ODDS AND MI

Indulge thyself

2011-11-07T16:49:00.002-06:00

Once every now and then everyone needs to be pampered. I know the modern definition of that has become a spa-cation or indulging in Jimmy Choo shoes. But whatever happened to good 'ol fashioned pampering?

Like the reason I have not blogged in well over two months is because there was nothing left to rant and whine about. Birds chirped, jungle cats roared, people smiled, the weather in Houston became bearable and I stopped cooking.

Now it isn't like I hate cooking. On the contrary I rather enjoy it. Even more so when I am upset or angry because then, I make believe that the vegetables are people I am upset with and just cut them down to size. You get the drift right? But for the past few months, I had been agonizing over how to make a meal for Chuckles and me, what with his insane no-carb diet and my you-need-carbs-to-party diet. Oftentimes that would mean making four different dishes for two people. Trust me, the novelty wears off even if the glossy recipe book doesn't.

Add to that equation, the absolute scourge of grocery shopping every weekend and we have a miserable couple on a definitive path to murder-suicide.

Enter Chuckles' parents. Who visited for two months and took care of everything. They took over the entire kitchen, the pantry - what was running out, what needed replenishing; thought of new and interesting things to make daily, cooked dishes I loved eating as a child and in general put up with all my food fussiness. They were also constant conversation companions and made sure I ate healthy. Which is really all that matters anyway right?

Once time came for them to leave, I knew things would be back to normal and so I indulged myself. For the first time ever, I cut my hair short, have tickets to see Sting and the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, will spend Thanksgiving with Chuckles, reading by a fire while it snows in gorgeous Seattle. Buddies Sano and his blushing bride will join us. If in spite of this line-up something fails, a spa-cation awaits during the first few days of 2012.

After all I will be 30 soon and that is stress enough.

Milestones

2011-09-19T16:51:00.002-05:00

I was cruising through the murky under waters of the social network and suddenly, after a mere ten minutes, I had to log out and shut down the computer. Nope, no ugly, nude photos of over-touchy, boundary-challenged new lovers but just a reminder of my age and a not-so-subtle shout out to where in life I should be.

Over the years we have heard parents compare us to everyone around us. Cousin Skinny scored this much in Math, cousin Bitchy topped her class, pot-bellied uncle's daughter is learning Carnatic music, gossipy Ganga's son is now working here and earning this much. You get the drift. It was a weird, convoluted, loving way of informing us about their achievements and reiterating where we should be, but are clearly, not.

Years later in the throes of making a career it was not uncommon for phone calls from home to be filled with news about Skinny cousin now getting married or cousin Bitchy eloping and basically everyone but you finding marital bliss. This would inevitably lead to the mater hinting, whining, pleading, emailing pictures of strange men and in the end threatening you with dire consequences if you did not get married within the year.

And then you finally find someone you want to marry, spend money, and travel with and you think that is all. Every one is happy. No more requests. You create FB, Twitter, Google+ accounts and watch from afar what friends, cousins, peers are up to. You are happy knowing that everyone is well and are content catching up at frequent intervals. You see that everyone is pretty much at the same place in life as you are career-wise, relationship-wise and well mental level-wise I guess!

Till one day you log in and see status after status, ten consecutive messages to be exact, about babies, new-born, toddlers, infants. Parents holding their tiny bundles of joy, commenting on sleepless nights, some announcing their arrival to the world, yet some with cute pictures of shenanigans their little devils did. You read through them all, look at all the pictures and slowly realize where you are. All around you, your peers are having babies. Will you be left behind? Are these subtle albeit strong reminders of milestones along the highway?

Well played, Mother, Well played.

Once every five years

2011-08-02T15:32:00.001-05:00

I have been thinking a lot about friends and family over the past few weeks. Doing that made me think about just how fast everyone was moving on with their lives and how much we have all changed since college. Gone are the days when we said, ''Promise you won't change once you move'', or ''Don't turn into so-and-so or such-and-such''. Things happen, people change. Almost everyone I know has realized, zeroed in or found purpose and is working towards a milestone.

Earlier this week I heard about a friend planning his impending proposal, to his love, in a far away exotic land. Tweedeldee has been working hard to lose weight. For someone who has eaten rice for every meal, every day of his life to finally say he will not eat starch till he loses weight, is a huge battle won. He now survives on salad leaves and unheard of vegetables. Khabri will have her little baby button soon and with that she will warp into someone new. Bee has been married for a whole year and travelled to exotic places for work. She is planning to go to Cape Town this year! My kid sister, Pumbaa successfully graduated from Law school. Little T found his true calling and is hoping to make it big in the bad world of Bollywood. Sano made the transition from cool casanova to smitten kitten in less than a year. Five years ago, none of this could have been foretold.

Isn't it nice to stop and take stock once every five years? To think back and see how far you have come, how much has changed, for the better or worse. Are you moving or stagnant? Are you where you wanted to be or have you strayed off course?

Is over consumption a deadly sin?

2011-07-20T15:59:00.001-05:00

A few weeks ago I was talking to Chuckles about a gorgeous Fossil handbag that I saw while on a trip to a department store and I began expounding its many positive qualities while consciously steering the monologue to a place where he would say, ''Get it if you want to.'' Then I would innocently say, ''You think so? Fine I will pick it up over the weekend.'' That did not go as planned. It was either bad timing or worse karma.

Chuckles had been reading all about minimalism lately and sprung a surprise on me. He saw where I was going and steered the conversation instead, towards consumerism, over consumption, hoarding and how society was suffocating under the weight of unnecessary purchases. Yes, one handbag was going to end society as we know it.

Moving to the US from Germany meant making a list of everything we owned. Everything. From how many spoons, to how many pairs of socks. From the number of iPods between the two of us to how many CDs and books. Staying in Houston for 15 months has doubled our possessions and I squarely blame the sales for that. They called out to me and I followed and eventually succumbed to their wily ways. But then I started reading this, this and this.

Imagine being able to live in a world, in your world with just 100 possessions. Doesn't that sound liberating? No rules on how you group your things, but just limit them to a 100. Do you think you can do it?

A few days later my car drove itself to my favourite store. I walked around and saw this. I stopped to think instead of greedily piling it into my shopping basket. Am I buying the most gorgeous bowl in the world or contributing to the downfall of society? Needless to say, faced with that much pressure I turned around and walked out of the store.

An English Holiday

2011-07-08T14:29:00.001-05:00

I spent the last week in London with Pumbaa. It wasn't like I needed a holiday but Chuckles was being overly indulgent so I took advantage.

Those who know me know I am a closet anglophile. I can't tell you the exact moment when that happened. It may have been while I read Shakespeare's sonnets or the highly embellished poems of the Romantics. It may have happened over a particularly spectacular description of the moors in Wuthering Heights or even as the grit and grime of Dickensian London slowly unfolded itself before me. As a curious teen I spent hours discussing Darcy and Rochester and Carton and inevitably falling in love with the same characters like countless women before me. Were all Englishman like them? By the way, is there a woman who isn't in love with Darcy?

Five years of English Literature and many, many P.G. Wodehouse books later I knew that I had to visit London. Though I must admit the recent hullabaloo over the Royal wedding, I did dither a little. But my faith was strong. After all Pumbaa and I had been planning for the past three years.

I dreamt of going on long literature walks, treading the same paths as Austen and Dickens. Reading a book by the Thames. Sitting at a cafe and sipping tea as I watched London pass by. Visiting Liverpool to pay homage to the Beatles. Or just flipping through a book at Hyde Park. All that was surprisingly not to be. We did go to London but it was not dreamy and airy and frou-frou.

It was all about being the perfect archetypical tourist, complete with guide book in one hand and map in the other, camera slung around the neck, asking for directions. We walked through the bustle of Oxford Circus and caught the lights at West End. We rode the bus through Bloomsbury and Holborn and imagined the narrow lanes of Dickensian London. We watched Dr. Faustus at the Globe while standing for two hours and 45 minutes. We toured the Tower and gasped at the decadent opulence of the Crown Jewels. We shared space with fellow tourists at Stratford-upon-Avon and silently discussed what a waste of a day trip it had been. We listened to a woman squeal about her unbelievably good fortune at scoring tickets for a Take That reunion concert, in a north English accent. We ate ice-cream by the Thames and I practiced my fake British accent. We looked ridiculous as we took pictures at Abbey Road. We walked till our legs threatened to leave us. Through Soho, through Leicester square, through Southwark and Westminister till finally it was time to go. We saw everything and simultaneously saw nothing.

After Faustus at the Globe

Not once did I open a book and read at Hyde Park or sit by the River Thames and marvel as Wordsworth had at London. I had done everything a tourist would do and then some. Well played London, well played.

On the news this morning

2011-06-14T16:31:00.001-05:00

As a journalist nay as an Indian, mornings are not complete without watching the early morning news or reading headlines over a cup of coffee. My grandparents did it, my parents do it and Chuckles and I try.

As a rookie journalist I was once asked by my editor to come to work only after I read the morning newspapers and she meant all of them. As a beat reporter I would scan local newspapers and national dailies everyday just to find out what my competition in the print media had covered and I had missed. Over the years one newspaper won over the other and now we read all our news online. Well, that is before we started subscribing to the New York Times.

The morning news in Houston is a lot of things, but informative it definitely isn't. Most channels dip in and out of local city news, but that does not mean they spend the rest of their morning edition talking about happenings in the world. NO. World news is encapsulated into a three minute segment and then tossed back to the chirpy, fresh-faced morning anchors with their incessant banter and oft showcased culinary skills. Well, maybe I exaggerate. After all the recent royal wedding did get a three hour slot while the 300 dead in Tuscaloosa, AL got a few minutes. If you are looking for the local weather, local traffic or even where you can adopt a puppy in your local community, watch the early morning local news. If it is the weather in New York, the beautiful Manhattan skyline or if you want to know what happened on American Idol and which Congressman was caught Twittering uncontrollably till he had to be sent to rehab, or even if you are dying to find out which one of your favourite early morning anchors can cook a mean Mac&Cheese, then watch the national syndicated morning news.

The highlight of the local news today - Is it worth going to college?

Homeward bound

2011-05-11T13:11:00.002-05:00

It is that time of the year again. Time to make my annual pilgrimage to the motherland. Last year I travelled alone, boarded only flights that were missing very pertinent parts and generally spent half my vacation waiting for planes to take off. You remember reading all that here right? This year, hopefully, it will be different. For starters Chuckles is travelling with me. This will be the first time we visit India together since October 2009 and that was a long time ago. This year we plan to spend two weeks in India. A few days in Bangalore with and a week in Mumbai with my in-laws.

A whole lot has happened since our last visit. Friends got married. I have very few single friends now. Best friend Khabri is pregnant. Chuckles' best man is now a father. Some other people procreated or are seriously thinking about it. I am expecting my mother to refer to her unborn grandchildren in every conversation.

My folks have a new apartment. As far as I can remember we have always had a little place with a gate and two rooms, living room and kitchen. No apartment number, just a house plot number. No intercom facility, just a landline. No apartments down the hall with an elevator for each floor, just nosy neighbours down the street. That's the good thing about Bangalore. Not anymore though. It should be fun to watch the folks attend their first Building Maintenance meeting.

We will also be in India right in the middle of mango season. No more Mexican Atulfo mangos!

It promises to be an Indian summer filled with family, mangos, shopping bags and a lot of baby talk.

Another day in America

2011-04-11T18:31:00.000-05:00

It has been a little over a year since we migrated to Houston. In this one year innumerable people have asked me the same question (and countless versions of the question).

''You are from India? Moved here recently? How did you pick up English so quickly?''

'' Did you learn English after you moved to Houston? Wow, that's impressive!''

''So did you know to speak English before you moved here?''

''Were you taught English in India or did you go to a regional language school?''

For all those people I have this to say.

English was probably the first language I learned to speak. I think and dream in English. I speak not the colloquial slang that is spoken by thousands of Americans but Received Pronunciation (RP) or the Queen's English. I studied English Literature for five years and hope to get back to studying Literature again someday. English grammar rules fascinate me and I own an English and a phonetic dictionary. I love reading poetry just because I feel like it sometimes. Chuckles and I speak English at home and discuss books, that we think, are well written. We often use polysyllabic English words in everyday speech and refrain from using vernacular words in daily conversation. We know the difference between 'their' and 'there' and know when and where to use 'lose' and 'loose'.

For those who think people from India cannot speak in English I have this to say.

India was a colony of the British empire from 1757. English is taught widely in schools and is the medium of instruction in most schools. English is accepted and recognized as an official language after Hindi. A foreigner travelling to any city in India will be able to get by with speaking in English. There are over ninety million English speakers in India apart from whole communities like the Anglo-Indians who primarily speak English. Indian immigrants to any country are an asset because they can read, write and fluently speak English and will make the effort to adapt to any country by learning the language.

Roll out a map, find out where the country is and the next time you meet an Indian, try asking him just how many languages he can speak. Trust me the answer will always stun you into silence.

The last three weeks

2011-03-30T16:58:00.000-05:00

Things have not been what they usually are the past few weeks. Events unfolded and I was succumbed.

Well, to begin at the very beginning I was woken up by my mother at 7am (roughly a week after the last post) saying she was on her way here. By here, I mean, the USA and Houston and by on her way, I mean, all the way from India. She called me on a Monday saying she would be in Houston on Wednesday. Now, I am not a morning person and my alarm gets snoozed very often. But that jolted me awake. I nudged Chuckles and whispered the thunderbolt to him. He reacted by slipping deeper under the covers, turning his back to me, and going right back to sleep. I should have taken that as a sign.

So one week into my new job and about half my torso into both classes, yoga in the evenings and a huge pile of dishes to do, I had to play tour guide to my mom for the next three weeks.

I woke up on Wednesday, made some good South-Indian filter coffee, tidied around the house and left to pick her up from the airport. On the drive home,(roughly 25 miles) I wondered how to tell her I was not going to be around the house the whole day. She on the other hand, sat tight, sweat beads forming on her forehead, terrified to be sitting in a car with me while I was driving. I did fine by the way. We got home safely. Once home I searched for temples in Houston, planned sites to see for the next three weeks and slowly morphed into a nervous wreck.

The one thing I did not do for three weeks? Cook. Mom took over the kitchen much to my happiness.

The next few weeks our home smelled of filter coffee, turmeric and sandalwood soap. She said her prayers and forced us to. We toured temples while Chuckles concentrated on our taxes. We shopped for shoes and other such fun stuff while Chuckles went on business trips and my mom cooked while I ate and constantly missed classes. We drove to corners of Houston and discovered unknown sites and made notes and took photos. I wrote down recipes for Indian food and she tried different cuisines every time we went out. We came back to pack and sit on stubborn suitcases in a losing battle with airlines and baggage restrictions.

She flew back yesterday and we are back to where we started. I never know what to cook for dinner and discovering Houston is no more part of daily conversation. Dregs cleared from the coffee filter and put away with its smells behind instant coffee. The faint smell of sandalwood still remains.

Busy Bee

2011-03-04T15:27:00.000-06:00

After a long gap of two years, this past week has transported me back to my days of working as a journalist.

Well, to give you some perspective, I have spent the greater part of two years studying, just sitting around, setting up house and generally thinking about what I want to do with the rest of my life. While I don't have an answer yet, I suddenly have no time to think anymore.

I have been volunteering for a civic arts agency for the past three months and last week I was asked to stop volunteering and start working. What I did not know when I nodded my assent, was signing on to work for three days a week from nine to five. That would keep me busy from Monday to Wednesday, I had to make my weekly trip to the University on Thursday and to another class on Friday. Weekends are now mostly to catch up on things I failed to complete in the week.

The point of this post is not to flaunt my busy lifestyle, that is so 90s and so lame! The point is to tell you just how difficult the transition from being blissfully unemployed to having to now, use a calendar to keep track of things to do, has been. My body has revolted vociferously and refused to keep up with demands, my beautiful home looks like it has been hit by a tornado and poor Chuckles has had to deal with a grumpy wife, serving him cold spaghetti and falling asleep before ten everyday for the past week. It seemed so much easier when I was in my early twenties! I was used to working the whole day, skipping meals, standing in the hot sun, filing stories, and then partying till midnight only to wake up early for work the next day.

Hopefully week two will be better. Watch this space for more.

RIP Uncle Pai

2011-02-24T11:17:00.001-06:00

A lot has been happening around the world lately. The scent of revolution wafting from one country to another, the repercussions of the revolution affecting the superpowers, rabid speeches by dictators, Cricket World Cup, rising food prices, earthquakes and so much more. Often, when the world is so busy covering something so much more important, small news events get buried under mountains of newsprint and sound bytes. Barely staying afloat, with a two-line article or a hastily pasted wire copy.

While I was doing my morning news crawl, my eyes scanning articles, choosing to read those that piqued my curiosity and refusing to read, 'Vidya's secret affair' and World Cup news. But it was here that I found it. In a place, where no one would think of looking. Anant Pai, dies at 81.

For any child growing up in India, in the 80s and 90s, Amar Chitra Katha and Tinkle were essential companions on long train journeys or on hot and muggy Maruti car drives. They were by your bedside to read just before your nap after heavy lunches on summer vacation, or on the coffee table waiting to be picked up when there was no one to play with or nothing to watch on television. Suppandi, Kalia the crow, Tantri the Mantri, Shikari Shambu were lovable with their easy wit and bad humour. Indian children could easily relate to their stories and anecdotes and what are perhaps the most important reasons, it was affordable and parents knew it was suitable for their children to read.

I remember my father coming home from business trips, with a bunch of Tinkle comics, he had bought from the Higginbothams at the airport. We would always wait for our Island Express train, next to a magazine stand, so we could spend time rifling through the Tinkles and Amar Chitra Kathas, before we hastily bought a couple for the long journey ahead. I remember writing letters to Uncle Pai for contests, and even getting a copy of the Ramayana (Amar Chitra Katha), with a letter wishing me on my birthday, from Uncle Pai!

It may seem silly but in that silliness lies an innocence. Uncle Pai was 81 when he died and he lived to see a time when Tinkle made way for the Twilight Series and Amar Chitra Katha was replaced by Baby Hanuman and Krishna cartoons.

On St Valentine's cigarette break

2011-02-15T11:02:00.000-06:00

I got a call from my mom late last night and then early again this morning. She doesn't call so often unless she has something to tell me and that something really can't wait.

Well, I needed a strong stomach for those calls, because she was gushing, both times.

The first call was to tell me my father had gifted her jewelry for Valentine's day. And just when she thought she had seen everything, he came home that evening with a bunch of flowers!

I am dialing my therapist now.

Earlier this week, I was walking through my neighbourhood grocery store to buy milk. It was around 9 pm and with Chuckles away on work, I was a little edgy. I parked, glanced at a tent filled with flowers, balloons and heart shaped things, with a board that said, 'Flowers in 5 minutes'. That should have warned me. I entered the store and had to make my way past red and pink strings, from helium heart shaped balloons. That was warning#2. But I did not heed. A few dozen steps and a I heard someone say, ''Hey there, I would like to remind you that Valentine's day is just around the corner. Don't forget to check out our blah, blah, blah.'' I swear, I turned around to see who was talking to me. It took me a few more minutes to realize this announcement was motion activated and had been set off, by me, walking towards the dairy section.

After that experience, my Valentine's day really fell short of Hallmark's expectations.

I worked, had lunch with Kamrat after a long, long time. We gossiped, swapped stories and in general had a whale of a time. Back home, I worked some more, tried cooking something special and failed miserably. But I made up with individual Molten Chocolate Lava cakes. Cake on the outside with gooey, chocolate inside. Chuckles and I devoured it so quickly, I couldn't even take a picture. And then we fell asleep by 11 pm.

Romantic and comfortable. I guess, we will leave the celebrating for another day.

Super Bowl and everything American

2011-02-07T10:02:00.001-06:00

Yesterday, we went for our first Super Bowl party!

No, it still hasn't changed my opinion of the game. I think American Football is a violent sport, where brawn triumphs over brain. But Chuckles seems to have really taken to it, going as far as pointing out strategy and the finer rules of the game to me. He is even threatening to start playing Fantasy Football from next season. *shudder*

But last night, with a salad and an open mind in tow; I went along with Chuckles to our first Super Bowl party. One of his colleagues had invited us and I was in for a pleasant surprise. There was some betting, great food, some beers and very interesting conversation! Black Eyed Peas played at the half-time show and we were mesmerized. The show was spectacular and when Usher and Slash came on, the evening was complete. We capped the game with ice-cream and blueberries drunk on amaretto.

While we said our good-byes, it struck me just how far we have come in one year. We have become so comfortable in our American dream that we dined with Americans, adding our tuppence on their sport. Our companions were easily twenty years older than I am, so Chuckles and I ended up telling them about the Black Eyed Peas and Usher and Slash and they in turn humoured us by listening. Who have we become? In a little over a year, we have changed from waiting for buses and trams to go someplace to now hopping into our cars and driving around aimlessly. Our daily walks in the woods of Nuremberg have been replaced by rare, occasional walks at the Arboretum or at Memorial Park. Our cycles are still languishing in the garage waiting to be taken out. We check the weather everyday instead of dressing according to the season. We now notice and categorize words into American and British English. We have begun planning our next 'road -trip'. The television is on for more than three hours a day and we are making, eating in front of the television, a habit. We speak in terms of central, eastern and pacific time zones and have started understanding the nuances of everything American.

Did we expect this to happen? I guess not. Therein, lies the beauty of moving to a country like this. The familiarity creeps up on you and you revel in your second skin.

Random thought # 3

2011-01-31T13:29:00.001-06:00

Are you a tough parent?
Will I be a tough parent?
Can you afford to not be a tough parent in today's man-eats-dog-and-everything-else-in-between world?

Are you consumed by all the debate surrounding Tiger Mom - Amy Chua as much as I am?

The Daily News

2011-01-25T17:23:00.005-06:00

Have you noticed how newspapers are always just around. Like fixtures in a house, they are subtle, no one knows how they got there. You can identify a person's political views, how they think, if they are neat, tidy, organized or just a complete mess, from the innocent paper on the table.

I think it was 1990 when I first picked up the newspaper. I confess, I picked it up not to learn about what was happening around the world but because I was forced to. My parents insisted on widening my horizons, so they made it mandatory for me to sit with it for at least a half hour. I bear many scars from my childhood. Back then, we got the Arab News. It had a green tint, very slim and the less said about the newsprint (or the quality of journalism) the better. But Arab News, was the largest, circulating English daily and it had the customary few pages dedicated to local news, two pages to international and the last four to sports. In between were the funnies. And that was exactly what I read.

When we moved to India, our newspaper of choice was Times of India (I was too young to protest). By then my Tiger parents insisted I read not just the funnies, but the first few pages. To check if I had, they would ask me when our area was scheduled to have a power outage. Yes, we lived in progressive times and Bangalore had a daily schedule for this. Not that they ever stuck to it though.

Somewhere in between all of this, I learned how to fold the newspaper, with the front page facing up, when I was done with it. To this day, I detest people who leave the paper, folded to the page they were reading, in the hope that they would get back to it. Yes, I can get that way, sometimes.

A few years later, my mother started getting the Kannada newspaper. Out of 12 pages, it had 11 dedicated to local news. It was great, if you wanted to know just what was happening in your city. The world be damned!

In Journalism school, we had to read three newspapers, or atleast that was what was expected of us. Journalists were revered, put on a pedestal, till we started working with them and images came crashing down, till they were people, doing a job like everyone else.

We have subscribed and un-subscribed to countless newspapers, but my father will, even today, read the newspaper while he has his morning coffee and only then will his day begin.

When I moved to Germany, we did not get a newspaper. Chuckles and I read all our news online. Just the way, half the world did, I was told. I missed the tactile feel, the rustle of fresh newspaper and the stain of newsprint from holding one page for too long, but I got used to it.

Earlier this year, I gave Chuckles a subscription to the New York Times as a birthday gift. Last Sunday, for the first time in two years, we ate our breakfast in silence, each reading different sections of the newspaper. I have no idea whether he likes his gift or not, but I have enjoyed sitting with the Weekend Edition for the next seven days, reading the articles, holding the newspaper and in general just placing it on my coffee table, a joy that cannot be measured.

I will miss it when they all die.

The Second Coming

2011-01-18T13:18:00.000-06:00

Then:
As students of English Literature, my friends and I would often irreverently discuss why a poet wrote a particular poem. We studied poems by looking at the age that it was written in, poet's influences, why he wrote a particular poem when he did and also how it was received among his peers. We often wondered whether we were reading too much into a particular work when all a poet had done was string a few words together.

Now:
Reading about recent events in Tunisia made me curious to know more about what was happening to its neighbours. That and Chuckles' return to blogging.

One man, Mohammed Bouazizi, protesting in Tunisia, was enough to set off the Jasmine Revolution and drive Zine el Abidine Ben Ali out of the country. It was followed closely by solidarity protests in Egypt, Algerian protests over unemployment and protests in Mauritiana over corruption and tyranny of the government.

Bouazizi had had enough. He sparked off a movement. A movement that seems to have spiraled across north Africa. What will this end in? Will this lead to popular governance in north Africa and the Middle East? Will tyrants be driven out of the countries they have destroyed? Will it spread to other continents? Is it finally time for people to wake up, have they had enough? Is this the part of the Wikileaks saga, governments are terrified about?

Students of literature often find themselves seeking comfort and meaning by going back to familiar works. For me, today - The Second Coming - WB Yeats. Offering new meaning every time I read it.

Guilty pleasure

2011-01-17T17:06:00.000-06:00

I suppose everyone has at least one guilty pleasure. Some more than others and some maybe more guilty than others. I watched a a recent award ceremony where one of the categories was 'Best Guilty Pleasure'. Needless to say, nominations included - 'Keeping up with the Kardashians' and 'Real Housewives of New Jersey'.

But it made me think of mine, guilty pleasure that is. If they are already doling out awards, I might as well hop onto the bandwagon.

So, here goes...drumroll.

1. Watching inane award shows. From the Oscars to CineBlitz Awards. Rooting for the underdog and tearing up at the award speech.
2. Analyzing red carpet fashion. Sneering at the badly dressed and applauding the chic ones.
3. Chocolate ice cream with chunky chocolate pieces and chocolate cake. Tubs-full of it.
4.Roald Dahl books.
5. Collecting (read amassing) jewellery. Not gold, but everything else.

So now that I have bared my soul. I tag you, you, you and you.
You didn't think I was in this alone, didya?

And the award season has begun...

2011-01-17T12:01:00.001-06:00

The Golden Globes 2011, (read the straw that broke Ricky Gervais' career) was a lot of things. The usual predictions, bad fashion (read Helena Bonham Carter, Tilda Swinton, January Jones) and surprise winners.

But this post is about The Social Network.

I joined the social networking craze about four years ago. Like everyone, I got addicted to the high of finding old friends, rekindling relationships and mesmerized by Zynga games. Chuckles and I played Scrabble and other games for hours during our courtship. He got to know just how competitive I really am, or as he put it, what a sore loser I can be. I lived through the phase, where you were judged by just how many friends you had on your list. I fell considerably short of the 1000 mark.

I looked forward to the annual birthday greetings that ran into pages. It didn't matter that Facebook had reminded people I was a year older. I got married and my wedding pictures were all over Facebook for the non-attendees to see and for the attendees to comment on.

My friends were divided into lists, almost dividing my life into phases. I moved countries and friends kept up. Then, parents became curious and logged in. They quickly learnt the ropes and snooped around. Shock and awe over profanities in status updates and hushed whispers of disapproval at family gatherings over ''photos on that internet Facebook'' were frequently heard. Then came Privacy Settings.

Now, my time on Facebook is limited to logging on once a day. Spending about 5 minutes and logging off. There was a time, I admit, when I spent close to four hours a day, on Facebook. Another shocker came, when Chuckles deactivated his account. It was of no use to him, he said. Though I hardly use it, I could never do that. Almost as though, I would lose the 300+ friends on my list, just by clicking deactivate.

When The Social Network released earlier this year, we read the reviews. Decided, to catch it on DVD and basically, forgot about it. Obviously, the awards didn't. At the Golden Globes, Social Network was picked over Inception, The King's Speech. Black Swan and The Fighter. All winners in their own right. The producers thanked the real people this movie is based on. Was the movie really that good?

Nobody shares my idea of a vacation

2011-01-07T17:57:00.000-06:00

So if you have been reading, you would have realised that December is really all about my birthday. There is nothing else. Well, at least till I got married. Chuckles' birthday follows three days after mine and though he is no glory hog, I still have to share my thunder.

But that does not make for a very good New Year post.

The days before our birthday, Chuckles likes to take some time off work. Relax, take a vacation. Our ideas of relaxing are very different. While I want to pack a lot of things that we don't normally get to do, Chuckles is happy just waking up late, reading the NYT, eating, reading, eating, watching a show, eating, sleeping. You get the drift. With Pumbaa coming in this year, I had planned two weeks of extensive sight seeing. On our calendar I marked exactly where we would be going daily. I looked at websites to see what would be open during the holidays, checked with both Chuckles and Pumbaa if they were interested and was all set to see everything Houston and its surrounding areas had to offer.

She arrived and our holiday began. Every day for the next two weeks we slept, after playing a board game, at 4 am. We brunched, watched Mad Men, snacked, debated about a late lunch and finally leaving to see the city, late in the evening. Then we drove around aimlessly, shopped, returned stuff, baked, snacked, talked and swapped stories over dinner for almost two hours, ate big bowls of ice-cream with tons of chocolate sauce, talked some more and made plans for the next day before breaking out the board game at midnight once again.

Then Tweedledum* arrived. To stay with us for a day. Jet lagged and on a whirlwind trip around the US Tweedledum was happy with the way things were going. We took him on a tour of downtown and then took him shopping. He loved it.

I may be drunk on all the New Year cheer but the last two weeks weren't so bad after all. I may even go as far as to say I liked it.

One of my closest friends, Tweedledum loves colors, handicrafts, good clothes, Indian fabrics, design, art, musicals and long conversations. He is a dream to shop with, often finding things my experienced eyes have missed. Ladies, he is single by the way.

Queen for a day

2010-12-31T10:37:00.001-06:00

Yesterday was a strange day.
Yesterday was my birthday.

There were a few birthday miracles. I won in a few games while playing against Chuckles, a feat never before achieved. For the first time, Chuckles uttered those three magic words - ''You are right'. I had placed chances of that happening, on par with unicorns and flying monkeys.

I had no idea what I wanted for my birthday. A first in all my years. So when Chuckles repeatedly asked me what I wanted, I just shrugged. That must have meant something because I got a new Android phone, a Ferragamo perfume and a whole bag of little, unrelated things, all of which go a long way in making my life complete.

The sky was overcast, it rained more that I had ever seen before in my 10 short months in Houston. But we still went for a tour to an ice-cream factory. I rank that right on top of my list of perfect dates, right next to amusement parks.

Took in a small part of old town America. Walked around antique stores and heard an old woman talk about making soap.

A lot of people wished me. Friends I have kept in touch with, friends I have not. There was an outburst of activity on my Facebook page. Sure does wonders for your ego!

Baked cheesecake cupcakes with Pumbaa. They turned out perfect. Right up to the gooey apricot jam on top.

Was the queen of all things living, for a day. With a lot of help from indulgent Chuckles and Pumbaa. They almost wished the day would end. Even said I was getting unbearable. Was fun while it lasted.

All that happened with no one reminding me of just how old I am.

Exactly the kind of birthday, my aging bones needed.

Headpiece filled with straw

2010-12-18T22:54:00.001-06:00

We are the Hollow men

We are the stuffed men

Leaning together

Headpiece filled with straw.

- T.S. Eliot

As a wide-eyed teenager, being exposed to the works of Eliot for the first time, there was awe, frustration, empathy and pathos. The shallowness of urbanization, the meaningless of life after World War I, the bleak outlook towards life itself seemed to mirror my rebellious, non-conformist, teenage state of mind.

A decade later, revisiting Eliot has evoked a new set of feelings. Not entirely different, I must admit.

Here is where I make a confession. My mind, can sometimes be like silly putty. Very malleable and almost anybody can work with it. To that effect, I find myself being molded and shaped and easily influenced. There is a reason I never experimented with narcotics.

As the in-house critic, psychotherapist, analyst and rationalist, Chuckles occasionally sits me down for a reality check. Not one where cooing in the ear is involved, but one where kick-me-when-I'm-down transpires. I manage to take whatever I want from these sessions, but the last one took me back to the Hollow Men. It made me walk up to my books and pull out the anthology just so that I could sit down and re-visit the poem, only to understand the feeling of emptiness and mirror complex, from the position I am in now. A look back at an empty list of accomplishments, just a year short of entering my third decade.

It makes me wonder how many people go through life without experiencing the powerful feeling Eliot invokes just by stringing together a few random words.

Inching closer to the big Three-O

2010-12-12T15:15:00.000-06:00

It is that time of the year again. A time when my emotions get the better of me and I turn into a silly, giggling, uncontrollable two year old.

December always makes me happy. The whole month is filled with birthdays of people close to me. My own birthday falls during the last week and Chuckles finishes (or begins) the year with his birthday.

When I was younger, my parents always knew what to get me for my birthday. The whole year I would have my heart set on one big, expensive gift and I would remind them of that at every single opportunity I got. But I would patiently wait the whole year for it. One year it was a Walkman, the other a Keyboard, yet another a bike.

When you are a kid in school and the year is marked by your classmates and friends bringing sweets, cake and wearing 'colour dress' (read not uniform) on their birthday, you wish you could do the same. The lucky girl would miss boring classes and take her sweet box to different classrooms. Classmates would gather around the Queen Bee to admire her dress. Every class would start five minutes late because she had to give sweets to the teacher. But school was always closed on my birthday and never, not once did I get to do that. It was always Christmas vacation or winter vacation.

But on the upside, I managed to celebrate my birthday in a new city almost every year. Yes, I do know just how snooty that sounds. But Dad was in the travel business and lover of travel at that. So we took our annual vacation to a new country almost every year and of course, my birthday day would be part of the vacation!

Pizza Hut inevitably became part of my birthday. As a vegetarian family with kids that loved pizza, my parents would have no choice but to succumb to a birthday dinner at a Hut where waiters would dance and sing for you if you told them it was your birthday. I must admit, this tradition was carried over into my teens.

During my early twenties, friends would come home at midnight with gifts or pretend they had forgotten and throw a bash late the next day but I always got gifts. Things I had spoken about or pointed out when we went shopping.

Last year, Chuckles surprised me with a beautiful charm bracelet that all my friends had and which I had spoken about every time we passed by the store. It was the hottest thing to own then, in Germany.

This year Pumbaa, my younger sister is coming to visit us. We will probably bake a cake. Ironically, I can't think of anything I want for my birthday. We have been shopping a lot more than we usually do, but that one big gift eludes me. So the countdown has begun, maybe a new tradition will be born. Watch this space.

A really long secret

2010-12-03T13:20:00.001-06:00

It takes a long time to settle into a new city. Some may never seem familiar, some may instantly warm your heart. Some may never feel like home, yet some cities may welcome you like home even though you visit just once in a while. But all cities have secrets. Deep, dark secrets that are revealed to only the fortunate few.

Now, getting to know a city is like meeting a new friend and trying to form a life long relationship. You can ask questions, you can research (or google/bing), you can get in a car and drive around just you and the sprawling city in front of you. However you decide to learn about a city, it takes time, patience and a lot of effort.

Chuckles and I moved to Houston, Texas in February. Since then we have tried to make Houston feel like home. We have roamed through the streets, seeking and unearthing small facets of the city that we have loved. Turned up noses at particular neighbourhoods and chosen to stay far away from the suburbs, deciding instead to stay close to the pulse of the city. By doing so, we have observed what makes this city tick, small idiosyncrasies and tidbits that we share at dinner conversations.

But last week, the city went a step further in opening itself to us. We discovered the Tunnel System. We had heard of it being spoken in whispers among the corporate class of Houston and were curious enough to experience it.

This is a tiny portion of downtown Houston.

Now imagine an extensive network of tunnels underneath the business district of Houston. Thousands of people making their way to work every day. Temperatures for most part of the year range from hot and humid, to a-bad-day-in-hell. Employees from Shell and Chevron to City Hall and the Hispanic Chamber of Commerce start to feel hungry. One particularly busy worker has not had the time for a haircut and now wants to use his lunchtime for a quick trip to the barber. They walk down to the basement from their office, get sucked into the deviously plotted tunnel system and the world opens up before them.

The Houston Tunnel System is about 20 feet below the street system and covers about 95 city blocks. A little more than 5 miles of complex, interconnected streets, fully air-conditioned and just raring to go from breakfast time right until the evening before-commute snack. Fast food chains compete with sit down restaurants. Starbucks and small cafes brew heady cups of coffee. Run in your stocking? Stop by to pick up another one from a tiny supermarket. Need a quick trim or a blow dry? Make an appointment at any one of the available saloons.

We roamed these tunnels, astonished by a complete other world, hidden from the outside view. Once we resurfaced we spoke about it at length, excited to be privy to a Houston secret. Also, we can't wait for the next dinner party. Watch us wax eloquently, almost as though we were now in the esteemed inner circle.

Time for an update

2010-11-29T12:31:00.000-06:00

The past few weeks have been quite eventful. I have done so many things I have not done before. Crossed some things off my bucket list. Did a few things that were routine but suddenly seemed different.

Well, to begin with, last Sunday I went on a 'faith crawl'. Been working with this truly awesome folklorist and I tagged along for service to a Nigerian church where I listened to the sermon, danced with the congregation and sang along with the most unbelievably energetic choir. Then, we made our way to the Chinmaya Temple which was then followed by a visit to a Buddhist temple. All for work and research. How cool is my life?

But the day before that, I did something physically exhausting and mentally liberating. To begin at the beginning, I have been doing Yoga for a couple of months now and have found it to be a form of exercise that I would willingly do. I loathe going to the gym, Chuckles is never around to play badminton or tennis and well I don't have the discipline to go walking, running or cycling by myself. But yoga has been good for me. So last week, I did (hold your breath, drum roll please) 108 Surya Namaskars aka sun salutations! Yes 108!

While that week enriched both body and mind, Thanksgiving weekend was purely to satisfy the materialistic craving. We lived through our first Black Friday and it added a few more clothes in my cupboard. A few weeks ago, we decided to NOT hop on the bandwagon but instead to stay at home and shop when stores were not filled with sale crazy zombies. But the day before Black Friday, we scoured the world wide web for available sales and gathered our jaws from the floor just in time to say, '''Let's hit the stores at 4 am.'' We did. We made a list of things we needed the night before and woke up at 3 am, bleary-eyed, pumped on coffee and entered our first store as 'Doorbusters'. We then made a beeline for exactly what we wanted, pushed and shoved fellow zombies hauling televisions into their carts and got everything on our list and well, more. We came back home ten hours later, wolfed down a pizza and fell asleep dreaming of new possessions.

Of course, to add to all that, in less than two days, Chuckles and I will complete two years of being married. Last year he whisked me away to Neuschwanstein and it was magical to say the least. For just how magical, here's a clue - click on the links. This year, he wants to get Chinese takeout.

November has been good.

Coming up short

2010-11-17T16:54:00.000-06:00

Ever heard the phrase - 'Good things come in small packages'?

Over the course of my 28 years, I confess to have heard it a quarter of a million times. I harbour this statistic because I was always among the shorter section of people. I distinctly recall a year when I had written the phrase on chart paper and hung it above my cupboard, so that it would be a constant reminder.

In class, all my pictures are either me standing in the font row, with other 'shorties' or in the back row the year the tall ones got to sit. My parents are not too tall either, thank you genes. But all throughout they encouraged me to skip and swim, hoping I would put on a few inches. No inches, but I do have over 15 skipping ropes, in all colours to show for it. Around me, friends, frenemies, cousins continued to grow. They didn't have parents that were too tall, but their pants were too short, they were constantly buying new school uniform, new shoes while I could wear the same uniform for three years without having to open the hemline. When nothing worked, I was told girls are meant to be small, not tall and ungainly. I still prayed for a few more inches.

Till one day, inching into my 20's, I was slapped square in the face with the ice cold palm of harsh reality. That's it. 160 cms was as far (or high) as I was going to go (grow).

I share this rather intimate and embarrassing story of my life because last weekend Chuckles and I had our first house guest. Beanstalk, dropped in for the weekend and it was the first time I had met someone who flirted with the seven foot mark. Turns out, being tall isn't a picnic after all. Our guest bed was too short for him, there was almost no leg space in our big car, we asked him to reach for things we kept on top of our cabinets and he had to stoop to enter any room. He even shared stories where people on the streets, have asked him to stop what he was doing, so they could take a picture with him.

Well, looks like I did pretty well. Thank you genes?

The dilemma of tradition

2010-11-08T16:11:00.000-06:00

Diwali came and went.

It was never like this.

Growing up, Diwali was my most favourite festival. I loved the lights, the colours, the crackers, the after smell, the before smell of expectant earth, the chaos, the warnings, the caution, the diyas, the oily, slippery wicks, the fight to carry the tray of diyas, the curiosity to see what the latest fashion trend was. Diwali was something I looked forward to every year. It was special, because in its own weird way, my family had made it stand for something special.

However much we hated meeting relatives or neighbours and sharing things with them, on Diwali, we would end up playing host to a dozen other families, all of us would burst crackers, sneak a few extra sweets in between trips to the bathroom and inevitably one of us (read me) would burn our fingers while lighting a flowerpot or a zameen chakra. There were things that had to be done. New clothes had to be bought. The morning of the big festival, Ma had to make a grand ceremonial gesture of placing it before the idols, rubbing a little turmeric on the inside seam and then presenting it to us like a Queen giving away a piece of land to a victorious Knight. Coconut oil had to be warmed up with a few grains of rice and had to be rubbed with a little cotton ball right on top of the head. Breakfast had to be idli and chutney. Sweets had to be divided and neatly displayed on plates which would later be distributed. Friends and family would bring sweets, which had to be inspected. The welfare of a family and the household could be judged just by looking at their Diwali sweets. Was is it ample enough or were they being stingy? Was it store bought or home made? Everything could be judged from one single plate.

Diwali has always had a special meaning for me.

This year, it was just Chuckles and me. We woke up late, there was no oil ceremony, no lighting of the lamps till afternoon. We ate brunch, no one visited, there was no distributing of sweets. I tried lighting a few diyas, but the wind blew them out, I kept some inside and the fire alarm went off. We wore new clothes and went to the temple, where over ten thousand Indians were too busy eating to notice children performing on stage, the air was so cold it drove us back to the car. There were no firecrackers.

But there was companionship and there was laughter. There was a break in tradition and it felt special. I made sweets and Chuckles loved it. Whatever I cooked, there were no leftovers. There was humour in the situation and I saw and embraced it. We wished each other and family and friends over the internet. It was a break and it felt good.

Only vegetables for me

2010-10-27T13:05:00.001-05:00

Being a vegetarian is not easy.
There are trials, tribulations and temptations every step of the way.
At every corner and every turn there will be something that will make you doubt yourself, question your choice and salivate just by looking at your partner's plate.

Ok, maybe not so dramatic, but it is hard.

Growing up in a strict, brahmin household, there was no place for meat in our Godrej refrigerator. Fresh vegetables would be haggled over and bought from the friendly neighbourhood sabzi-wallah and the day's lunch and dinner would be rasam or sambar or some other curry with coconut, rice and a dry vegetable poriyal. Very healthy.

Till I was old enough to go to college in another city, I never felt like I lived in a parallel universe. In college, while my roommates (all vegetarian) and I gathered at the friendly college canteen, we would order the same paneer butter masala and roti, classmates would try butter chicken on one day, fish masala the next and prawn curry the day after. I lived a vegetarian through those two difficult years as the butter from the chicken would titillate our nostrils.

At work, colleagues would chirp endlessly about all the good stuff in life I was missing out on. Still, I stood firm.

When I moved to Germany, things got a little harder. The only vegetable in German cuisine was potatoes. Asparagus, in season, but basically potatoes. Being married to Chuckles didn't make things any easier. He is known far and wide as the man who eats anything that crawls. You may have heard of him? He picks his favourite animals depending on how they taste. Pig and duck fight for the top spot. I won't lie, I did totter a bit, but stuck to my faith through the countless, monotonous, Italian meals. Why, I even wolfed down my millionth plate of spaghetti pomodoro e basilico while he ate an entire rabbit in front of me.

Now in America, eating out may have become a little easier, owing to age old adage of 'Customer is King' and the fact that they will go out of their way to whip up something for us, vegetarians. But on our recent vacation to Florida via New Orleans, things got a little fishy (pun wholly intended).

You see, we were driving through seafood country, where the sea is the only source of food. On our first night in New Orleans, we walked through the Warehouse District looking for any place that served anything other than fruits of the sea. After an hour of walking where I fainted from hunger thrice, we chanced upon a Japanese restaurant. Yes, in Cajun country. After waiting for an hour for a table, we were seated at the bar where I immediately ordered the two vegetarian dishes on the menu. Chuckles calmly checked various items on his sushi list which he handed over to the sushi maker (?) A lot of very colourful things appeared a few minutes later. That's when I looked longingly at his plate and started salivating, Chuckles noticed and he gave me one which was only rice, egg and seaweed. A vegetarian Sushi!

Needless to say, I gulped it down and checked 'Eat Sushi' off my bucket list.

Trust me, it isn't so bad being a vegetarian. Maybe someday, vegetarian Butter Chicken?

Mallu memories

2010-10-20T15:13:00.000-05:00

Stumbled upon this seemingly innocent interview on You tube via Twitter. (Yes, I am a social networking whiz) and it whisked me back home to a million memories.

Memories of Dada's accent, his love for mridangam and the ear-splitting chenda vadyam at temples in Kerala. Memories of Appa with his iPod plugged in his ear, oblivious to the world and singing along with old, very old tamil film songs. Memories of pavaddai and pottu and mallipoo and being dragged to so many temples in Palghat. Memories of walking along with a dozen cousins in tow to the fields and bringing back fresh vegetables, tender coconuts and ginger for Pati, so she could make a yummy south indian meal which we would all eat on banana leaves, while sitting cross legged on the floor in a row that seemed to never end. Somehow I ate twice as much as I would normally eat and be back in under two hours for freshly made banana chips and other spicy snacks. A hundred surreptitious trips to where the tamarind was kept to dry, to fill our pockets with them and later not tell the parents when we had a bad stomach ache. A mad scampering to catch that mango, that a slight breeze brought down from the tree before any other cousin got it. Evenings, when the men would play Rummy and the women would catch up on family gossip while the kids played Palanguzhi or just sat around talking and I nervously avoided the lizards and moths persistently casting a plague upon my stay there. Memories of overnight Island Express train rides with tiffins packed with chapathi, aloo curry and fresh bananas. Memories of packing carton after carton of rice, coconuts, ginger, tamarind, pickles, turmeric, jackfruit and mangos to take back home to the city, where everything was expensive.

Now, a million miles away my banana plant in a pot slowly withers.

Roadtripping

2010-10-18T15:27:00.000-05:00

I know there has been a lull and a stifling silence on the blog posting front, but I was off having way too much fun to think! But, it all started with a little heartbreak and a dash of disappointment.

By the end of September, Chuckles and I had penciled my parents arrival in our calendars. That was supposed to be for a month from mid October. Days passed, I made grocery lists and then out of the blue, mom called and cancelled. Just like that. Postponed their trip to next year. I was disappointed, after all I had prepared myself for good food, company and some good ol sightseeing. Chuckles and I then decided it was time to experience America for all it had to offer.

How about New England? It is Fall after all, and long walks in forests bang smack in the middle of fall foliage colour sounded perfect. So we decided to take a week off, fly into New York, sightsee and then drive up to New England, spend the weekend at a quaint, tiny bed and breakfast inn. That plan died faster than you can say 'Fantastic burst of fall foliage in Vermont' like a German. Turns out, one night at the quaint, tiny, off the beaten path B&B was more expensive than a week at a beach resort.

That was when Lonely Planet USA came to the rescue. Chuckles and I pored over the maps and then some and chose a route that was perfect for a week. We decided on a flexible road trip ending somewhere in Florida.

So with our car filled with maps, an ice cooler with water and soda, peanut butter, Nutella and chutney sandwiches, enough music to play continuously for a few days and our driving licenses we headed out from Houston to Panama City Beach.

At Panama City Beach, we were greeted by the sun, white crystalline sand, miles and miles of beach and the water. Cool, salty and there just for us. We followed a strict routine of swim, read, collect shells, swim, shower, hot tub, watch the sun finally go down from our balcony and eat. It was exhausting to say the least!

Oh and we also acted a little silly and promised to make a yearly trip to the beach.

What dreams may come...

2010-09-30T12:38:00.000-05:00

Chuckles and I watched the 'The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo' a few weeks ago and we loved the intelligent plot, the quick edits and generally Lisbeth Salander. So Chuckles went out and bought the other two books in the trilogy. I started reading them and enjoyed the sub-plots in 'The Girl who Played with Fire' though it got really slow in between and I expected a lot more from Mikael Blomkvist.

Two days ago, I started on the last book in the trilogy, 'The Girl that Kicked the Hornet's Nest' and that is when it all began.

I have been plagued by nightmares with Lisbeth Salander playing the protagonist. She has been hiding, jumping, darting, eluding the hands of the evil Swedish Säpo, Bjurman and Niedermann. What is worse, Blomkvist is nowhere around, because he is busy writing articles for the next issue of Millennium. Night after night, Salander plots her way to freedom but inevitably gets caught. Last night, Salander was trapped in a circus, running away from 'all the evil', as the Säpo and Bjurman looked for her to destroy her photographic memory, once and for all. She tries to escape by climbing to the big top and dressing up as a clown with garish cake makeup. But Bjurman catches her because she is the only thin clown around. She is then thrown into a psychiatric institution where she is subjected to severe shock treatments to erase her memory and reboot her system.

That was when I woke up screaming, startled Chuckles who woke up thinking there was a fire and made a mental note to stop reading the Trilogy and pick up a Dr Seuss instead.

Vande Mataram

2010-09-22T16:34:00.000-05:00

Last Friday, Chuckles and I went for the A R Rahman concert. A concert at the Toyota Stadium in Houston means something that is huge, grand and exaggerated. Truly an evening in true Texas style. To be honest, the Jai Ho concert was a complete sham and we only enjoyed it because we had free tickets. Rahman brought along Shweta Pandit and another hitherto unseen (by me) singer, both sang bearably, both were more interested in dancing than singing, resulting in an awful tone-deaf rendition of Barso Re. The stadium's audio system was falling apart, too many songs were lip-synched, the dancers were on most occasions a weak afterthought and the song list could have been so much better (but that I admit is a subjective opinion). Most of all, the concert just did not feel like one. There was no adrenaline rush, no anticipation and the excitement levels were sub-zero.

But something stuck with me long after the concert. One of Rahman's most popular albums was Vande Mataram. It is played every year on Independence day and other national holidays. But did Rahman really have to play to the underlying patriotic fervour of the NRI? The crowd sang along and the person sitting net to me was close to tears when Rahman sang Maa Tujhe Salaam. Was that really the goal, the USP of the concert? Are non-resident Indians easier to sweep with patriotic mumbo-jumbo than Indians living at home?

Growing up in Saudi Arabia Independence day, Diwali, Pongal, Onam were always celebrated on a much grander scale than we ever cared to celebrate in India. The entire Indian community would make plans weeks in advance and we would visit at least a dozen houses to exchange sweets, greetings and reminisce about days back in India. It was my parent's generation's idea of keeping the 'Indian-ness' alive.

Once a year we would celebrate 'Indian Day'. The Indians would take over a complete amusement park. Stalls would be set up serving Indian food, chaat, jalebis. A complete day of Indian only fun. Some weekends in the year we would spend at each others places where parents would play taash and Housie while kids played outside or in the swimming pool till we they were called inside to dig into plates of steaming hot pakoras, chai, followed by biryani, kachumbar, raita and jamun or payasam to finish the meal.

Then one fine day we returned to India and festivals lacked the usual lustre. No one played Housie anymore and really Indian day never existed in this world!

Are we really more Indian abroad than we are in India? What is this dormant sense of patriotism that wakes up when someone mentions the country abroad? Am I supposed to feel insulted when Commonwealth Games Federation executives thrash India for its shoddy preparations for the Games. When they call the living quarters 'dirty and uninhabitable'? When top level athletes from around the world start dropping out of the Games? The Twitterati have been abuzz with opinions and comments. Strangely, the voices from India have spoken of the shame the games have brought upon us. But the voices from abroad have been more positive. Saying India always manages to pull off a miracle.

So whether you are outraged or sympathetic, a silent observer or a loquacious critic, whether you are rooting for the Games or hiding under the covers till it is over, for me what I feel largely depends on where I am. At home in India or away.

Das Leben der Anderen (The Lives of Others)

2010-09-16T10:36:00.002-05:00

Every time you move to a new country, it is always fun to snoop around and find out what the local milieu is like. I was shocked to find out that Germans are very taciturn and stern and do not like it when you enquire about their family. Talk to an Indian for five minutes and he will ask you about your roots. Ten minutes down and salary, marital status and kids will come up. Americans, I am still figuring out.

A unique opportunity to observe and interact with Americans came up when I went for a classic literature book meeting. The women were all working American women who were meeting during their lunch break to discuss Persepolis, by Marjane Satrapi. Most of them were shocked by the downright ''oppressive and captive' life Iranian women are forced to lead. Yet, some were unable to understand the need to go back to a country like that when America offers them a safe environment to live in with complete freedom. We discussed the hijab, the veil, why women were forced to wear it, why the Quran asks them to wear it and how veiled women in America have inhibited vision while driving.

I listened and contributed and when the political unrest between Iran and America finally sneaked into the conversation, there was a sudden calm. The very same table that was bursting with opinions and thoughts shut down. Nobody wanted to speak about politics, even though everyone had an opinion.

That evening Chuckles and I watched Das Leben der Anderen*, a brilliant end to an insightful day.

*This German movie is about life in East Germany under the Stasi regime. A film so poignant and moving in its simplicity, it is worth watching more than once. Watch it, it will blow your mind.

You and me. Don't let me down.

2010-09-10T10:27:00.000-05:00

The quickening pulse, the end of anticipation and that split second when you recognize the opening riff of your favorite song being played by your favorite band - LIVE, just for you. You sing along, you know all the words, you sway, you jump and you hold on tight to that moment, as you secretly wish it never ends. You savour that rush of adrenaline. You mourn the end of the song.

This evening Chuckles and I are going to watch a live show. Actually, watch a concert. Something I have not done since Rolling Stones circa 2003. Ya, no kidding.

There is something about concerts. Watching a live show. I was in Bangalore when it was slowly turning into India's concert capital. Back then, I tried going to every single concert. After the first two, my parents stopped indulging me with ticket money. So when Rolling Stones was in town, Bee, Khabri and I pooled in our pockets and realized, we did not have money enough to make it past the gates. As every self- respecting college goer, we prayed for a miracle. We were asked by college to volunteer as ushers for the concert. To cut a long story short, on the day of the concert, we wore complimentary 40 Licks T-shirts, did a few pat down checks, confiscated cigarettes, alcohol and checked tickets. By the time the concert began, we were in the front row watching as Mick Jagger sang to us.

We went for everything. Even The Scorpions. Bee and I stayed up nights memorizing every single Scorpions song, so we wouldn't feel left out.

Roger Waters was the big one. There were no ushering jobs and as usual there was no money and our parents refused to indulge us. We had given up hope, made plans to drive by and listen to the music. But two hours before the concert, a friend called and said she had two VIP passes extra. Were we interested? The rest of the evening, I watched as Roger Waters sang exclusively to me. (Yes he did.)

So tonight, the stage is set. Chuckles leaves office a little early. We drive an hour out of our way to get to the venue. Our tickets got lost in the mail, so we have to stand in line at the ticket counter and fight while we brandish our receipt in front of their faces and get our tickets. We have lawn seating and since Houston is bang smack in the middle of hurricane season, we also have to carry our umbrellas. All that and more to listen to Dave Matthews Band.

Staying in touch

2010-08-27T13:00:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, things you normally do are difficult to do. Breathing, eating, swallowing, (I would say pooing, but there are medicines advertised, several times an hour, on the telly in the US for constipation) sleeping, keeping in touch. By argument, all things that are easy-breezy, mcneezily done. But ay, where is the rub then?

Recently, I made a trip back to the motherland. While I was there, several people brought to my notice, that I was a horrible person. Now, let me announce to the universe, that I harbour no delusions of grandeur, but I think I am a pretty amazing person to know. No doubts there. Some people and by some, I mean you, yes YOU. You know who you are - told me that I had forgotten old friends, not kept in touch and become this selfish person who only called when I wanted something. Well, now isn't that just peachy keen?

To you and to anyone else who thinks these thoughts. (Brace yourself)...

- Keeping in touch is a two way street. My phone can receive calls too. I like getting 'hello, what's up?' messages and I respond to my name when called or even emailed.

- Moving two continents in less than two years is not an easy task. Setting up home from scratch when you have all your worldly belongings in 15 cartons takes up a little more than 24 hours.

- Trying to keep in touch with people on the phone when they are 12 hours ahead of you and sleep when you wake up and wake up when you go to sleep is easier said than done. That's why mankind invented Facebook, Twitter and email which people who want to keep in touch use. The REPLY button you see on your browser window, use it. Go ahead, try it.

- When you have to find people to talk to in this new country, you are comforted by the fact that you have such a strong support system of friends back home. People you are thankful for and you call them then to tell them that. That does not constitute as calling when you need something.

- Sometimes, spending time with a person you just met and married is thousand times more important than chatting with friends who you have known for years.

- When you are unemployed or between jobs and you question your own self-worth, you do not want to call people, who have jobs that keep them busy. When I call, talk to me about you, don't tell me, you are busy and will call me later. Here's a newsflash, you never do.

- When I visit home, my family comes first. I have not seem them in over a year. I will spend a few days with them, get over jet-lag and then call you. Answer the phone and let's catch up like two old friends. Don't be a baby.

My friends, you know who you are, thanks for being there and keeping in touch. I really appreciate it. you have no idea just how much.

The reason I will be travelling by ship

2010-08-20T12:21:00.003-05:00

It has been oh-so-long since I posted. But flying back home to India and travelling to four cities in three weeks is no mean task.

Yes, you read right. The trip back home was nothing to rave about (except for some yummylicious food), there I said it, so strike me down Lord with your Usain Bolt shaped thunderbolts. A comedy of errors is what it was all about. Playwrights will henceforth look to my life for inspiration. Either, I have lived through horrible travel Karma or the people in the skies are sending me pretty strong messages about me not belonging there.

So it all began with my flight from Houston to Mumbai via Frankfurt. The days before the actual trip were choppy enough and that should have been a neon sign for me to read, but no, I suffer from selective blindness. Yes, I am being treated with a thump on my head twice a day, after meals for it. So Chuckles drops me off and I lug my suitcases to check in. My big red suitcase (which will play a big part in the trip) was unlocked which I noticed while standing in line behind other Indians all sufficiently endowed in the luggage department. Now owing to the extra large size of my suitcase, it was difficult for me to maneuver and actually lock it, so I let it be.

I believed in luck and Lufthansa and left my suitcase unlocked, finally checked in and stood in line behind a hundred people for security. Everything was going according to plan. Even after I sat in a nondescript, hostile, boarding room waiting for, ''Lufthansa will begin boarding economy passengers now, so scramble in line'' everything seemed fine. And then it happened. They cancelled boarding and asked us to await further information. Three quarters of an hour later, they delayed the flight saying some part was missing which they were trying to fly in from other states. We still held on to hope, though it seemed pretty stupid. 15 minutes later, the flight was cancelled. The part was definitely missing.

Almost three hours later (standing), two huge suitcases in tow and a worried Chuckles at home, I managed to get onto a flight which would take me to Doha in 15 hours. Since I had disobeyed all neon signs, the sky people had to teach me a lesson. Turbulence followed, the piercing shriek of a fellow passenger jolted me awake and forced me to remember oxygen mask drills and what I should do when we land in water. Fine, I got the picture. I am going to hell, there is no place for me in heaven.

I land in Doha, and am seated in another aircraft in 45 minutes. Three hours later I land in Mumbai.
The ordeal is not over.

A peaceful three days with the in-laws follows. A flight to Goa with Khabri and her umbrella, a wedding, so much rain, there was water flowing inside my brain and it was time to head to Bangalore. I reach the airport, I board. I wake up to us still on the tarmac, sweat dripping down my back and kids screaming. We get off and get some fresh Goa tarmac air, only to be shuttled off to the terminal. A free samosa and an hour later, some part is missing and the flight, you know it by now, is cancelled.

Two hours of negotiations, fighting and a whole lot of indian english later, I find myself with my two big suitcases in tow, in a shuttle, with strangers heading towards a hotel. Dinner and conversation with strangers later, I am woken up at 4.30 am to get ready for my flight. A shuttle ride to the airport, a wait for another three hours and our flight is finally ready to board. We take off to Bangalore at 9.30 am.

There is another visit planned to India next year. I have a whole year to recuperate.

Must watch Movies

2010-07-19T16:15:00.000-05:00

On Saturday, Chuckles and I did something that we hadn't done in a really long time. We watched three movies back to back. We started off with Inception and then watched (500) Days of Summer and then Bourne Identity.

But this post is just about the first two and not about yummy Matt Damon.

Yes, I know. Inception is the new Dark Knight, is the new Memento. A lot has been said about it already but I have never shied away from adding my tuppence. Just the thought that someone is sitting in a big, comfortable armchair, coming up with ideas like this, makes this movie a must watch. A movie where you have to pay attention every single moment or you will miss out on something important. Don't miss a dialogue because you turned your attention to popcorn. Inception is not 3D but is a normal, intelligent movie. Add to that good performances, awesome editing and genuinely mind blowing special effects. just one question though, do Leo Di Caprio and Ellen Page ever age?

(500) Days of Summer stars Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel. Very uppity, very cute. Same old story of boy meets girl, falls in love, gets dumped. But told so differently, with fruity, pleasant visuals, a continuous, hummable soundtrack and extremely fast paced editing. Something maybe Bollywood can learn from? A perfect example of an all round, feel-good film that you can watch many times over without getting bored. Kinda like in the same class as Dilwale Dulhaniya le Jayenge or When Harry met Sally.

Two good movies after a very long, dry spell of watching utter nonsense. Oh, not counting Karate Kid of course.

Also must mention Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Supporting actor in Inception and the main lead in (500) days...without doubt, this 29-year old is a star. Under-rated, subtle performances in both movies and the way his eye crinkles when he laughs must be working in his favour too. Definitely waiting to see a lot more of him.

Hi, I am Elli

2010-07-16T10:34:00.000-05:00

It is time. It is time for me to wake up and smell the putrid smell of decaying flesh. It is time for me to stop pretending and take notice of what is happening. It is time for me to stop running.

A few days ago, I noticed, on the top left of my forehead, right above my eye, a tiny strand of grey hair. Since it was small and you really couldn't notice it right away, I let it be.

Then yesterday, while I was going about my morning chores, Chuckles stopped me and looked suspiciously at my hair. Now I knew he wasn't looking at the grey strand because he was looking at the right side of my head, above my ear. He tugged at something and asked me to hold it and go look at it in the mirror. There it was, as clear as day, a long strand of fully grey hair.

That is when I hit the panic button.

Just 28 and old. I have noticed a few wrinkles under my eye but I never did pay too much attention to it. My skin has always had a few shortcomings and this, I figured, was one of them. But now, looking at everything in perspective, I am aging and fast.

So what do I do now? Hit the local store for under eye cream, hair dye or a walking stick? Plan out my will? Quickly have children, so that I can still play with them without my joints paining and my bones rattling? What about all the things I have on my list, quietly tucked away under things to do before I die?
Do I start on them now?

Things are not looking very pretty. Maybe I can get one of those things on my list for my mid life crisis.

Almost famous

2010-07-13T14:01:00.001-05:00

As a journalist (in my previous life), I was often asked about the famous people I met or interviewed. Everyone had a favourite star and they wanted to know if I had met them. ''Is he snooty in real life?'' Or ''is she really that gorgeous or is her make-up covering big, huge warts?'' Or even ''How tall is he in real life?'' Now being a journalist, who first covered the city, as a beat and then education, I didn't exactly hobnob with the cabinet ministers, the glitterati or even with regulars from Page 3. My interactions were mostly limited to criminals, municipal officials, local city politicians, teachers, principals and screaming children.

But occasionally I did bump into some very important people. Mostly film stars, theatre personalities, writers, some young politicians like a certain Mr Gandhi. But that was a long time ago. I do yearn to get back to that. You see, I miss those screaming brats.

Right now my weekly glamour fix comes from date night with Chuckles, where we watch a movie, go for dinner and laugh about inane things. Or a girl's night out with Kamrat, where we gossip about people, share what's been going on and basically swap stories about respective husbands. Or just from walking around Houston's gigantic malls and trying on a new pair of shoes. I know you want my life.

But over the past few weeks, this subject has been on my mind. More than once. I have been following people I knew, who are now moving around in the same circles as celebrities or just people like SRK on Twitter who recently tweeted about meeting Shakira at the World Cup. Whether it was oozing of adulation or just plain fake, it still stuck around in my mind.

Could it be withdrawal symptoms or just an idle mind? Either way I am going back home for a month and I hope to run into someone famous. Please humour me.

Really, Stein? Grow up please.

2010-07-02T10:09:00.000-05:00

A few days ago there was uproar in the blogosphere over a certain Joel Stein's rant on how much his home town of Edison, NJ had changed. A lot of people lament on how they return to a place they love only to find out that the very DNA of the place has changed since they left. Nothing out of the ordinary. So why were people so angry?

You see, Stein had chosen to place the blame squarely on the thousands of Indians that had migrated to Edison. He said, the dot heads had replaced Edisonians and had brought with them their ''not-as-brilliant merchants'' and their ''even-less-bright cousins''. And somehow observing them he realised why India was ''so damn poor''.

I read the Great bong's deconstruction of this bigotry, Sepia Mutiny's point by point analysis and Huffington Post's blatant, online slap on Stein's face. My reaction? Being somewhat of a closet patriotic, my blood did boil when I read 'My own private India', but looking at my own nomadic lifestyle, I stopped to think a little while longer, before I flew into judgement.

I was raised in Saudi Arabia, where Indians were probably the biggest ethnic population after the natives. Though Indians were never given the same rights as the Arabs, you never heard anyone complaining. They worked hard, and lived with their second class citizen status, saved enough and moved back to India.

I married Chuckles and moved to Germany. A country he had stayed in for eight years. Indians paid taxes, lived comfortably and enjoyed all the rights of the Germans. The only caveat, the spouse these men brought along had to learn German and take an integration course to become part of the German society. Still no complaints from the Indians.

We then moved to America, where Indians are everywhere. You rarely hear of Indians living dishonestly. We pay taxes, do our part for charity and live in our own little societies. No one is complaining about their lives. Peaceful co-existence.

My point in this rant is this. Indians are everywhere. Live with it. We make sure we do not get in your way. We slowly become part of the very fabric of society. Integrating as much as you allow us to. Causing. No. Trouble. Taking nothing that is not ours to claim. Then why target us?

As much as I agree with Chuckles that people like Stein thrive on reactions to the crap they generate. I couldn't help myself. Sorry Chuckles I couldn't not feed the troll.

I am your Canadian Boyfriend

2010-06-24T12:39:00.000-05:00

Sometimes you stumble upon sites that just make you smile.
Sometimes you find people that are just true genius.
Sometimes you find sites that you want to keep visiting in the hope that there is something new.

This site does all that and more for me.

My favourites so far are this , this and this. But there are so many more!

If I had the space on my walls I would buy all his stuff. Like, Everything. Just scoop it all up. Actually I secretly hope I had that sort of talent. But oh well, that isn't happening in this lifetime, is it?

Kung-fu fun

2010-06-23T09:55:00.000-05:00

Last night, I was really in the mood for watching a movie. So I made Chuckles leave work early, get caught in traffic for an hour, gulped down dinner, and it was time to speed through signals for that 20 minute drive to the cinema. Only that 20 minute drive, turned into am hour and a half on the streets.

We were supposed to catch Raavan, but instead we watched the 2010 remake of Karate Kid.

10 minutes into the movie and I realised that everything happens for a reason and that little Jaden Smith is so darn good!

Unmistakably emulating his dad (Will Smith) as much as he possibly can, Jaden Smith outshone Jackie Chan in the movie. The story is simple, Dre Parker (Smith), moves with his mom to Beijing, after mom gets a transfer from Detroit. He hates it there and is bullied by kung-fu thugs (Chinese kids in his school) for talking to one of the Chinese girls. Smith is beaten up regularly by bullies and wants to learn kung-fu. Enter Mr Han (Chan), who is a handy man in his building. Han and Dre go to the kung-fu school, but they soon realise the teacher is teaching a dirty kung-fu, (yes and by that I do mean kung-fu against the rules of ancient kung-fu). Han is challenged by dirty teacher and soon, Dre will fight his students at a kung-fu tournament.

What comes next is a full hour of plain Jackie Chan, Jaden Smith fun as they train to inspirational music, on top of the Great Wall of China and some place where monks sit on the edge of a cliff and meditate and a woman is perched on the edge of a building overlooking a steep, precipice dancing with a snake. At precisely this point, you know this is a movie where you leave your brain at home and watch it just to forget the tediousness of the day. Cheer, clap and make some noise as Dre wins the tournament and feel your day slip into the past and let the inspirational music, in this shameless launch vehicle for Jaden Smith by pa and ma, lift your spirits.

Oh, and if you have not noticed already, I am a real sucker for inspirational music in films, even if it is Karate Kid.

When politics and education mix

2010-06-21T16:33:00.003-05:00

There are many ways in which a government controls a nation. There are regulatory bodies formed by the government that oversee and regulate a certain function. These are set up to ensure things function smoothly.

Now lately, there has been a lot of discussion on American television and in the newspapers of a certain Texas Board of Education. What they have achieved in the past few months is a change to history and social science textbooks, that will not only be distributed across Texas but in states all over the country (of course barring the few smart ones). This would mean thousands of students are now going to study from textbooks with a ''conservative stamp on history and economics, stressing the superiority of American capitalism, questioning the Founding Father's commitment to secularism and presenting Republican philosophies in positive light'', says the NYT .

This would in effect mean a more skewed version of history, a version in which the distinction between church and state will not be taught. Or one in which Thomas Jefferson has been replaced by a more right wing, John Calvin. Or one in which hip-hop will not be taught as a cultural revolution in a lesson about the African-Americans.

Why? Just because a few people thought, the syllabus was too left-wing and decided to set it right (pun wholly intended). This made me think of our own history classes. If American textbooks can now call the US government a ''constitutional republic'' and not a ''democratic'' one anymore, to what lengths could we change our own history textbooks.

History and lessons about how our forefathers struggled to get independence have been etched in our memory. Imagine if NCERT, ICSE or CBSE sat down and decided that they did not like Jhansi ki Rani or they thought very little about Lokmanya Tilak or even if Gandhi' s principle of Satyagraha was too trite to teach high-schoolers; would we have been different people now? Would our thought process have been altered forever?

Catholic schools make it mandatory for all students irrespective of caste and religion to say the Lord's Prayer at assembly daily. That does not affect the way a Hindu thinks or prays, it just means that they know another prayer. Isn't education about presenting all the information to a student and letting them make the choices they want to make. How can it work when a Board decides to do away with Darwin and his theory of evolution and only teach what the Bible says about Genesis.

To make matters worse, once this syllabus comes into effect in August 2011, it will remain fixed for the next decade. 10 classes of students will study a skewed version of history. Makes you marvel at the education system back in India, doesn't it?

Easy come, easy go

2010-06-16T15:31:00.001-05:00

A couple of years ago, the economic situation of the world changed, markets crashed, large financial institutions collapsed, people all over the world started losing money, jobs and pretty much everything else. The situation, to put it lightly, was plain ugly.

Back then, I was working for a news channel, happy with what I was earning. My job helped me meet people, do amazing stories and though I did contribute (story-wise) to the economic crisis, I understood little about what was going on. My job was secure and there was no fear of me losing it.

Until. I quit. For pleasant reasons of course. I got married, moved with Chuckles to the Fatherland and now we are living the Great Indian Dream in America. It has been about 17 months since we got married, out of which I didn't work for 15. I spent 12 months reading, learning Deutsch and travelling to old, quaint, German towns, 3 months looking for work and one month, well, working. The ups and downs of my journey can be read here, here and here.

So while people I knew were losing their jobs, getting laid-off, struggling to find alternative careers, I was aloof and smug. Content with the fact that it never happened to me. Until now.

I worked for a month with a community newspaper in Houston. I designed the paper, edited stories, made friends and had a job, albeit part-time. Most importantly, I got paid. And just when I was beginning to have fun, tragedy struck.

I got laid-off. They gave me the old budget cut routine. So, I am back to where I was. On the couch, ranting about life.

Oh, and thank you Karma. I know I asked for a wholesome American experience, but this is going too far, too far.

A sign of the changing times

2010-06-16T09:49:00.000-05:00

It is time to be aggressive. Not passive aggressive, as I have always been, but to get out there and do something and turn over a new leaf.

Everyday you hear success stories (and if you are in America, you hear them a lot more) of people sitting at home and making things happen. People who have tapped into their inner selves, pulled out the one thing that makes them happy and earn millions doing that, instant stardom achieved through Twitter (really Bieber?) and about blogs that you can't start your day without reading.

So starting today, I have a new look, some ads and a desire to write my way to making those millions. I hereby invite all my readers to be candid, curt, courteous, cute whatever. Help me make this my source of income and help me believe that writing can be a profession.

P.S. This layout is Blogger approved. Hopefully, not as difficult as last time.

The show in all of us

2010-06-09T10:48:00.001-05:00

What is about TV shows that we like so much?
Is it the technology, the glitter, the dancing, the plot twists or the sometimes really bad acting?
Or maybe even a combination of them all?

With the Saas-bahu soaps (for all the followers) it was the need to have that life, with those huge houses, over the top interior decor and all that outpour of filial affection. That feeling waned when bahus started murdering and creepy uncles started raping.

With old Doordarshan shows, it was the fact that no one had ever seen things like that on TV before. The intrigue, the mystery, the laughter, the joy of sitting for an hour, with the entire family, in front of the TV and watching things unfold. Watching character mouth dialogues to strange background music, an ad break to quickly grab a Frooti or some home-made snack and return to watch the next scene.

With Friends, Sex and the City and countless other shows that Star World brought to us, it was watching something that the foreign world offered. Things that we knew happened in a far away world, things we wished happened to us. Hell, we even drew countless parallels between Friends and our tiny group of friends. We copied dialogues, mimicked plot lines and even secretly hoped to be just like them.

But now that we have had our dose and seen everything that the world has to offer, television-wise. What now? Why do shows like Glee, House, Scrubs, The O.C, Cougar Town and countless other continue to entertain? The plot lines are the same, there is no such thing as intrigue or suspense. Predictability is the order of the day, then why the universal need to try and finish all our chores so that we can spend an hour watching the show with no interruption. Week after week, we plan our days, talk about it with other fans, dissect and analyze the character and once the show is over, quickly move on to the next one.

A season ends, a new set of shows begin. Time to be entertained. Maybe it is time to sit back, not analyze and just let the TV take over. For once, just as pure entertainment.

A push in the right direction

2010-06-07T17:03:00.002-05:00

Everyone has heard of the American Dream. A big part of this dream is the ability to motivate and the constant need to make things happen. And if that means working on a gazillion things a day, so be it. And you do feel it.

Just talking to Americans working and going about their life, makes you want to get up, get out and do something. There is something about this country, which drives people to accomplish things. Much like the way I feel in Mumbai. If you are tired, lazy and don't feel like getting out of bed, move to another city dude! Mumbai has always caught me in it's grip and pushed me onto a local train, ready to slog, to earn the right to continue staying in the city.

Motivation then, plays a big role. If so, why not start young?

Over the weekend, Chuckles and I were invited by Kamrat to attend the graduation ceremony of Flicka. We were so proud to be there, as over 15 students walked down the aisle with yellow gowns and mortarboards, walking proudly up on stage to collect their diplomas, quickly flashing a smile as proud parents clicked as many photographs as they could. It felt special and truly motivational. Graduation ceremonies happen all over the world, what is so special about the ones in America you ask?

Flicka graduated from Pre-Kindergarten (Day care) and will start attending Kindergarten in the fall. The ceremony lasted only for an hour but it reminded those little four-year olds that school is important, something that has to be done and done well if you want to wear the graduation gown again.

Kati Patang (broken Kite?)

2010-05-25T18:41:00.001-05:00

Everyone I know, who can name the most important Khans of Bollywood and can pick Shilpa Shetty and Shamita Shetty from a starlet line up, has been waiting for the release of Kites: the Movie. Many people have had many different reasons for this wait. Men, waited for Barbara Mori. Women, for Hrithik's rock hard pecs. Voyeurs, for their passionate scenes on screen, and crazy Bollywood idiots who will watch any crap that comes out of the industry, for a good two hour time-pass.

I fall in one of those categories (go figure!). I also had the good fortune of interviewing Rakesh Roshan, three days before Kites released. Roshan Sr said, ''With this movie, we have broken the very grammar of film-making in India. This is nothing like a normal Hindi masala film. The visual appeal of this movie transcends anything else you have ever seen before.'' That should have been my first clue.

If he hadn't said that, audiences would perhaps have gone expecting nothing spectacular and come out feeling like they got their money's worth. But after that statement? If by the very grammar of film-making, Roshan Sr meant, Barbara Mori's incessant lip-biting or Hrithik's unnecessary pec display while he lolls about in the sun, or the insane, unbelievable car chases and escape by hot air balloons, he was right, it is a different grammar.

In the course of the 15 minute interview Roshan also said, ''There is nothing in this film that you will not experience in true life''. Really? Maybe that somehow explains how Hrithik's character J, abandoned by his mother at 3, on the streets of Las Vegas, manages to somehow learn salsa well enough to teach and has a Green Card which helps him earn money on the side. Or how Mori can swim deep underwater with her mouth wide open, biting her lip, while Hrithik swims with a scuba kit?

Forget all those questions. Just answer me this. What is the significance of the title? And who said Hrithik can sing?

Kites, Watch if you must at your own risk. Warning: Brain will scream, protest, spasm and die.

Meet me: the Career Woman

2010-05-20T13:38:00.001-05:00

It feels weird. It honestly does.
I took a break from work for a whole year. And for someone who clocked 12-15 hours in a day at work, a whole year off meant endless opportunities. But I thought, since I had been so active, I would not be able to sit idle for more than a month. Ha! My ass print on the couch proved that theory wrong!

It was easy to sit around the house and do nothing. I read, I surfed the internet for hours, my house was spotless, my culinary skills improved and that was how I kept myself occupied. But that is work you say? I don't disagree. What I missed, was getting out of the house, sitting at a desk and being creatively challenged. Sure you can do that at home too, but the rush you get from walking into an office is just not there.

Last week, after a whole month of job search, I finally found something. Now, I am gainfully employed for a few hours every week, making pages and editing other people's articles. I get to drive to a place called 'work' and not aimlessly drive to a mall. I get to sit at a desk and not on my couch. I check emails related to 'work' and choose, yes choose what I want to put on a page. A page that will become part of a newspaper that people in the city will read. I am part of office politics, gossip and get to have lunch with colleagues. The cherry on the cake? I have to avoid the evening rush hour, squeeze in stops to the grocery store, hurry home to make dinner and regale Chuckles with the day's office gossip!

I am planning to push the envelope a tad and create a folder in my phone book called 'Work'. You know, just for colleagues phone numbers.

Party in the USA

2010-05-11T15:41:00.002-05:00

So we have been in Houston for a little over three months and I there are still no pictures of my castle, my surroundings and generally life in Houston. If you know me that is quite unthinkable, simply because I like sharing and showing (no, not showing off!) pictures.

So now that we have a roof over our head and food and water to drink and a very, very comfortable bed to sleep in, it was time to socialize. Last Saturday, we took full advantage of the fact that we stay a stone's throw away from Downtown and invited Kamrat, Boss man and Flicka over to watch The Art Car Parade.

And you can tell what a fun party that was!

First, there was The King

and the Dancing Queens,

not to be left behind, the Jester made an appearance too.

And as they all drove away, their Dog scampered behind them,

followed closely by their pet Peacock!

And it did not stop there. It was supposedly the biggest Art Car Parade in the world and they made sure everyone knew that. 200 cars rolled by featuring everything from the Dinosaurs to the farm animals. From the rocking '70s to the anxiety-ridden '90s. There was something for everyone.

Houston finally, became all about fun and less about settling in. As they say here, Watch out y'all, I'm about to hit the party scene!

Watch and love

2010-05-04T15:55:00.000-05:00

Even though I am well known in my circles as an overtly (oftentimes unnecessarily) dramatic person, that special quality has never been extended to my choice of movies.

Recently, the big movies that Chuckles and I have watched have been District 9 or Avatar or Hurt Locker or some other film with aliens and super heroes and the like. But last weekend was different. We were in for a treat. At least I saw it that way.

We watched The Joneses in the cinema and The Blind Side (TBS) on DVD. Both simple movies with a straightforward story line. I admit TBS was a little on the sappy, tear jerker side, but it was wholesome entertainment. And maybe, Sandra Bullock did not deserve the big, shiny daddy of film awards for her portrayal of Leigh Anne Touhy, but it is a true story and a nice feather in her repertoire. The best lines in the movie actually belonged to Tim Mcgraw, as the Taco Bell Mogul and the indulgent husband. He should have at least been nominated, if not for an Oscar at least for a Golden Globe.

The Joneses on the other hand was a little different and frankly the better movie. A simple, crisp, timely storyline and excellent performances that had me thinking, if we had people like the Joneses amidst us. I mean who would not want that job? Characters were simple and few. Well edited, well scripted and a neatly tied package.

So if we do get so much pleasure out of these simple movies, why do we only remember the larger than life ones? Why not give these movies some credit and remember them years down the line or just generate enough buzz around them to keep them afloat? A sucker for sappy, romcoms you label me? Go ahead, so be it.

Do you want to make friendship with me?

2010-04-29T20:57:00.000-05:00

I did the unthinkable today. It was inevitable. The only thing left to do. I was desperate.

I joined a gym. Yes, one that has over a 100 machines, a schedule with fancy classes and even fancier locker rooms. They have a hair dryer for each wash basin and there were over 50 wash basins in the Ladies locker rooms alone. All for one reason. Okay two reasons, The less important one being I need to burn the french fries that I have been stuffing my face with. But the more important reason, I need to meet new people. Make friends, network. There I said it, now sue me. Does that make me sound like a desperate, low-life crawling the night clubs to find someone? Or better still, like someone who puts out a 'Make friendship with me' ad in the local papers or what about those people that stalk unsuspecting strangers on social networking sites and send them a friend request? Well, those may be next on my list of things to do.

It is not easy leaving everyone and everything you know and love behind and move eight hours across the world. Or start making new friends in the new country and leave them all and travel another ten hours (by flight one way) away, across the world.

But we are here and living the Big American Dream now and friends we will make by going to the gym.
Any ideas to meet new people are welcome. Do not worry about how it looks on the barometer of desperation.

The Unemployed Mind

2010-04-19T10:15:00.000-05:00

Imagine a piece of dark, melting chocolate. Now imagine that piece to be your favourite brand of chocolate. Now, keep in mind, it is the last piece of the bar and it tastes like little drops of heaven. There are many people waiting for it and the chocolate will decide who it belongs to. Many tense, salivating moments later, it picks you. You look to the skies, make a note of what a beautiful day it is and devour the chocolate.

And just like that, you forget to thank whoever was responsible. The chocolate, the gods above, Karma whoever. Years later, Karma comes back to haunt you.

Many years ago when I first started working, I found a job rather easily. Applied to two places. Got both and then just chose the one I liked better. I stuck to the same job for four years and then quit to follow my heart. I just figured I was the best of the best and that's why I got it.

And now, I am in a new country, with a work permit that allows me to work anywhere, I have applied to a gazillion jobs, I am sitting on tenterhooks and waiting for interview calls. and who should call, but Karma.

This time around I have planned a ceremonial dance. Please get me a job, and I will do it for you to thank you.

Welcome Road Warrior

2010-04-09T17:20:00.001-05:00

And then she said... Yes, you have passed.

Call it whatever you want. Dumb luck, third time lucky, last chance winner, perfection, late bloomer or whatever else you can think of. After 10 minutes of nail-biting driving, the heavens opened up and gave me my license.

Granted by the Texas Department of Public Safety and valid until 2016.

It is time for Road Warrior to take to the streets.

Road Warrior

2010-04-08T12:25:00.000-05:00

For me being in a car almost comes naturally. And by that I do not mean driving it, but sitting in the passenger seat. I have been taken around in a car since I was a child. Growing up in Saudi Arabia, you had to have a car and we did. Dad drove us around all the time. He has been driving for over 40 years now, and so far (touch wood) has had no accident. When you are being driven around by Dad, you will never feel a jerk when he brakes, even without seat-belts you feel safe and some of my childhood happy moments have been playing 'I Spy' in the car.

But my Mom on the other hand, tried learning to drive. Failed, tried again and failed again. A popular joke is how her driving instructor told her to stop dancing on the pedals. She pushed the accelerator and the brake so hard, he was worried for the car. Till many attempts later, she gave up. Never to return to the drivers seat, but happy to be driven around.

Consciously or unconsciously I have never done anything to hurt a car. Mine or anyone else's. I may have hit a bicycle or a person or two...but never another car. I have never had car sickness and soiled the seats. Never spilt soda or ice-cream in the car and never stooped down to using a sharp knife to tear a car's leather seats. If you heard otherwise, you heard wrong.

But I learnt how to drive very late by standards set by my peers. I was busy living my life, being driven around or just content with public transport are my top 3 excuses. So I finally got a license when I was 25 and since then I may have driven not more than five hundred kilometers.

Things have changed and how. In the big land of America, and especially in this big city of Houston, if you don't drive around, you will be confined to staying at home, inside the four walls, till they close in on you and you start eating your own face. Yes, it is that bad. So here, I have been driving around in new, blue, shiny car but have also had to give a very difficult driving test, after reading a boring, terribly written manual. Part of said test to get coveted license is a driving test, taken by some very strict African-Americans who do not, I repeat, do not like to joke around.

So you pay a small sum of money, pass the vision and written test and the driving test and then get that awful credit card looking, well, card license. You have 3 chances to pass. Else, the walls are coming to get you.

I have passed the vision and the written test. Driving test 1: Failed. Driving test 2: Failed. Have to give Driving test 3 tomorrow.

Please wait till tomorrow for the nail-biting climax. Will I make it or will I eat my own face? Only time can tell.

Thank you, Come again.

2010-03-31T16:58:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, Chuckles and I walked into a store that practically had a 15x12 neon, flashing sign on the door that said ''Rati, keep out''.

Since we have wandered into the land of opportunity with appliances from Europe, we needed transformers (there, did I say it right?) for any of these appliances to work. And when you can't use the hand mixer, grinder, juicer, coffee machine, coffee/spice grinder, rice cooker and water heater in the kitchen, you know you need these transformer things fast and how! So we went to this place, right in the middle of the Indian area in Houston, Hillcroft or now renamed (after our most famous export) Mahatma Gandhi District to buy these transformers. And that is when it hit me. I have spent years rueing stereotyped characters based on Indians in cartoons like the Simpsons or South Park or shows like the Big Bang Theory and never understood why they did that. Terrible stereotyping made absolutely no sense to me. Till yesterday.

So there it was. A shop filled with electronics, a cubicle with a manager wearing a bright pink shirt and chewing tobacco and a front shop manager who seemed disinterested to see us, the sole customers in his store. We braved that and asked to see someone who knew something about transformers. A new sales guy entered, wearing a translucent, white T-shirt and an accent that no American would understand. But he knew his electronics and helped us make a purchase. But the cherry on this Indian stereotype cake was when he gave us a $50 discount on the product even before we asked him for one. After all, we were fellow Indians.

Walking away from East West Electronics Appu, Raj and any of those billion other Indian characters somehow seemed to make sense.

Random thought # 3

2010-03-31T16:19:00.000-05:00

Why do Americans have to talk so much even when you ask them a simple yes or no question?

It is time to bring in the Leprechauns

2010-03-17T20:24:00.000-05:00

St Patrick's Day does nothing for me. It does not rouse the rabid celebrator in me, no part of me wants to kick it and just drink myself silly and clink some beer mugs and for a person who wears green all the time, today it was like all my green clothes had staged a walkout. So, that's your cue to come and pinch me.

But today was different. I woke up early which means my whole day began a good three hours earlier than usual. I stayed over at Kamrat's and she and Flicka pretty much set the tone for the day very early. We started with some Swedish pancakes and Aprikose Marmelade and then it was time to go home to errands.

A few errands and boring tasks later, the white flour from the pancakes had settled into every cell in my body and it was time for more food. A sandwich and half a bag of Cheetos later, Kamrat and Flicka and me hit the playground.

One thing led to another and somehow Kamrat, Miss Renee and three high-on-sugar girls and me found ourselves at a Pizza place for some good gossip and grub. A sugar cone with decadent chocolate ice cream later, the walk home reminded me that life was different. So what if I didn't go looking for St Patrick, looked like he had found me and how!

Somehow, next year, I see leprechauns with a huge feast and mugs of beer running towards me with a shamrock. Sigh, I can't wait.

The customary Oscar update

2010-03-08T08:46:00.000-06:00

So Avatar released and we went to watch it. I ooh-ed and aah-ed every time the blue people or those huge animals seemed to charge right at me. But the plot, story, the essence was too Pocahontas for me. It was something I had seen while growing up and was well versed with the Disney version of it. For me, Avatar was an overkill.

But Chuckles felt otherwise. A technology buff, he was riveted. For days he spoke about what a genius James Cameron really was. A visionary, a pioneer in the true sense. He spoke so much about it and so convincingly that I was soon seen boarding the Avatar wagon. If you think about it, the first image that your mind conjures up, every time someone mentions the Titanic, is the ship that James Cameron brought to us. So yes, I was sold on the brilliance that was Avatar.

So naturally, Avatar was slated to walk away with all the top honours at the Oscars. But once in a while the Grand old Daddys at the Academy of Motion Pictures get drunk and slap a surprise right in your face. In a good way of course.

Behold, history being created. Hurt Locker upstages Avatar every step of the way. As it scooped the awards, Avatar retreated far, far away to Pandora land. The moral, the Oscar loves a good story once in a while. And who can resist the temptation to create history. A woman walking away with the statuette for Direction? History in the making, the Oscars can't resist that.

Oh by the way, I'll take Demi Moore's dress please. And her body while we are at it.

The perfect place

2010-03-04T10:03:00.000-06:00

This might be the day we have ben waiting for since we got here.
Today is the day we will finally look at a house and picture ourselves walking, sleeping, cooking, eating and entertaining. The place that we will do up and people will ooh and aah about, the place where we will share embarrassing stories about our wedding, where we will fight, sulk and patch up. The place that we will steer our car to at the end of a long day, the address that we will be known by for postmen, the place that will be our cocoon of solace that we retreat into everytime things get a bit unruly in the outer world. The place that we will call home for the next three years.

No pressure guys, just show us a place like that. Oh, and one more thing, make sure it has plenty of natural light and a washer dryer in the unit please.

Comrades

2010-02-19T13:32:00.000-06:00

The past few days have all had one thing in common. They have all involved a search of some kind. A search for cars, a search for apartments, a search for something to do, a search for a television show, a job, a way forward and most important of all search for some extra time.

So when Kamrat* suggested we would go for a girly movie together, that idea was welcomed by me and I smiled like one of those wind-up smiling monkey dolls clashing their cymbals and smiling like they slept with a banana sideways in their mouth.

So we did it. She picked me up in her black, sports car and we vroom vroomed our way to the cinema a few blocks away. We got a huge combo pack of popcorn and soda that could have fed a small country with a population of a few thousand people. We sat back, put our feet up on the chair in front of us and laughed out loud at Ashton Kutcher, Julia Roberts and co. making an attempt to act in a movie very innovatively titled Valentine's Day.

We walked out 2 hours later, all the search forgotten, with not a care in the world and vroom vroomed back to our husbands.

*Swedish for comrade, as is my girlfriend here.

Step forward

2010-02-16T08:17:00.000-06:00

Every once in a while something comes along that pushes you to go further. Literally.

Welcome, me! (Yes, from henceforth me! will be written like that with an exclamation mark on this blog, unless me! is said with disgust, me! will be written like this) I am a 'published' writer on Pratham.

Had met them briefly while I was that career woman. Had loved everything the organisation was doing and all the things they stood for. And now, loved writing for them.

Me! Guest Blogger. You go read.

For Valentine's Day

2010-02-12T11:14:00.001-06:00

IT was one of those mornings. the kind Jenna liked. One of those rare mornings when she would wake up and immediately rush to the deep mahogany book case. The one where she kept those rare volumes she had collected over the years at tiny flea markets and antique book stores. Each worth much more than what she had paid. Carefully crafted and a large amount of time dedicated to the way it was all kept. Each book was kept horizontally. So that the eager reader would never have to crane her neck to read the name. Books were stacked horizontally according to the period it was from. There was a book representing almost every chapter of history. A reluctant novel or a brazen account. A shy rendition or a forceful chapter. It was all there. Arranged neatly, horizontally.

This morning she did not have to search around. Her hand reached out straight to that book. The book she knew she would take to her couch and curl up with for the next hour. The book that would set the tone for the day. Il Postino, Pablo Neruda.

Last night had been special. Special because it was completely unexpected. She had succumbed to her mother`s constant nagging and her friends untiring matchmaking efforts and finally gone out with a guy her best friend had found. She had claimed Jack would be perfect for her. Exactly what Jenna was looking for in a man, a companion, a relationship, a husband? But Jenna knew the man for her was not out there. He was in those countless books she collected. She knew no one could match upto her expectations. Her Darcy, her Heathcliff her Pablo Neruda. Nope, no one could even come close. So she had stopped trying, She was satisfied with her two dimensional men in her books, in her memory. Slowly she had become a recluse.

But Saturday was different. She had read about first encounters in countless books but this was none like them. They did not go to a fancy restaurant, they did not order wine, they did not go to the date in a fancy car and they did not pause awkwardly after every sentence. It was like he had read every book she had read. It was like they were reading the same page of the same book together, at the same time.

He had none of that boyish charm everyone talks about and he was not drop dead handsome, but he was special. Strangely worldly and wise but bookish and romantic at the same time. They had talked for hours about their favourite books and the feelings that they had everytime they read. They quoted lines from their favourite poems and each had finished lines for the other. It surpassed any evening Jenna had ever dreamed about. This was perfect.

They kept meeting. Often in bookstores where they looked at books together, recommending to one another, gifting each other and reading over each others shoulders. They counted countless cups of coffee and measured their evenings with coffee spoons and Jenna realised she was not tired of him. He was like her favourote book. You can keep reading it, but everytime you do, something new will come up. It will leave you with a new feeling, a new thought, a longing to be read again.

And so they went through the whole gamut. From the Romantics to the Realists. The got married, much to everyone's surprise. It happened quickly.

Her books were added to his books. The books diluted. Sometimes cloned. Both of them had similar tastes which were sometimes so different. Books were no longer arranged by period instead they were arranged by size, practicality and what was worse they were now arranged vertically. The name of each book had to be read with a slight tilt of the head. That was the way he liked it. He said it brought back to him the familiarity of his favourite bookstores. Those chains, those multi nationals that traded books from one country to another. Paperbacks, printed over and over again till the cover faded colour. But his books were all well leafed through. You could tell because the light cover could hardly hold the pages thick now with fingerprint and thought. Her books with their rich, deep coloured leather covers stood out like sore thumbs from in between his books.

Day after day she waited to wake up with that familiar feeling. To feel that urge to run from their bed to the book case. To grab the book that had come in her dreams. To reach out and hold that familiar feeling, to leaf through the pages and finally see what she had wanted to see first thing in the morning. To feel that comfort, waiting for it to set the tone of her day. To go through the whole day with just that thought, those words. But strangely she now rarely felt the urge. It had now been reduced to her morning coffee and a customary glance at her bookshelf before she was out the door.

A part of her had died.

And then she knew. It was so simple. She knew exactly what she had to do. So she woke up one morning and wrote him a note. Then she gathered her books and stacked them in a box and silently closed the door behind her.

As soon as she entered her familiar abode she could her feel her self coming together again. Romance was a thought best only when read about. She had been with a man just like her. That was not the plan. That was not history. Would Elizabeth Bennet have fallen in love with someone just like her? No. Darcy was nothing like her. Only Healthcliff could have tamed Catherine Earnshaw. And only Ophelia could have endured Hamlet. And that was just the way the page turned.

The morning after she had left to go back home, he found her curled up in her favourite armchair. A book on her lap. Eyes closed. Her finger on a page, forcing the book to remain open. For the story to continue. He took the deep leather bound book to see what she was reading. What had put that smile on her face. Tonight I can write the saddest lines, Pablo Neruda, Il Postino.

Look Honey, I went bald!

2010-02-10T10:09:00.000-06:00

At the beginning of 2009, a newly married Chuckles and I:
Went for a haircut as a couple activity. Yes, he took me to one of those swanky saloons in Mumbai, where his haircut was done in less than 10 minutes, while the lady slaved over mine for over half hour. He waited patiently. After that, We went around town showing off my haircut.

Cut to the beginning of 2010, Chuckles and I have been married for one year:
I come back from a haircut that I have been talking about for a week. Not a word from Chuckles.

Sure shot sign that you are married or as they say in India - settled.

Weekly update

2010-02-08T17:22:00.001-06:00

It has been a little over a week in Houston.

And so far I :

- cannot understand why Walmart/Randalls/HEB are so gigantically enormous
- have had a conversation with a strange old lady at Walmart and totally loved hearing about her husband's affliction with cane sugar
- drove an SUV and that too, not too badly
- have started thinking of buying an SUV

- am still having trouble understanding the GPS navigation lady

- loved how the Indian area here is called Mahatma Gandhi District

- have no problems with the fact that Chuckles and I have suddenly grown to love the idea of 3 bedroom apartment
- have found the nicest place to shop for clothes and have not stopped dreaming of the endless happiness a shopping trip will bring
- have already started hating most American television shows
- changed my coordinates to Houston
- love the way people are so polite and the way they smile all the time, even if they don't mean it

One week down. Another 150 odd weeks to go. Lots to do with so little time.

Goodbye Father, Hello Uncle Sam

2010-02-01T14:30:00.000-06:00

I know I have been away for a while and not posting, but travelling thousands of kilometres with everything you own is no easy task.

It all started one evening a few months ago when Chuckles came home and said "I have an offer to move to the USA".

I did not engage in my usual quick repartee because I was too busy gathering my fallen jaw. But when I regained composure I tried to appear nonchalant and said "Uh huh".

And that was the beginning.

The past month has had many big events. When we finally relaised we had just one month to go before we fly halfway across the world, we started doing what we thought was the easiest thing to do. Make lists. I made a lit of everything. How many spoons we own, how many teaspoons, tablespoons, dessert spoons. The whole nine yards of spoon. Then things to do lists which I kept losing and remaking till I included 'Do not lose list' on the list. Then things started happening.

The pile of documents tucked into various drawers, cupboards, mattresses, closets, basement started finding their way into files, folders and trash. We had a clear estimate of all the things we owned down to that last undergarment. We slowly started erasing ourself from all the systems in Germany. Bank accounts, telephones, insurance, internet, gift vouchers, shops, memory everything. Correspondence with Houston happened more than correspondence with Nuremberg.

So the past month has had us throwing perfectly packed food in the trash, diving into the bin a few minutes later to retrive it, organising to the point of being completely annoying, saying goodbye to a country I hated and then fell in love with, giving up the first home that Chuckles and I had, discovering that our life and all our belongings can fit in less than 65 boxes and moving to start all over again halfway across the world.

Please let the excitment stop now.

Remaking history

2010-02-01T14:07:00.000-06:00

On the auspicious occasion of India's Republic Day, there is one question that has constantly been running through my mind. What is this insane need to remake legends? Why do we need a spruced up version, a redux, renewed version of anything? What is this innate need in Indians to quickly rename someone as the new legend? Why do we have to constantly slip into someone else's shoes? Why can't we be satisfied with the way things are.

Allow me to backtrack a little. Mile Sur Mera Tumhara, a video promoting national integration was broadcast for the first time in 1988 on Doordarshan (public broadcast channel). At that time, it was quite an achievement because it brought together famous personalities from film, sports and music together to sing in the many languages of India. To say it was an overnight, smash-your-head, song-on-everyone's-lips, success is putting it way too mildly. But I remember visiting India during vacations and being captivated by this song everytime it aired. So much so that I hum the song to this day.

Watch it here if you don't remember.

And now Bollywood has come up with a Phir Mile Sur Mera Tumhara.

A version filled with Bollywood stars and starlets. People whose contribution to the country is at the lower end of the yard stick. People who have sung the song for this generation to remember the original. Why not just show them the original? The version is a vile remake of something that used to induce patriotism and a feeling of oneness. Now it is just about which star they have included and which one they haven't.

Do we really need this?

The things we do for happiness

2010-01-21T11:29:00.000-06:00

So for the past few days, I have been feeling a little under the weather. And by that I do not mean I am feeling unwell, more like fat, ugly, irritable, moody, diffident and a complete pain-in-the-ass, mentally of course.

So today I decided to stop wallowing in self-pity and decided to take matters into my own hands. This happened somewhere after that 26th forced Ab crunch that I have been doing daily, for the past one week, and frankly haven't seen any results yet.

I went for a long walk in the cold and then just decided that the only thing that will cheer me up is shopping for lingerie. Any self respecting woman feeling a little drabby and lumpy would do the same, don't you think?

And so that is what I did. I looked, bought and paid and then confidently checked my reflection in the store window and walked out. Home is just a 10 minute walk away from there, but I decided to walk through the main market only because I was not satisfied so easily. Just lingerie? No sir!

Fresh, hot, apricot marmalade crepes awaited. My nose, urged on by my skimpily clad cheerleader of a stomach practically walked me to the store and even before the brain could Ahem Ahem and slip in a wise thought sideways, my mouth now held at gunpoint by nose and stomach said, Ein Aprikose Marmelade bitte.

Burp, satisfaction guaranteed.

Simple difference

2010-01-20T05:06:00.000-06:00

Turk to J.D.: ''The only difference between a black girl and a white girl. When a black girl asks you if her ass looks big, you say Hell yea it does!''

Scrubs Season 4 Ep 15

Samosa anyone?

2010-01-19T05:47:00.000-06:00

How do you fold a square piece of pastry dough into a triangle?

Step 1: Add the filling to the square and fold in half to make a rectangle
Step 2: Hold one corner and fold across to make a small triangle
Step 3: Now hold the folded side and fold across the rectangle to make a fatter triangle
Step 4: Somehow take the bit that's left out and fold towards fatter triangle to make a closed triangle
Step 5: Step back and admire a shape nobody has yet named. Polygon + Triangle = Polangle, Trigon

Right or wrong? Black or white?

2010-01-18T09:18:00.000-06:00

Right at the onset. let me say that I have never covered war, never been in a situation where bullets were being fired, never covered a tsunami, or a Bhopal gas tragedy or the Vietnam war. But I have covered a few bomb blasts, been at the hospital when the injured, dead, dying have been brought in. Done human interest stories where people have lost everything, seen so many people whose mind, body and spirit have been broken and may never be fixed. Through all of this a small part of me has died. The sensitivity is missing. And there isn't much I can do about it.

Recently, a cop was attacked by a gang, his leg hacked off and left to die in the middle of a road. A politician's convoy passed by. It carried two ministers, and a few journalists. The Journalists immediately started filming the scene. All this, while the police officer cried out for help and bled to death.

Predictably, a debate raged. Should the journalist help first, film later? The same questions cropped up during the terrorist attack on Mumbai. The same questions crop up daily in Kashmir, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan. Hell, they even came up during Vietnam.

Remember these?

But if any of the journalists had stopped taking these pictures and helped instead, would history be documented? Are journalists not doing their duty by filming? How will the world know if they stop showing?

But having said that what stops journalists from rolling the camera and helping? Where does a journalist stop and say that is enough footage, it is time to focus on helping the person. Why do TRPs, channel rivalry and exclusives get in the way of humanity?

Are we allowed to continue working without these answers?

Time for a change

2010-01-17T12:43:00.000-06:00

Don't be surprised.

Don't be fooled.

Don't shy away.

Starting today, my old, new look is back. Yep, the InHouse critic was a tad bit harsh on the Blog template. At first I shuddered and then I cringed but then wisdom finally dawned and I have to admit this look is easier on the eye, plus it loads faster.

So I up-ped and out-ted the old look and brought in the old new look.

Hope you like it and continue reading!

So, are you a Ms or a Missus?

2010-01-15T04:45:00.000-06:00

So I went ahead and did it.
I added Chuckles' name to mine, albeit only on Facebook, but it is a start and a good one at that.

If you know me, you would know that I have been dilly-dallying with this issue for months now. Before the wedding, Chuckles and I had a huge argument about it, after which he never brought it up. Then I had a heated discussion with my Mom about it. She was all ''You have to take his name, because that is tradition and blah blah blah''. And then she never brought it up. I remember some other people connected to me by the family cord also talking to me about it. But then that died soon after.

A lot of my peers got married last year. Some of them came to me for advice on whether they should take their husband's name. Well, I just told them I was still thinking about it, when actually I wasn't. They all did what they had to do and went their own ways.

So now you are thinking, after I made all that noise about how my name was so important to me, my identity, my life, how I should never add anything to already existing perfection and so on and so forth, why the sudden change of heart.

The truth is, I love all the attention I have got so far on Facebook with the name change and all. And since everyone stopped nagging me, (read focussing on me) I had to go do something to change that.

Yes, spotlight shine on me, please! Don't ever stop.

Random thought # 2

2010-01-13T16:45:00.000-06:00

I went about my chores with a sense of purpose and finished most of them today.

For me that is, in a way, an achievement, seeing that all I do is sit on my ass and do nothing.

Today was a day filled with purpose and achievement.

Oh and can I say achievement one more time?

And then it struck me that almost 3 million people in Haiti must have been doing the same thing. Going about their work, completing their chores and in general being useful. When tragedy struck.

By Wednesday afternoon Red Cross estimated that more than 3 million people were affected by an earthquake that had reduced Port-au-Prince to mere rubble.

Can't seem to get my head around it. And 2010 they said, was supposed to be a good year.

Me, superhero? Ok, if you insist.

2010-01-12T06:52:00.001-06:00

There has got to be something about cleaning.

Everytime I get my yellow rubber gloves on and walk towards the vacuum cleaner, I get a sense of purpose. A wave of calm washes over me and all seems right with the world.

Maybe superheroes feel the same way. When they cleanse the world of bad guys and villains. When they restore peace, well being and order back to the city/country/world whatever their precinct.

It is exactly like that. An errant sock put away, an overflowing trash bin taken out, grime on the window cleansed and the dust bugs hosed out. .

Order restored and the cherry on the cake, spotlessly clean.

Go ahead, judge me.

United Colours of Awareness?

2010-01-08T09:25:00.001-06:00

Logged on to Facebook today and saw colours. No, this is not like seeing stars but it was a weird mix of beige, black, blue, yellow and pink. Together they did not make a pretty rainbow.

My guess is that by now, some sick creep sitting holed up in a 8x8 room with a laptop and a lopsided grin knows the bra colour of everyone everywhere. The story goes that someone raising awareness for Breast Cancer floated this idea of women writing the colour of their bra in their status update. Nothing else, (no sizes please!) just the colour. It would get readers wondering, they would then ask and thus the creation of awareness.

There are so many things fundamentally wrong with this.

- I have a decent amount of friends who are women who have done the above. Now we all know women wear colours and fancy bras on special occasions and on not so special occasions. But somehow today all the colours on the world wide web were either 'sky blue with a pink stripes' or 'lemon yellow with black dots' or 'rust with just a hint of salmon'. Really? Whatever happened to whites, beiges and blacks?

- I even found one status message from a guy that went something like this, ' seen a lot of reds, blacks and yellows. But still no, none'. Wow! Awareness well created.

- All replies to anyone with a colour in their status update only corresponded to where the wearer got this exciting coloured bra from, how cool she was to be wearing that today and also unsettlingly how many people 'Liked' it.

- All those women out there who have these colours in their status updates should now be asked if they have ever been checked for breast cancer, ever contributed any money to the cause or ever made the effort of taking their mother/sister/girlfriend/daughter for a customary check-up.

The bright side: this is just for one day so tomorrow the colours will fade away and people will get back to their uninformed existences.

The New Year Grinch

2010-01-04T09:55:00.000-06:00

Can't really figure out what the fuss is all about.

What is everyone cooing about in 2010? Suddenly mush is everywhere, people on social networking sites are all heralding in the New Year like it was something special, like it was the turn of the century. Suddenly, everyone is a romantic.

But it isn't. It's just another year. A slight change in the date line. 09 to 10. Progression.

Life goes on people. If you doubt that, just take a look at any newspaper, news portal. News has been at its tragic best exactly like it was in 2009.

See, nothing changes. So stop Ooh-ing and Aah-ing about 2010,and lets get back to our ever boring routine existence.

(Just needed to get all the negativity out of my system!)

Champagne, cheer and a cracker of a year

2009-12-31T09:19:00.001-06:00

At the end of 2008, I was at a party and a lot of people came up to me and said, 'Wish you a wonderful year ahead filled with special events, memories and a lot of good luck'. At that very moment millions of fairies, who had come to check on why fairy lights were named after them, suddenly toppled their filled-to-the-brim bag of fairy dust all over me. And that is precisely how 2009 came to be what it was.

2009 was not your typical days running into weeks running into months sort of year. It was smack-you-in-your-face-kick-you-while-you-are-down sort of a year.

For starters:

I got married to Chuckles. It was a tearful wedding. Where I cried, he smiled and a lot of people went home after a hearty meal. Oh, and did I mention there was a healthy mix of traditional south indians, some raucous Punjabis and some very surprised but happy to play along Germans, Dutch, Americans and Swedes?

Started a blog and though I was a bit lazy (there Chuckles, I admit it!) managed to end the year with 58 posts! That is an average of 4.8 posts per month.

Was unemployed for the whole of 2009 after working an average of 12 hours daily from 2005-2008.

Made a new country my home. Germany was mean to me initially and made me cry, then took pity on a weepie, and accepted me as one of its own. Learned enough German to communicate that I am hungry, lost and to talk about the weather.

Made friends of my own here and went for loads of memorable girl's nights out! Started reading Cosmo and Conde Nast Traveller. Bought the September Issue of Vogue.

Stopped biting my nails and started growing them and filing them.

Have Swarovski jewellery.

Decorated and redecorated our home for the gazillionth time. Only stopped when we knew we had to move soon.

Travelled widely. I am talking of eating breakfast in Germany, lunch in Austria and dinner in Switzerland.

Hopefully this year the fairies will visit again with their overflowing bags of magic dust.

Have a great year everyone!

Italian Job, Roman Holiday, I could go on....

2009-12-28T10:14:00.006-06:00

Dramatis Personae

Romulus: Tall, well built with spectacular muscle definition and strong arms. Blond, blue-eyed with a mop of unruly hair. Dressed smartly in the fashion of yore.

Remus: Thin, whimsical with a wise expression and all knowing eyes. Lost in the large tunic and struggling to match upto the size of his younger brother, Romulus.

Location: Atop the tallest hill that they can find. As far as the eye can see is plain, desolate land. The flat landscape is magically cut in half by a river, a long, unending stretch of water. There is little else.

The story so far:

Romulus and Remus have created a city from the flat landscape they found. Right in the middle of seven hills. Romulus being the brawn and Remus the brain behind the venture. Romulus has ordered Remus to create the finest city ever made and an example of how a city should be for centuries to come. Remus has honoured that wish by creating shining examples of art, architecture, music, theatre and the finest brains to carry that forward.

After creating his masterpiece Remus is exhausted and rests.

Act 1

Scene 1

Enter Romulus

Romulus: ''So brother, why are you resting? Have you finished creating my great

city?''

Remus: ''Our city, my dear brother. Our city. You must get used to saying it like that. Yes, I have finished. Not only have I made a great city, but the neighbouring areas have been spruced up to match up to this one. Florence has the Uffizi Gallery, where henceforth the masters will leave their most magnificent Art. All the nearby cities are rich in architecture, In each city I have made elaborate Palazzos where people can lose themselves. Wide Piazzas with their ornate Fontanas. But the place that we are looking upon now, my dear brother, is my masterpiece.

What does this city not have. It has the Colosseum for you to show the world our power. It has the Pantheon, my dedication to our Gods, the Fontana di Trevi, the Spanish Steps, the Piazzas with their own Fontanas. I must warn you brother, I have exceeded the budget for this city by a few hundred thousand Italish coins, but it has been well worth the effort.

Romulus (listening and nodding appreciatively): ''Good. good. But what is that Dome in the centre?''

Remus: ''Aah, that. That is the jewel in my crown, the glittering diamond in my tiara, the masterpiece for which I will be known. That my dear brother, is the Vatican and the St Peter's Basilica. A place which will be the nerve centre for Catholics for all eternity. The seat of power for Christianity, where millions will flock yearly to pay their homage.''

Romulus: (turns in al directions and takes it all in, all the while nodding, his eyes lighting up with a faint glint of power) ''Great, magnificent! Where is the statue of me looking over my loyal subjects?''

Remus: ''Statue, what statue? You did not ask me to make a statue and besides we have more important things to discuss than some silly statue. The masterpiece has to be named. We have to decide on a name, it has gone on too far without one. What will this eternal city be called? The one that houses the great masters of art and architecture, the one that holds the Colosseum and the Pantheon to it's chest? What shall we call it? I know, let's name this after Apollo, the God of light and truth. Just how our city will be forevermore.''

Romulus: (slowly turns to Remus, the glint in his eye increases. A strange tone creeps into his voice) ''Why don't we name this city after me, let's just call it Rome. Short for Romulus. It sounds magical and apt for this eternal city.''

Remus: (sensing this is not going to be easy, types a small message quickly on his cellphone and hits send. Then turns to Romulus) ''But that is not fair brother. I made the city. Made it what it is now. I deserve to get some credit. Why not name it Remus then?''

A war of words ensues and Romulus seizes an opportunity and pushes Remus of the hill. He peers over the edge to see Remus lying in a pool of blood with his neck broken. As he smiles at a job well done, he notes that Remus had sent him a message. He opens it to read.

Remus: Dear brother, I knew you would do this to me. Which is why, I had to do what I did. Though I made our city the most beautiful one mankind will ever know, I added people that will never know how to enjoy it. Chaos, disorder and traffic will throng the roads. There will always be beauty but the city's rulers will never know how to take care of it, to make it grow, to nourish it. It will have the most beautiful people but also the most disorganised. To you, my brother I present our city.

Random thought # 1

2009-12-25T07:05:00.000-06:00

There are many things about yourself that you discover as life passes you by.

This one came as a rude shock but brought with it many beautiful pictures.

All Chuckles had to do was ask me to pose for a picture and it was if he had said the magic words.

Almost 2000 photos. Most of them with me and my goofy smile.

Once a poser (maybe dormant) always a poser.

Trip, Vacation, Holiday, you get the drift

2009-12-12T16:06:00.000-06:00

So I'm off.

Off to Florence and to Rome.

Off for 10 days.

On an amazing vacation Chuckles and I have planned for a few months now.

On a vacation that promises to tell a lot of stories, most of which will be remembered.

On a vacation where I have checked my weight before going and will be sure to check it when I come back.

So I have packed

my camera

my scarves

my boots

my sweaters

my Lonely Planet

my wits

my arty side

my mind

my perfume

my shades

my curiosity.

It promises to be one helluva trip.

Watch this space and this for all the stories.

Luck by chance

2009-12-07T04:31:00.000-06:00

Someone once said, there is no such thing as bad luck. He had obviously won a million dollars in the lottery when he said that.

The whole weekend Chuckles and I played board games, card games and every other game that we had at home. All of which, and I repeat for dramatic effect, all of which I LOST. I mean, if the man I married is brimming and frothing at the mouth with luck, that is good for me, we could win the lottery and be snooty rich people. But this was just plain embarrassing for me.

We played Monopoly and I was bankrupt in less than 50 moves. We played cards and I lost 5 out of 5 games. We played random guessing cards and I lost at that too!

So while faith in my luck was at an all time, scrape-the-bottom-of-the-barrel, look beyond the moss, doubt and curse the universe, low, it was a pleasant surprise to actually win at a lucky draw. A LUCKY DRAW!!!

It was for the red cross charity and you had to pick a piece of paper from a bowl and see if you get a number. I got the lowest, I got one point. But with that I also won a tri-colour marker.

And for those who were wondering, Chuckles got nothing. No points. Hah! So much for luck!

Slippery, greasy, falling, THUD!

2009-12-03T04:59:00.001-06:00

I am living with an illness. Though very common, most affected people try and hide it. But try as I might, I can't and I have decided to come out of the closet with it.

It is called Drop-whatever-you-hold disease, more colloquially known as butter fingersism, or the affected person is known as Butter Fingers. It is where you have this uncontrollable almost reflexive quality of dropping whatever you hold. It could be anything. Glass, food, paper, pencil, rocket, table you hold it, it will fall. And then comes the compulsive urge to bend down and pick it up and in the process (if you have dropped glass, rocket etc) you will hurt yourself further.

And be warned, this is not an affliction that occurs in private, away from public eye. No sir, this happens everywhere. Whether you are alone, in a room full of people, on stage, in the woods, entertaining, playing, hopping, skipping, teaching, Just about anywhere.

This has been a part of me from as long as I can remember. Mom used to worry about my future babies and how demented they would be, if I kept dropping them on their heads. For a long time I was not allowed to touch anything at home. Mom thought I would grow out of it. She was wrong. When I married Chuckles, he thought it was cute, an endearing quality, one of my 'few' flaws (slightly exaggerated, but nevertheless) till I started breaking cutlery, glasses, china. If you come home for drinks and dinner, and can see drinks and dinner being served in different glasses and plates, please pretend it's normal. So for Chuckles it moved from being cute, to mild irritation, to laughing it off, to ignoring it and last weekend to challenging me.

So this is it. If I don't drop anything for five days, I will earn myself some money. But even if I drop a single scrap of paper, I have to start five days from scratch. So far I have only broken a plate and dropped a few clothes today. Do I have to start over?

Once upon a time, a princess in her castle...

2009-12-02T06:06:00.003-06:00

As a little girl I was always reading fairy tales. I was obsessed with them. I had them in books, on tape, on audio books and little colouring books. All my stories, bedtime or otherwise, begin with Once upon a time and I only like stories that end Happily ever after. In fact quiz me on them and you will see, that I know and can recall almost every single fairytale. Their complex plots, who had the longest hair, which princess got which prince, hell, I belong to a small but esteemed group of people that can name all the seven dwarves!

So naturally my idea of love and finding the perfect someone was a bit skewed. In a sense I believed that my Prince would come on a white horse and would be that someone special and I would have long flowing hair....but I digress.

Things happened, I grew up. And slowly I began to realise white horses were really expensive and even princes of this day and age can't afford them. My hair grew shorter, blame it on style and dandruff and nobody, really nobody I know is called Sneezy!

But the past few days something strange has happened. It was an anniversary of sorts and Chuckles and I wanted to celebrate. So he took me to Neuschwanstein and this is what I saw.

Enough to make anyone feel like a princess! So the fairytales were really, all true.

Same spot, different time.

2009-11-27T17:23:00.001-06:00

A few decades ago, a man with questionable ideals and a charismatic personality stood on a podium and enthralled millions. A few years later the same man, now hailed as the Leader, the law and the one above all saluted, while millions marched past him in a shameful display of power and achievement.

Then, there were some people watching from street corners, trying to get a glimpse of their leader. Women standing on tiptoe, waving their handkerchiefs, wiping their eyes, men singing in chorus with the rest, every single eye brimming with pride and fear.

More than 60 years later, it is the same marketplace, still called Hauptmarkt. It is the same church. Millions thronged the place today too. In the crowd there were women waving their handkerchiefs, standing on tiptoe. Men unashamedly singing along. Among them there were little girls cursing their height and the time they took to get there, being punished now by having to forcibly stand at the far end with probably the worst view. Only this time, emotions were different. Pride was still there but fear was definitely gone.

Over 60 years ago it was Hitler, coming to power. Today it is the infamous Christkindl, signifying the start of the world famous Christmas market of Nürnberg. And amongst others, just saying it is time. Christmas is finally, here.

Just the girls and I

2009-11-24T04:55:00.000-06:00

It still does it for me. A Girl's night out.

I mean what is not to like. You are eating, drinking, giggling, preening, gossiping, bitching, advising, listening and in short doing everything a lot more than you ever would with men around.

The conversation, as much as you would like it to remain intelligent, steers away and you find yourself letting loose to have fun. Can you ever do that with men around, without them throwing furtive, 'wisen up you, stupid woman' glances at you? Nope, never, no can do!

I may be exaggerating a tad, but I am sure men feel the same way. With girlfriends around, you find yourself revealing things that you are not supposed to. A sort of calming effect takes over.

So Evefringe, Giggles and I went out for dinner last night. And over Tapas and Sangria I laughed and giggled over enough stupid things to last me till the next time we go out! It calmed me down.

Now to face the rest of the week.

Empathy

2009-11-20T04:50:00.001-06:00

Ever thought about what flour goes through as it makes the gruelling transformation from powder to dough?
Take a Thai Massage.
You will feel it.

Please, not these Women

2009-11-16T11:15:00.001-06:00

Dear Meg Ryan,

Let me start by saying, I am a huge fan. Harry met Sally was one of the first few Hollywood films I ever watched and needless to say I was hooked. Not only by the glamorous lights, music and action but also by blond hair and blue eyes.

After that it was one rom-com after another. My friends and I would meet every week just to watch a romantic comedy and most often than not, it would be one of your films. Addicted to Love, You´ve got Mail, Sleepless in Seattle, City of Angels (not rom-com you say, have you seen Nicholas Cage in it?). And that was the start of my obsession with Chick flicks. I would make all excuses to watch one, laugh with you, cry with you and shamefacedly defend it in front of my friends. French Kiss was the door that opened doors to love affairs from another world, a more exotic one. You´ve got Mail was more with the times, for a long time I hoped to find love which would go 'Ping!'. Kate and Leopold proved that anything was possible with Love.

Now when the going was so good, The Women, really? A movie that even I cannot make excuses for. A movie which was probably made by a woman PMSing while riding a camel on crack? A movie probably made secretly by all the men who are tortured by their women to watch this genre and have secretly formed a club and made this movie only so that their girls will switch to action movies? A movie which makes Jada Pinkett Smith look like a first timer and you like a shrieking banshee with a fetish for Medusa-ish hair? The storyline (yes, even chick flicks have them) where was it, did you lose it with your mind? Please, redeem yourself, do something and by that I do not mean Serious Moonlight.

Take a break Sally. You need it. And comb your hair.

With love

Small town, no difference

2009-11-16T10:48:00.002-06:00

Just got back from a walk in Frankenthal. A tiny industrial city in Rhineland-Palatinate.

I set out thinking I will find something different. Even though it is a city smaller than Nürnberg, quaint, rustic, small-town sights will catch my eye. And they did. Except physically, ideologically, aesthetically the city is just like Nürnberg. The same city centre, the same walking zone, the same church, the same shops and even the same bakeries with the same kind of bread!

Made me think of back home in India, where every city is different. Even though you may know the language, the food, the people, the atmosphere the culture, everything is different and frustratingly so! Where you are a stranger anywhere you go. Where it is all about discovering the city, where you have to forge your own path. But here, things are different. You are never too far away. Frustrating truth, but true.

I now continue my travails to Heidelberg and Mainz. Different cities, same facade?

Watch this space for more.

Eating humble pie

2009-11-09T05:06:00.000-06:00

Weekends, for me, were always about finishing work you could not in the week.

But this weekend, Chuckles and I went for a birthday party, walked in the cold autumn evening, woke up at noon, ate leftovers, did not stock up on groceries, ate a pizza for snack, watched The Dark Knight again, ate Fajitas and Churros till we almost burst, looked at clothes, preened in them, dressed up and wore a thick jacket over it all, made inane conversation with strange people, ate too much sugar, rode in a Jag, made fun of each other, held hands and walked back home in the cold autumn air.

Not one task done over the weekend, and yet so much achieved.

Ok, Chuckles, you can stop grinning now, lesson learnt.

Of tools and technology

2009-11-05T08:17:00.001-06:00

It is a truth universally acknowledged that women and technology do not go together. And for that matter women and tools, women and guns, women and soccer, women and a helluva lot of things.

But this story pertains to the first two no-nos.

So it is my first autumn, and by that I mean for the first time in my life I am in a country where you know that it is Fall and it is like the above mentioned truth, universally acknowledged. It is not like back home where it is so insignificant that you swallow it down with your morning cup of coffee and you forget about it thereafter. Here, it is different. The trees are a riot of colours, there is a definite change in temperature and it is dark by 3 pm!

So women and technology. I have always known that the gadget gods hate me, but they do not have to smack a reminder in my face every once in a while. Like the SLR camera that has survived for 9 years collapses just as soon as I decide to try my hand at photography? Even before I can adjust the focus to click one picture, there it goes, into pieces. It switches off when you click and clicks when you switch it off! Look, I know I´m not supposed to touch expensive technology, but the hinting can be a tad bit subtle!

Or women and tools. Last night I had a girls night out. We talked and then Saber told us about how her colleagues gave her a tool box as a housewarming gift. A toolbox complete with 10 screwdrivers and a saw. Saber has now politely tucked the toolbox into her cupboard of no return.

So there it is. The truth is not only out there, it stares you right in the face till you blink. It is easy really, think guys in a shoe store or guys in a jewellery store or guys with anything remotely pretty, the list is pretty much endless.

Just a rebound

2009-10-30T07:59:00.001-05:00

You know how you need another good thing to get over the first good thing?
Or in this case a vacation to get over a vacation?

In a few hours from now, Texar, I-Green, Hoofer and Mimi-doll are going to be driving in from Switzerland to spend the weekend with Chuckles and me.

There will be drinking, dining and lots and lots of sitting around and doing nothing.

Just how a rebound vacation should be.

Counting down your money

2009-10-28T08:56:00.000-05:00

It has been a crazy month of travelling from West to East and though I battled jet lag, it was totally worth it.

Chuckles and I went home for Diwali and well, more about that later in another post. This one will deal exclusively with the one massive, all-encompassing truth that hit me (and Chuckles, though he will not admit to it) in the two short weeks that we were in India.

People have way too much money to spend! There I said it, so go ahead sue me.

It was insane. Let me elucidate. After a heavy meal, we rolled into one of Mumbai´s biggest malls for a walk to burn the fat from the meal. Inevitably that led to window shopping. But all around us people were walking in and out of stores with multiple bags that looked like extensions of their fingers. Remember we are still in the dark depths of recession and all around us news channels were claiming that spending power had gone down and that this year´s festival of lights was going to be pretty dark. Hey, try lighting a lamp for every shopping bag you see.

Next stop, no hesitationsville. Armani shirts, Gucci trousers, how about a designer sherwani this year? Five figure price tags, that´s it? Throw them all in the shopping bag, let´s charge it. After all it is Diwali.

Delhi was no better. Went to visit a friend´s club. Was hoping to eat without burning a hole in the wallet. But the menu had other ideas. Exotic fish flown in daily from one of Japan´s leading fish markets. You are a vegetarian, no problem, why not try Tofu made by Japanese housewives in Japan and brought down to India. Want to skip the appetizers and go straight to an entree? Sure, why not try the Risotto for a Rs 1000? Or better still, become a member of the place and sit on a couch covered with Swarovski crystals while you sip champagne and make small talk with actors and politicians.

Well, this Diwali was an eye opener. You want to survive in India, you make sure you have the money. Or just prepare to sit this one out, the world is bound to go broke sometime, right?

Size 4 pants and limitless shopping

2009-10-09T09:49:00.002-05:00

This past week I have felt like the proverbial country frog in a city well.

Chuckles and I were in Houston, Texas the past week and at first I blamed the jet lag. My mind, body and bowel movements were stuck in CET and adjusting to 7 hours behind that was a task crafted by the Satan himself.

Once I did that, I opened my eyes to all things American and by American, I mean BIG. Their cars are big and their roads bigger. Their burgers are big and their colas bigger. Their houses are big and their clothes come in sizes 3XL, 4XL and even 5XL.

Once you get past the HUGE milestone, you start concentrating on other things.
For starters English TV. For all those interested I moved to Germany earlier this year and we don´t have cable so TV watching is a task we do only when the television starts making puppy dog faces and whiny noises. American television, as I noticed in my thorough research, is all about solving problems. They have shows, such as The Steve Wilkos Show, which helps couples who face life (or mind) altering problems get through tough times. Don´t know what I am talking about, well, for example, a 20 year old impregnates two 16 year old girls and both of them have their babies. Then 20 year old casanova decides to stick to one because the baby is nicer looking and completely abandons the other. Now aforementioned 20 year old has no job, does not plan on getting a job and also blames the recession for it. Steve Wilkos makes him feel like a heel and solves the trio´s problem.

Totally entertaining and a morning well spent!

Not to forget Justice shows. Judge Judy, Judge Joe Brown, Judge Mathis, Judge Will someone and the TV schedule goes on and on.

Shopping malls on road corners and traffic signals without stumps but hanging on cables. Margarita mix in a bag and 6 bottles of Coca Cola for under $5. Halloween decoration on every porch and wide open roads with the sun reflecting off the concrete. Huge bilboards advertising Divorce lawyers to minute by minute weather updates on the radio and TV.

You may be a well bred country frog, but it the harsh city well water will hit you and how!

Try as you might you will be sucked right into it. The courteous greeting, the wave of their hand with a friendly smile. Every shop you walk into you cannot escape but answer a ``Hello, how are you folks doing today?''. The fact that every stranger walking around will immediately smile and greet you and the cocky confidence that rubs off on you as soon as you stop to have a chat. A country filled with nice people and limitless opportunities.

Oh and also, tried on pants while I was there. They have a size that they might as well name after me. Limitless shopping opportunities. Fit that in to the joys of America.

Clearing out the musty cobwebs of the mind

2009-09-28T07:15:00.000-05:00

There is something in the air.

In all my 26 years of existence in three different countries, I have never seen or known people to react so strongly to a simple feat of nature. A change in season. Yes, there was a change in wardrobe and
Delhi-ites would make a big deal of a summer and a winter closet but not like this.

Last week in Nürnberg has been sort of a revelation. It has been different and for some reason I am more in love with this city than I have ever been before.

There is a slight nip in the air and as you decide whether to wear that jacket or not you are hit by the smell of roasted chestnuts mingling with a strong aroma of candied nuts, both jostling for space among the cries of excited shoppers looking at new autumn collections on display at shop windows. Walk a little further and you can hear the sizzle of ham on the grill and the clink of beer mugs as a group of people perch precariously on benches downing their countless mugs of beer. A few steps on and your nostrils tingle with the saccharine smell of cotton candy and ripe, golden corn on the cob. You stop to buy them, obeying your mind and mouth and watch as a young woman dressed in a revealing Dirndl slathers your golden corn with butter mixed with garlic and herbs. Ah, that hit the spot. Now as you walk among the thousands of people who are here day after day just to soak in the sights and sounds of the Alstadtfest, a mini carnival to mark the change in season from Spring to Autumn, you wonder what else you are going to be hit with.

Suddenly, there are cries from a nearby tent, you inch closer to see that singing has started. You grab a beer and listen, only to see that in a few minutes you can sing along and dance along like the locals. Acceptance into their fold almost immediately. All in the spirit of the changing season.

It is almost time to go back home. You have seen the Pig on a spit, the entire Ox on a spit, you have eaten everything vegetarian that you can find, the Langos, the Flaamkuchen, the golden Maiz and finally washed it all down with refreshing Federweiser.

Spring has slowly given way to Autumn and we must follow suit. Change opinions. Make way for the new. Hail, the European lifestlyle.

Calling Dr Freud and Dr Jung...

2009-09-25T04:08:00.000-05:00

Last night I went to bed with a crick in the neck, a decent south-indian meal, a glass of Portugal´s finest white wine, a dash of Arvind Adiga´s White Tiger, two episodes of Frasier and two pain killers.

Till that time save for the crick in the neck and the pain killers, it was a normal weekday evening. As hard as it may be for people who know me to believe, I am normally like this and no, I am not into substance abuse. The energy and the giddiness is god gifted not man earned.

So we went to bed and it did not take me too long to drift off. And when I did, I really wish I had not.
It started almost suddenly and it kept going till the wee hours of the morning. A dream that chilled me to the bone, and I am quite sure it was not the autumn draft coming in through the windows.

I was in a train with three other people, who I can´t remember now. We are talking, laughing, catching up on good times and bad. We do not have reserved seats so we are sitting on the floor next to the door.

Suddenly, an acquaintance walks past and greets us. We get up, greet her and comment on why she looks so troubled. Is there something on her mind? Something she would like to share maybe?

She takes a seat next to me and starts to talk. Half way through the conversation, there is a clash of opinions and the person sitting opposite to me starts taking flaying her hands wildly. While I step in to break the fight, I accidently push Ms Troubled, actually a soft nudge, but since this is a grotesque dream she falls out of the train! Yes, I actually pushed her out and she falls and of course as in countless Bollywood movies a train honks on the opposite track and runs over her.

Now, normally this is chilling enough to wake me up and scream into the night. But the painkillers were obviously playing their role and I just turned on my side and continued this self inflicted ordeal.

Cut to the next scene, well actually a quick run through of many scenes. A courtroom that pronounces me guilty and lets go of the rest of my pals. In prison I wear those awful black and white striped jail clothes made from 2% cotton and 98% sack cloth which triggers my allergies. Then I strike up a camaraderie with a few other inmates and we dig a hole out of prison only to be caught at the mouth of the tunnel by a Queen Latifahesque, Chicago prison guard. Since I was leading the merry parade of inmates I get to be executed almost immediately.

At the French revolution (no less!) style guillotine, I am paraded up with cuffs amidst a crowd of thousands crying for my blood. As soon as I get there and the executioner asks me to say a few words, (Filmfare awards style!) I sing a song and the next thing I know I am singing and the axe comes down on my head and my head is singing while my body is dancing separated from my head.

And then I wake up.

Finding that elusive Symbol

2009-09-19T17:21:00.026-05:00

Dear Booker reader,

I understand you have this debilitating urge to walk around the city with books with their covers turned outward so that people can take one glance and see that the book you are reading recently won a Booker or a Pulitzer or any of the other Oscar equivalents of Book competitions.

But while you indulge in this very important exercise that fulfills strange needs and desires in you, you may want to stumble upon Dan Brown´s The Lost Symbol. Of course, make sure you don´t hurt yourself, stumbling is very normal when you walk around town with your nose in aforementioned Booker won book.

I´m sorry, what was that? Dan who? Oh right, you would not know. Dan Brown, a pop fiction author whose earlier bestsellers were the Da Vinci Code (DVC), Angels and Demons (AAD), books which sold millions of copies worldwide in oh so many languages.

Of course, you would not know what pop fiction actually means. Let me elucidate with Dan´s book, The Lost Symbol. Of course there are way too many flaws. Pop culture is riddled with those. The characters are over described. The book, usually a page turner from the acknowledgements, takes it time in turning into one. You have to be patient with Dan because you know he is getting there. In this book he loses the plot somewhere down the road but you have to hang in there, because he is the only one with the correct address to get us there.

But like DVC and AAD, you get a fictional novel with a history lesson and a grand tour of never before seen sights in one of the more famous cities of the world, this time it is Washington D.C. Now you may argue that the Booker winning books have substance and none of these racy, trashy cat and mouse chases. You are right of course, but pause for a moment and try reading one of his novels. My bet is you won´t take just a moment. You will be hooked enough to read the rest and only then pause to take a breath.

I am no writer, but in a nutshell I would say, though Dan Brown did not really find The Lost Symbol, read it just to experience your pulse racing and the wind being knocked out of your lungs while you go searching for the Lost one thing or another.

Best regards,
Pop Fiction Afficianado.

Dear Diary,

2009-09-08T06:38:00.003-05:00

When I was young, Dad always told me to write a Diary. He wanted me to continue the tradition that he had followed, a tradition that was handed down to him from his father. What he wanted me to do, was chronicle what I did daily and hopefully pique my interest enough to do it every year and form a lasting relationship with a book.

In fact every year he would buy me a new diary. I have quite a collection of those, from little books with unicorns and stars on them to bigger books with daisies and a small lock to keep my little handwritten notes from prying eyes.

But try as he might, I would never go beyond January. My entries would slowly become shorter and shorter and by the 25th of the month, fizzle out. The diary then became just another book to add to the collection of other diaries from all my formative years.

Years later, when I was in Class 10 I would use all these empty pages to practice sums and biology diagrams, making sure to write really big or draw an exaggerated paramecium as though convincing myself, that I was not wasting any of these pages.

After a few years, Dad gave up. But when we bought a new computer, he made sure to tell me that Microsoft Word could be used as a virtual diary. I would not have to take the trouble of writing, just have to type whatever I wanted in my virtual Diary. He went as far as making my own separate folder which I password protected. But once again, February hit and that was the end of that.

So the other day, Old Man Mo told me that if I put in a little more effort to make my blog more 'topical' instead of random 'diary' entry like posts, I would be able to attract more readers.

This got me thinking, not about his advice but about whether my blog was really, random posts from my life, like maintaining a diary.

Well, I guess it is. It is about what I want to write and when I want to write it. And if that means, after all those years Dad has finally succeeded, then so be it.

Good going Dad! You win again.

One 'High' Point for me

2009-09-03T04:29:00.012-05:00

Yesterday, my biggest critic came home and said, ''Did you not like the hot air balloon ride?''

I was stunned, shocked even and replied, ''Why would you say that?''

To which Chuckles casually replied, ''I don´t know, your post about it was so negative.''

That made me think. Could it really have been negative. Did I really not enjoy the heady, heightened (pun intended) feeling?

You see, it is really difficult to feel negative about something when you look like this in the middle of it.

Or when for the first time in your life you are actually looking at forests, trees, towns and you are literally and figuratively much much bigger than they are.

Or when you flitting among the clouds and seeing your home in the far distance and suddenly you are aware that you are on this incredible journey, with the person that means the most to you in the whole world and it suddenly strikes you that you were given this ride as a wedding gift and you relive the incidents that led to that union, as you float gently over hills, forests and tiny idyllic towns.

So Chuckles, If you are still being a doubting Thomas, don´t. That was just me being silly like I usually am. If you still don´t believe me, take a look at this picture. Why would anyone who wasn´t dizzy with fun, stick out their posterior in a lonely field, far, far away from civilisation and pose for a picture in front of a huge hot air balloon? Huh?

Clouding the mind

2009-09-02T03:39:00.007-05:00

High up in the air, when things below look a little bigger than a dot but smaller than the nail on your little finger, the old mind thinks of strange things.

Like when you are fighting against thinking about what will happen if the balloon bursts in mid-air and you come plummeting to the ground faster than you can say the Lord´s Prayer, your mind is craftily planning other thoughts, rearranging prejudices and slowly introducing what-ifs into our subconscious.

Like for instance, not many people away from home (well, for that matter even back at home) can pronounce my name very well or correctly. It is always over emphasized or just basically mispronounced. I usually overlook it. As long as they know who they are talking to, it is fine. So high up in the air, Chuckles and I were with the pilot, another couple and a Puerto-Rican guy who may as well have smuggled his beloved in his sleeve, into the balloon because he spent take-off, landing and half the ride talking to her and exclaiming about the marvels of cell phone network.

So aforementioned Pilot was making introductions in a 3x3 feet balloon basket and mispronounced my name. He was German and phonetically their letters are much harsher than English, so I should have let it go. But something inside me snapped and I was determined to correct him and tell him how it was pronounced, till Chuckles at that opportune moment showed me how beautiful the ground we were leaving behind looked!.

As if that was not strange enough, here is another. Everyone who knows me knows I have an insane, inexplicable fear of the unknown. You know, like ghosts, scary faces, zombies....they all live in my mind and they pop up unannounced and I scare everyone around me with my fears. So due to aforementioned fears I have stayed clear of all graveyards during growing up years. But high up in the air, when we passed a graveyard, where people had laid out flowers on gravestones, and of course wreaths and paid proper floral homage to the dead, I could not help but think to myself how peaceful and beautiful the sight looked. Could it be the magic of being among the clouds. Is it making me a wiser person?

And finally, last but not least, best for last...you get the drift (and the cliches).

We were waiting for the pilot and wife to ferry us to the starting point. Since Chuckles and I do not resemble the natives of the land and since locals in Rothenburg spoke fluent English, pilot spoke to us in English. Chuckles being Chuckles, in an effort to blend in replied in Deutsch. Pilot was floored and turned to me and spoke to me in Deutsch, hoping I would reply. But since I have just passed the kindergarten level of Deutsch in this land, I doubted my own capabilities and told Pilot I spoke little Deutsch, so he should speak to me in English. Now Pilot asked me in English whether I speak better English than Deutsch.

Now, readers, take a moment and remember that I am a native speaker of English. I think in this language and my major through graduation was Literature. I love poetry and pride myself on being a lit geek.

Back to story, so when Pilot asked me the question, I replied, ''I speak very very better English than German.''

Sigh, plummeting to the ground sounds so much better in retrospect.

Mexican served with doubt

2009-08-27T04:13:00.004-05:00

Last evening was one of those days when I was too bored to cook at home. So Chuckles came home ravenous from work and out of the corner of his eye, when he was giving me a hug, noticed that the kitchen had a stone cold aura, the one you get from disuse and neglect.

He was right. There were no dishes piled up in the sink, no tell tale smells, no stains on the kitchen counters and definitely no mood to cook.

So we went out for Mexican. Probably because Chuckles had finally entered his non-Thai phase and probably because he had been dreaming of Fajitas every night. So we sat down, chose not to drink alcohol and ordered a large pitcher of iced tea and started gossiping,

Now readers please note that Chuckles and I were bound in holy matrimony through a process we in India call an Arranged Marriage. For the benefit of my non-Indian readers and those who have never come across such an insane concept, let me explain briefly.

It is when parents of young women decide that the time has come when they cannot take care of their errant daughter anymore and they go out in search of eligible bachelors who must fit their prehistoric criteria and introduce above mentioned bachelor to their daughter, who if all goes well will henceforth take care of errant daughter. And then, they let the two talk, decide and nag till bachelor and daughter tell parents they want to get married. And then there are celebrations and a hurly-burly Indian wedding takes place.

So Chuckles and I were introduced in above mentioned manner and we hit it off instantly. He was probably too zapped to even get a word in sideways about his feelings for me and I was too taken in by his wry sense of humour. So after a whirlwind romance, it has been 7 months of total matrimonial bliss.

So last night while I munched on my Quesadillas and he on his Fajitas, Chuckles suddenly looks up and says to me, ''I must have done something right, I just can´t figure out what.‘‘

Absolutely Chuckles, did not doubt that for a minute.