That's all good, but...............

I'm happy in my own little world. The state of affairs of the country does bother me, sometimes, but, on the whole, because of the whole ageing and everything, I'm not about to walk up and make speeches and inspire people.


But, at the ripe old age of 74, Kisan Hazare (known to others as Anna Hazare) does just that, for several million people. And I'm not one among them. His tactics just annoy me.


I just read in the news that he's instigating a 'jail bharo aandolan' or a 'fill the jails protest' where people
will be arrested and put in jail, en masse. When freedom fighters did it, for the sake of liberating their country from the clutches of foreign powers, it was noble. But, when a country man, is instigating his people, leveraging their blinded worship of him, and giving them a false sense of being 'freedom fighters', it's just shallow.


I'm all for rooting out corruption and cleaner India. But, trying to topple the the existing government, organizing campaigns to ensure people don't vote for them, name calling.......it's just making things more expensive and the stock market volatile.


I guess, I live in a part of the country where, all it matters is whether it's 'Amma' or 'Thaatha' on the throne. But, I do know that instability at the Centre will send it's shockwaves to peaceful, tranquil, my part of the world too.


Mr. Kisan Hazare, what you're doing is noble and all.....but I just refuse to believe that any person can be so ideal and self sacrificing, with absolutely no personal gains. I guess, only time will tell.

Old fashioned magic

Think of any whole number. Double it. Add twenty to it. Halve it. Subtract the original number from this. Now wait. Wait. Wait. That tingle you felt wasn't just the breeze. It was me. Employing telepathy. Okay. The answer is.... ...... ...... TEN!!! Amazed? I can understand why ;)

That thing that sweetens

I'm a look-at-recipes-and-drool kind of girl.

When I was way younger, there were a bunch of Canadian cookbooks that used to beautify our bookshelves. I've spent quite a chunk of many a days, going page by page, savoring each picture like it were the dish itself!

Fast forward several many many many many years and thanks to some real and wannabe chefs out there (I watch Masterchef Australia with a dedication bordering on religiosity. Oh, btw, I know who wins it! Muahaha!), I once again spend (sometimes) better parts of my days going through cooking websites. One of my favorites is http://www.joyofbaking.com/. I've always wanted to be the kind of person who says, "When I'm stressed, I bake!" But what I truly am is, "When I'm stressed I devour baked stuff" kinda person. Ahem.

Anyways, so today, I was watching this video on how to make banana chocolate cake and I got this strong desire to do the same, and I ran out to the store to buy me some cocoa powder and for some reason I picked up demerera shugar. All was well until I remembered a quote that goes 'when baking follow directions, when cooking follow your heart'. I didn't want (another) episode of flop banana cake, so I searched to see if demerera shugar can be used as a substitute for white shugar. I searched with such focus that after sometime I realized that I was pronouncing 'sugar' as 'SOOOgar' and I was typing 'shugar' in the search box.

Yep, earlier sugar typo isn't really a typo ;) Was trying make the point (IF THAT) of this post, clearer.

Anyways, to cut a short story shorter, I ended up following baking directions and using white granulated sugar after all! The banana chocolate muffins have risen in the oven as we speak and I've got luscious, natural, tender coconut ice cream in the freezer, eagerly awaiting its soulmate.

A world apart

There are certain bus routes, on some days, at specific times in Chennai when buses can be half empty. On such rare occasions, sitting by yourself at the window seat, cruising through streets lined with trees on both sides and sea breeze cooling the back of your neck can be very calming to the senses.

It was at one such time that I was waiting for a bus, accompanied by Frederick Forsyth (thankfully, for the bus was pretty late) When the bus finally made it to the stop, I was beyond surprised! It was absolutely empty! I mean, it was so empty that it took me at least three minutes to decide where to sit! In fact, if not for general decorum, I might have very well pranced around, experiencing how it feels to sit on every single seat! (Umm..maybe I did do that to a couple of seats.)

I finally chose one right in the middle of the bus, on the left side, bought my ticket and went back to my Forsyth novel. The bus moved on and we crossed three empty stops in a row. Just as I was relishing this once in a lifetime experience, the bus slowed down at a stop and I noticed school kids. Sheesh. Going from their uniform and the black ribbon on the girl's pony tails, they were probably children from a Government school. I knew that meditation ambience was over. In fact, the opposite of meditative atmosphere was about to begin.

They all got into the bus, grinning and waving at the conductor and the driver. 'Ah, great,' I thought since familiarity with driver and conductor breeds obliviousness to noise-making. I went back to my book- at least I was learning how to become a first class assassin.

I think about five minutes had passed before I realized that something was really, weirdly, out of this worldly wrong. Noise. There was almost nil of it. More shocked than intrigued, I gave the bus a sweeping glance (as discretely as possible). And what I saw remains etched in my memory and will always be. Giggles and friendly punches punctuated their very expressive sign language. It was a silent cacophony.

It was a different world that I had been transported to. Just the occasional clap and grunt. I felt like an outsider in that world. Pretty much the way they would probably feel in verbose mine.

But, a happy outsider I was. Maybe it was the positive energy that children always emanate. But when I think about it now, I'm quite sure that it was the experience of being a part of a world where I could feel the stories and conversations without having to hear a word.

Soul Sisters?

Do you too

whip up your phone, turn it to silent and have fake conversations if your auto/cab driver is creepy chatty?

talk to yourself (without the phone and when alone)?

practice 'Thank You' speeches in front of the mirror for when you receive your award. (Whatever that is)?

say - "I'll do 'insert some important work that needs to be done, now', as soon as I finish playing one game of Angry Birds?

vow to exercise regularly. Then do it. Then be filled with such a sense of accomplishment that take another week before you exercise again?

daydream?

say sorry to cloth clips that don't make it to the clothesline?

love the smell of detergent?

get all soppy while watching 'Finding Nemo'?

feel unexplained joy after scrubbing your restroom to a sparkle?

The Helping Hand

How far would you go,
To lend a Helping Hand?
To lighten a burden,
To wipe a tear?

Would you walk the extra mile,
Give up your cloak even?
Or would you look, but not see,
And walk away?

Would you donate a smile,
To an eye that has seen none?
Or would you turn deaf,
At the plea of an outstretched arm?

The Helping Hand is a funny thing,
Its not at all a hand, you see.
From a listening ear to a teddy bear hug,
The Helping Hand, its free.

Sometimes its needed by family and friends,
A stranger might be in need.
The only condition for a Helping Hand,
Is its unconditonality.

Be it extended to someone nearby,
Or someone in Tuni,
The Helping Hand is hope and love,
Through us, from the Almighty.




This poem was written for Scottish Love in Action (SLA), the founder of which, Gillie Davidson, is a dear friend.

Beware of the Kumars

Yes you, I'm talking to you, clicking away. Beware of us. I run when I see you, and my better half looks for things that might chase you away. Now how much clearer can we get? Yet, you keep showing up. Its a sorry thing to say, but we don't like you.

I mean, you find ways and means to disturb us with your eyeballing. Seriously, why do you do that? And your pasty face is not exactly 'joy forever' material. And your fingers..and the nails on them..I get the creeps.

Go. Leave. Scram. Shoo. Adios.

And could you please not get all panicky whilst you do that? It compromises my image of a 'strong woman' when I run hither and thither screeching like a giant iguana (which I'm sure you'll like). Do you think it makes me happy to gather my skirts and stand on a chair, just to ensure that in your panic you don't do something stupid like ccccliiimmbbb uuuupppp mmmmyyyy lllleeeeegggg. See, just typing that made life drag for me. Ewwwwwwwwwwwww.


Its nothing personal lizard, its just the way we are.

Returned with love. Lots of it.

Have you ever walked into a furnace voluntarily?

I did, today; by just walking out on the road.

Not only are the palms of my hands tanned, but I'm also equipped with unmatched respect and understanding for all those who have no choice, but to labour in the open - be it the sun, or the ruthless sun.

We Indians love summer and it looks like summer is loving us back, a little too much!

Elusivity

I got a call today. It was one of Airtel's reps, trying to get me to sign in for a free website. Between his colleagues yapping away in the background and him putting me on mute every other second, we managed to get through to the activation page.

Here, it said that I'll need an activation key.

So, the guy asked me to keep checking my mail and my phone for the code. I kept refreshing my gmail, but nothing happened. So, he asked me to check my phone for messages.

And I tried to.

I looked on the sofa, in the kitchen, on the dining table, under the sofa, in the kitchen cabinets, under the dining table and even my purse. But I couldn't find my phone.

So I asked him to hold on for a second and continued to move furniture and look for my phone, because I needed that activation key.

After a while, he got tired and I was frustrated and just asked for the activation key to be sent out again.

This time, thankfully it came through in the mail and I registered.


That was about twenty minutes ago.


And it is only now that the whole weight of the phone situation struck me.

Being me. Not!

It was one of those lovely winter mornings in Delhi, when the sun was almost warm on the skin and a cardigan sufficed. I was a pre teen, exactly a pre teen in fact, and was to participate in my first ever inter school camp. It was a one day event and my (then) best friend and I were two of the few girls who'd been selected to participate from our school. We were pretty excited! And oh, that participants from the very famous boy's school that was our neighbour, but remained elusive because of a huge strategically placed cathedral, were also going to be there made us objects of envy of our seniors and peers, and that was gooooooooood!

So we were all split into teams and the fun began. Quizzes, debates, JAMs, Shipwrecks, Ad Zaps it was super duper! After a good lunch, we came back for the final session. The teams (there were about ten) were to pick two students from each team and those two were to address the gathering by introducing themselves and their ethnicity. Following which they were to identify some unique traits of their heritage and share it with the group. A celebration of our Indian diversity, they said.

Most of the students in my group were North Indians, so the weight of the assignments fell on the fragile shoulders of a doe eyed Bengali girl and a black eyed, (really) short haired, dark- ish Tamil girl! Now, I understand that the 'doe eyed' might be a cause of confusion (=p) So, I will clarify that it was the Tamil girl that was me!

We were the seventh team to go up on stage and I was racking my 12 year old brains for cultural uniqueness, when someone else from the sixth team came up on stage and introduced themselves as Tamil and proceeded to rattle away everything that I had managed to wring out of my neurons regarding my cultural heritage. I told this to the senior boy who'd picked me and the Bengali girl. He was senior to me, but he would have been what, fourteen or fifteen at the max! So in his panic, he just said, 'be someone else'!

Applause. White polished canvas shoes squeaked as I made my way to the stage. My throat was dry and mind pretty numb, because apart from being myself and being oxymoronish, I didn't really know how to be someone else. And whooooooooom?!! Anyway, I caught sight of my best friend in the crowd, who gave me a big grin and two thumbs up.

"Hello, I'm so and so, and I'm a Goan" I said with all the genuineness I could muster. My friend's grin changed into something I would only understand later. I proceeded to exemplify my Goan-ness by saying how much I loved to 'pardy' and that I loved to fish and eat it too. And I proceeded to my current day embarrassment, so spin tales, very stereotypical ones I'll accept, about being something I wasn't.

A pat on the back by the senior boy and other members of the team and the conclusion of the camp later, my friend, with a very hurt expression on her face asked me why I'd lied to her about being a Tamilian when in fact I was Goan.

Innocence once did exist!!