perhaps. I don't think the puppy was old enough to read the papers either , or lose its faith in the world outside . That image really sticks in my throat .
And this is their reward ।

Wake up Bangalore , its time to smell the stench of revenge and carnage , and to take the step with government , judiciary and people to STOP this genocide .Lynching mobs went out with the old Westerns . We have a democracy now.

Stop the killing .

Whitey - A Eulogy for the Baharwali ..

2007-04-17T22:04:00.000+05:30

Whitey, one of our dogs , passed away this evening.
Suddenly . Not in our home . It was quite a shock .

We used to make our picky spaniel eat up her food , by saying if you don’t quickly gobble this up , I am going to give it to Whitey . And here I was this evening , just having finished getting her to eat a bowl of bread and milk with the usual kiddish threat of Whitey coming after her precious bowl , when the phone call came. It was Rani on the phone , her adopted doggie-mom ( my maid Maryma’s daughter ) , who said in Tamil ‘ I am sorry , Amma, but Whitey just died ’. My mobile battery had drained, and so had I . The call petered away , as did a small part of my heart, while I absorbed the news. And remembered her life with us .

She was a street dog I rescued nearly 7 years ago . She could not have been more than a year or so when I saw her first . I used to see this happy little thing pass my window, confused by their attention, as she was chased by a gaggle of male dogs on the street , and I worried for her . She was a real character, and she had a lot of little tricks and quirks. Imaginatively named by me , Whitey was actually all white, beautifully proportioned, lovely alert ears, and actually had a smily face, and her big grin with that panting pink tongue was cute to say the least . I watched out for her night after night for a couple of weeks, keeping out biscuits and dinner leftovers for her , before this high stepping , lithe and very elegant was persuaded to enter my gate with some biscuits and warily come near me. She was quick, evasive but kept her distance , and rightly so.

Within a week of much wagging of tails and a constant smiling face at the gate, I got her picked up by the Shelter Vets to be spayed and vaccinated . My maid Mary and her daughter Rani , who had grown fond of her in the time , were much saddened by the way she was cornered and yelping in the little prayer room in our house, collared and taken away by the Shelter staff . But it had to be done, or she might be taken away by the pound , or constantly pregnant, pursued, vulnerable or ill.

And afterwards , she came back spayed, vaccinated and belligerent , and lived with us. Not inside the house except to eat , but in the compound . She rarely entered the main house , as she probably remembered being coralled and take away to a hospital there. She also liked her freedom, and stayed within our compound , as she could anyway scale the walls and reach her beloved street outside . The toughest guard dog you could get , as she felt she now needed to protect us. She was constantly trying to pay back for the refuge we provided her after her surgery , and being looked after, I think , although she had no need to . She would be very respectful of our spaniel , who loved and bullied her. They were a weird two some, one dignified and dowager like, the other frisky and high stepping . A contrasting pair of dogs, quite inseparable - a white free spirit and a black home bound pet .

We used to call the two dogs the Andarwali and the Baharwali ( The Insider and the Inside-Outsider ). My spaniel CJ was the homebody , the insider and the Whitey was the Outsider , preferring the outside to being inside closed doors .

And the years with this strangely dignified , quirky dog passed happily . Dignity and an unputdownable Optimism described The Baharwali . She grew increasingly confident , found her own spaces on the outskirts of the house . She would sit near the kitchen door , on one of her beds ( an old carpet) with Mary . She would sit near the kitchen door , on one of her beds( an old carpet) with Mary, or with my dad , near his side door , or near the front door , or her favorite sleeping place , the garage. When she was guilty of chewing up something , she would slink around like a cat , and we knew she had been up to mischief immediately . When she was bad , she would jump up in my arms, squawking like a parrot , as she knew I would tie her up near the garage for her hour of punishment. She was a funny one, that Whitey .She would jump compound walls with ease ( our gates were cosmetic , and next to useless to her ) , and lie on the parapet , meditatively , yet alertly , looking out on the road, surveying her territory . And the road was her real home, and she hated being away . In the initial days, when we left anywhere in the car , she would follow us for nearly kilometer , running behind us. She adored my maid Maryma , and would accompany her like a white shadow to the vegetable market, church , the tailor’s, the bathroom everywhere! Us she loved , but we didn’t hold the kitchen keys ! Mary’s daughter Rani and her grandson Robin were thrown backwards by the welcome when they visited on Sundays ..

She was no angel , and had her rough edges and downsides . Visitors coming home weren’t always safe. She viewed most with suspicion, and passers by on the road could have got an occasional chase or a nip near the ankle, but she never actually bit anyone. Belligerent sometimes, and territorial , she could be unpredictable. We were forced to tie her up when we had visitors who were scared of dogs, and anyway once the first moment or two passed , she was very friendly . Needless to say , we never had a single robbery whilst she was there , although there were incidents with neighbours.

We moved home in April last year ,after many years in one house with a lot of free space , and this new apartment would have stifled her . She would have been on the road , (not a quiet residential area, but a very very busy commercial road , buses and all ),in a flash , and that could be the end of her , and we neither wanted to tie her up . You don’t tie up a Whitey. She needed access to the road she was born in . My maid's daughter Rani wanted to keep her, as they were crazy about her , and I thought it would work out while we settled in . They have taken great care of her , and she has been happy . We have missed her , but the bigger picture made sense . I think . No , I know.

A year passed almost to the day , and today Rani calls me that Whitey was vomiting for a day or two. This evening she let out a yelp , and by the time Rani reached her , she was gone . Just like that . Ranis 8 months pregnant , and is very upset , and I don’t want to trouble her that I wanted to see Whitey just once. She has taken the help of the neighborhood boys and buried her in the yard , as its hot summer. Rani keeps telling me she’s sorry , but I know that she loved her as much , and I think we are both apologizing to each other for having lost her . I don’t know what to do . There is no power at home, and I wander around aimlessly , touching things, and adjusting photo frames. And finally reaching my laptop , where my tears and confusion waft and converge together in typeface and print.

I have spent the last 4 hours remembering her , finding photographs of the featherweight dog that walked walls, her quirky dignity, her singing , her distance , her love and gratitude to us, her unbelievable reflexes, her light and easy walk , the fights she still got into with street dogs, the baths she yowled about and hated, her curled up near the several doors of our house , carefully watching over us, her love for the garbage collection area near by , rather than a decent meal in the kitchen.

I am trying to keep my thoughts cool , Whitey , as I write about you , because though your body has already been buried, I didn’t see you go . If I pretend very hard, I can pretend you are still at Rani's home, effortlessly rearing up on your hind legs like a dancing bear , and trilling at me that silly high alto of greeting, your paws feathering down till they reached my crooked arm , looking for all the world that I was formally leading you in for a dance . An odd couple . Turning onto your back , legs waving , and showing me your tummy to scratch , and to tell me that you love seeing me , and that you trusted me. How wonderful it was to ring the door bell when we returned home, and heard the cacophony of barks that resulted . And the entangled jumble of black and white canine bodies that would hurl themselves at us. Like we were worth waiting for , while my Dad and Maryma would indulgently grin at the sight of the flurry of handbags, briefcases, dogs and lunchboxes . .

I look at the photograph in frot of me with you sitting on your favorite vantage point on the compound wall , while we were near the front door .Chin on your crossed paws, eyes narrowed, while you cased the neighborhood like the FBI , trying to seem busy . I remember many other vignettes. The number of collars you wriggled out of . The clip on your ear , to show you were spayed and vaccinated. A tail curled on itself , like a question mark. Cowering scared and anxious, in the corner of the garage when I reprimanded you for chasing yet another road dog . And you doing it again anyway . Whitey, bad gurl ! Jealous of any new dog or person in our home or in our street . Slipping through your collar if I had the temerity to tie you up . You squirming and running away as I was trying to put in an antiseptic dusting powder after the vet had stitched up the ugly wound on your flank when you got into that violent fight for the second time with the other street dogs. I am remembering the number of personality traits and behaviors that made you so sweet and lovable. You never allowed me to hug you , although you would sit companionably close to my side , pressing yourself against me, ears flattened down, purring like a cat with a sore throat . And then again , I must not , it brings tears in my eyes, and I don’t quite know what to do .

I have mourned you today and cried , my little friend- who-was-meant-to-happen-to-us . And I want to stop, so I can get on with life , and pretend you are still in the world with me .But I know I will have to mourn you again and again , or when reality, regret and ash hits me.

You went so quickly , my sweet girl . Too quickly .

God Bless and tight hugs.

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

2007-02-17T18:19:00.001+05:30

100_3610, originally uploaded by Priya was here.

Awwwww, just the cutest.
Thats CJ after a hard days work .

Rage and Civilisation

2007-02-11T17:52:00.000+05:30

The news today carried something that chilled me. I sat for a few minutes holding down the bile of feeling someone else's pain . Dated news ,but still wrenching and numbing . And trying to move on quickly from the feeling , avoid the recurring thought . Not succeeding , as images kept chasing through my head. .

A three month puppy was tied up , mouth and hands duct taped , tortured and tossed into a gas oven by a couple of teenage boys in Atlanta. They got in neighbouring children later at the Community Center to come in and have a look at the grisly sight - must have been delightfully entertaining . The Moulder brothers 16 and 18 years old, have been sentenced to 8 years prison .

The news piece was matter of fact but the bare facts was gruesome. Doused with paint , hog tied , unsuccessfully set on fire , and then stuffed into a gas oven, where the trussed up little thing bloodied her self trying to claw her way out of the burning hell she found herself in . I am thinking of the puppy bouncing its nose, tail, back and feet against the searing metal in a futile attempt to escape. She struggled , suffered and frantic-eyed, slowly , lingeringly and painfully , she died while they smiled. They must have wished there a replay button , or ghoulish thought , perhaps it could be their neighbours 2 month old child the next time. (Put them away for God's sake ) I am sure the brothers must have enjoyed the sight . Pitiful struggling is no use , you little helpless, foolish thing, you . But it does make it f u n . I hold the oven door , and your eyes can cry , but, remember I hold the oven door. I hold the key to your suffering , and someone appointed me the life and soul of the party . And oh , what a time we are having .

What is it about this that chills my blood?
The sheer uselessness of it . For another person fleeting joy ? Someone who holds the key because they are bigger and stronger . I see the painful parallels - and I don't really care how pretentious and trite it sounds . Am I just replaying the whole brute strength of history here ? Of wars and killing , of genocides and religious uprisings .
I will, because I can .
And I must , because I feel the drug of power rushing into my blood.

Here's another thing that chills me - my own senseless rage . My desire to have those maniacs suffer the same way - I spent a good five minutes lingering on the thought - and I am not ashamed to say I enjoyed dwelling on it - it was my twisted Obsequies to the little puppy girl , a Shalom to a bruised and bewildered entrant to Doggy Heaven and definitely a better world . A tiny thing who came in to a world, to a room , with trust. She has no name and she is already a blackened , charred little shell. But that is my senseless and uncivilised tribute to your suffering, and I don't care if its wrong . I wish I could do more, but I don't know what.

And then there is the subtle but significant war between protectiveness and domination that rears its head. I am fair , and I can think of that , too. I know best , and you hold a child in the water , teaching the child to swim. Squirming and helpless, but you keep at it , you know best. Chilling to think about , but we all know the feeling - and I know whats best for you , can move from protection to domination, from obsessive care to destructive control in just an instant . And those are the demons we must confront within us.

For me, the worst pain I feel is knowing the fight that the truly vulnerable need to put up with paper bullies like this - tiny babies or little children, very old and helpless people, and animals who cannot speak for themselves. I feel such helpless rage for those who have only the courage to exploit these segments , rather than have the guts to get into a boxing ring , a hockey match , go into the war . Whatever.

Don't give me reasons and stories of abuse , a bad upbringing and childhood trauma that explain away everything . I know its real and I am sorry its happened . I am really sorry anyone has to endure pain . I wish someone was there to protect them from/through what they underwent . Does that justify doing this to other people so one can keep the vicious cycle going? And then the obvious extrapolation to wars, and political games where the master puppeteers just move the strings from up high , probably stopping for a sustaining cup of tea now and then , and hundreds of little figures on the ground scamper around ant-like , away , under , inside, to escape bullets, bombs, fear , hatred, themselves.
C'mon.

Right now , I feel such rage for the puppy , I feel for someone who trusted . Someone who probably licked their hands, submitted bewildered-ly to them picking her up, the rough games they played , suffocated with the duct tape on her mouth , her feet , because she didn't know anything else, and she had no benchmarks for pain, hurt and experience as we do . Can you picture her eyes clouding while they did all that to her ? As much as I feel for a child who lays its head trustingly on your shoulder while someone minds works ghoulishly on horrific things to exploit the child's vulnerability , break yet another chain of trust.

The Nithari Killers and the system that allowed it , make me violently angry too. And sick . They make my bile rise and I find myself battling with the same rage . And I am not sure what to do with that . I want to shift to something banal . An email or folding a shirt. I feel out of control , my forehead knotting up , I feel uncivilised and primeval. And I feel I must read up and educate myself of how civilised, evolved society behaves to its errant and prodigals . I feel I must do the right thing, and feel proper gentle forgiveness for them - 'forgive them for they know not what they do' . They do know , they do dammit, and they must pay . I feel lost with my own clenching anger , and my desire to remove myself , protect myself , and inability to forgive. I am grateful for geography and distance, because I want to be as far away as possible. I am grateful to a day at work that allows commerce and deadlines to focus on what is really important , the business of living . Or isn't it ? I recall that nothing is served by retaliating with violence, but its hard not to linger on punishment , of seeing the very same abuser feeling the same pain , of feeling the pain of having the strings pulled by another master puppeteer, and feeling Hell on earth .

I realise I am not the person I should be .
I am only vaguely remorseful .
Gandhi said that an eye for an eye will leave the whole world blind. True as it is, its hard not to take a few minutes , or more , lingering on punishment . Being both judge and jury . And even better, Executioner . And then feeling your jaws clench and unclench with satisfaction .

There is enough going on in our backyard, our state and country , to keep one raging . Don't please tell me about it . What one does not see , one cannot react to or feel. Helplessness, Misplaced Protectiveness , delayed responsibility . I am more peaceful that way - what I don't know won't hurt me . Please stay out of my backyard . That is why I sometimes hate opening newspapers, preferring to read about City News, Business or Round the World, where Takeovers and Tarmac , Celebrities and Conmen take center stage. A cerebral, superficial skating I can deal with .

Mess with my mind, and I can cope, just don't get to my gut .

Ms. Dewey - Another Cool Search engine

2007-01-27T22:53:00.001+05:30

www.msdewey.com

An automated , very cool search site -with a live, talking model ( although I think she is meant to be an interactive librarian or something ) on the screen - its interactive, Ms Dewey chivvies you around, waits impatiently for you to return to a question, taps impatiently on the screen with a 'hellloooooo' if you go off for long .

Ms Janina Kamankar , aka Ms Dewey is of Indian Dutch descent , and is a singer/model/actress. A Microsoft initiative , the site a good example of viral marketing , as I can't see MS publicising it too much .

You need the gimmicks because the quality of the search result, its constant scrolling is average to say the least .

But for noveltys sake, a definite must see.

And Technology for All

2007-01-14T21:58:00.001+05:30

All pervasive hi tech .

Stand by for a blog from CJ the Cocker Spaniel

A further update also on what the well dressed dog is wearing this winter.

Leela Goa_0225, originally uploaded by Priya was here.

India Poised

2007-01-14T20:25:00.000+05:30

Just when one was wondering whether to get blue because another new year was approaching , it came , and then one woke up, and it was really quite okay !

The India Posed campaign was a joy to read on January 1st - it expressed many of the scattered things we have all been feeling . Beautifully written, the icing on the cake was when some one mailed me a clip of Amitabh Bachhan reciting the India Poised Campaign. Hes incredible, as is the clip .

http://indiapoised.com/video2.htm#m1
Go see it at http://www.indiaposed.com/

Good rah-rah stuff.

Oogachaka Baby - Move Aside, Your Time has Come

2006-08-12T18:21:00.000+05:30

And doing a google search , guess what I chanced upon .

I came across what is a successor , in my view, to the famed Oogachaka baby ( I found it amazingly , obsessively , funny for a whole week ) .

Have a look at the spoof on Shakira " Hips Don't lie' video . A couple of college grads on some Spanish Final, and whats surely a McDonalds heir , put together`some really grossly awesome stuff.

Had my office in splits today. Two Men and Adipose with Attitude . . This one you gotta see. http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=8718728501056290731&hl=en

Last I checked( and it was the third time in 24 hours ) it was viewed nearly 30,000 times. Must say Google video search is an interesting idea, and well filed under Comedy , Sports, Movies etc, except that it might have some rather objectionable stuff being uploaded as well.

Well, c'est la vie.

Spotted - other's BlogSpots

2006-08-11T20:24:00.000+05:30

Interesting , now I can blog by email as well.

I have discovered that quite a few of my friends blog . Yes they do . In fact I think Vijay Mysore is a MULTIPLE blogger.Such a show off , when people like us barely have mindspace for one . I have pinned him down to one however , and it has an amazing walk down Bangalore's food memory lane. Vidyarthi Bhavan, Brahmin's et al. http://bangaloreblues.wordpress.com/. If another couple of blogs legitimately surface , I shall share it here.

You also have to check out Sugar's blog spot . Who is Sugar?

Do you know Anita Nair , the famous writer ? (www.anitanair.net) Well, she is Sugar's Human, although I think Sugar writes pretty decently herself. Maybe she has been giving Anita some lessons on the side . Check out her blog at http://sugardogblog.blogspot.com/

We need to set up a link to each other , because CJ enjoys her chats with Sugar quite a bit.

Magical Oia, Greece

2006-05-27T00:09:00.000+05:30

Greek Isles_0161
Originally uploaded by Priya was here.
Read my review on Oia, Santorini on tripadvisor.com here

A week in the Greek Isles. This is an early morning view of the sea and the caldyra ( volcanoes ) from our room . The terrace is all aglow with colourful flowers and plants , and a haunting heavy fragrance. Pure Magic .

What the Well Dressed Dog is Wearing - Part 2

2006-05-09T00:55:00.000+05:30

100_2989
Originally uploaded by Priya was here.

However, although omitted in the earlier update, remembering to don trousers is a really good idea as well.

Or at least its wise to ensure that the pesky photographer does not sneak up from the rear to catch a candid shot, while one is waiting for a meal.

Casual Wear for the Well dressed Dog

2006-05-09T00:46:00.000+05:30

100_2988
Originally uploaded by Priya was here.

A T shirt tossed casually around the shoulders is a must for the hip and happening dogs about town . Note the logo , and the grunge look rolled up sleeves adding a casual touch...

CJ , the love of our lives...

2006-02-19T23:38:00.000+05:30

cj another
Originally uploaded by Priya was here.

Just look at that lil girl , all mussed up , and untidy, but still adorable . Sleeping beauty with fur and freckles.

Cover Story on India Today

2006-01-17T14:59:00.000+05:30

I was pleased to see this picture . Its the January Issue of India Today - Simply Bangalore . I must stop grinning like a cheshire cat ! I am the one sitting down.

Watson

2006-01-17T13:45:00.000+05:30

A friends pup - just the cutest

All Hail

2005-05-13T11:22:00.000+05:30

All Hail

Second day on the Blog

2005-05-13T11:10:00.000+05:30

Hmm.
Not much progress.
Still unsure what to do about this Blog thing.
Is is a Dear Diary ?
Or can I talk about my day?
Or about the tiny white stray pup that we rescued by the lake today . The security guard finally adopted the little tyke. What would I do with three dogs at home ? Mayhem, and possible eviction.
Or just that the weather has been wonderful - evening rains that have uplifted the city from a sultry , sullen nightmare to a breezy , cool, happy place to be.
Or that it is good to be alive, and there are many things in life to be grateful to God about .
Or that I am at work , looking at this white wall of a blog , a strange new animal , when there is oceans of work to do ....

All Hail

2005-05-12T17:19:00.000+05:30

All Hail

2005-05-12T13:47:00.000+05:30

Hmm.
A blog.
A blog spot .

So what exactly does one DO out here.
This discusion has inteesting prospects of getting in to the meaning of life questions, so maybe thsi is a good place to stop.

Done my bit for the first day , first show.
Enuff, then.

Colorless, unsure and yet , its out there...