Goodbye Ms. M

I did it. Finally. Screwed up the courage to tell M that her services were no longer required. And it has taken me exactly four months to do so.

M our cook, landed up on the very day we moved here. And from then on, apart from cooking extremely mediocre meals, has been a source of constant torment to me. Each morning I'd wait for her to turn up and make my breakfast or rather A's breakfast since he like elaborate ones and not the plain milk and cereal sort. I'd arrive home late from work, dead tired, crawl in to bed, sleep uneasily with my never ending job lists haunting me and crawl out bleary eyed next morning. As the minutes would tick past and the clock inch towards 9 when my cab would arrive, I'd start making A's breakfast. On a good day, M would turn up just as I would enter the kitchen and on a bad day (which was more often the case) just after I'd finish making A's breakfast. I would have minutes if not seconds to spare and rush without giving M a piece of my mind and of course, sans breakfast.

She did turn up early, well before 9...but only on weekends, when I would be really loathe to leave my bed early.

She'd never remember the recipes and finish cooking (irrespective of the number of dishes) in less than an hour and leave with the kitchen tap dripping, lights and exhaust fan on, the kitchen a mess. But I couldn't complain. Work swallowed up most of my time.

If I am sounding mean, I am not. I let her take a day off whenever she wanted to or if she said she was not well. And more over we often spend the weekends with our in-laws and was OK with her flexi timings.

Recently, I quit my job (Yes, I have quit), and now had the time to supervise her.

"Why are you late?"

"Well you are home now, so I can come in a bit late", meaning What's the fuss? You can make the breakfast can't you?

"Don't drop the peels on the floor", I tell M.

"J hasn't come today has she?", referring to the other maid who does the floors, and continues to drop peels on the floor.

Each morning, the same thing. M with her face an unreadable mask and me sounding like a nagging stuck record.

Recently friends were coming for lunch. So I'd ask M to chop up veggies after she made the breakfast. I could begin the cooking lunch and M when she returned could do the rest. When she turned up three hours later, I had finished two dishes. She took one look at the uncooked bhindis and said, "Three hours and you haven't done the bhindis yet?"

Just after I quit my job, A and I went for a seven day trip to MP. Before leaving, I told both M and J to check at 10 on the day we were returning. J dutifully did. M sauntered in at 1. By that time, I had ofcourse finished cooking lunch.

"What"?, I asked her angrily.
"What do I cook?"
"Nothing, I have finished".
"OK", she leaves, cool as a cucumber.

She turns up at 12 one day.
"Why didnt you come earlier"?
"Here I am", (ignoring my comment).
"Yes I can see that. But why so late"?
"Oh, I overslept".

You get the picture. After much internal debating, I told her not to come any more.

J, the other maid, tells me the next day, M has found three new jobs. And she is getting paid really well.

And she reminds me again the next day.

I retain my cool and say that is really, really good.

And then she tells A, "Madam is so nice. She is doing all the cooking herself and is saving you money". Argh!

And finally, today, she has a ring side view of my cooking episode involving lots of lal saag, worms, my hysteria and her eventually rescuing me from it. Bet she and M are having a nice laugh.

Viswakarma Puja

Tomorrow is Viwsakarma Puja - the day when pujas are performed for the divine engineer On this day, workers in factories and workshops, offer the tools and the instruments of their trades to the deity. More details here.

Sitting here indoors, in Gurgaon, I don't feel it. Kolkata however would be a different scene altogether. Buses, taxis, cars would be strung with flowers. Most factories would observe a holiday, but the workers wouldn't be at home. They would have a puja in the factory followed by a grand meal! This is very big with the drivers too. Also, the skies would be FULL of kites.

At home in Kolkata, the drivers would come around and collect "Chanda", money for the puja. And then there would be the feast. There was one Viswakarma puja we were invited to just after we had just moved in to our recently constructed appartments. The ground floor was still not complete and was full of gunny bags, cement and what not. The contractor and architect of the building had invited all the flat owners. We went for the post puja meal.

I was very hungry and ate the first few courses (all vegetarian) with great gusto and waited for the chutney-mishti which - the normal last course of every meal only to find, that they were serving mutton curry! I was aghast (not at the sacrilege of serving meat in a religious cermony) but at the fact that I was rather full and the mutton curry looked delicious. It was just the contractor bosses way of saying thank you to the workers. This is apparently the norm every where in Kolkata. And this cuts accross religions as well. Another owner of a taxi service told us that all his drivers - irrespective of religion, participated in their Viswakarma puja enthusiastically.

Since then, I have never had the chance to participate in one, but if I do, I will go slow on the first vegetarian courses!!

The Train, the Taj and the Glacier

Good news for Indians, Indophiles, travelers, tourists, adventure sports lovers, trekkers and well why not everyone?

The historic Shimla Kalka Railway
Also known as the Shimla Toy train, it is being examined by a team of experts who will submit their report to UNESCO. The final decision to declare it as a World Heritage Property will be taken up at the next UNESCO general assembly in Quebec in July 2008.



This 104 year old railway covers 96 kms over marvelous rugged terrains and going through 103 tunnels, 969 bridges and has 919 curves of 68 kms! Inclusion in the World heritage site would do wonders for its preservation and conservation for posterity.

This narrow gauge railway was conceived of in 1847, plans for it drawn up in 1887 and work started in 1898 and finished in 1903. However, it was inaugurated only in 1906 and since then has been wowing millions of people (other than providing a convenient means of transport over what would otherwise be rugged mountain terrain).

A sad tale is associated with the construction of this railway, in particular with the Barog station named after the engineer in charge of its construction. He committed suicide after realizing that the two ends of the tunnels didn’t meet. Had it been perfectly aligned, it would have been the longest railway tunnel in the word. His grave lies just 1 km off the station.

If the Shimla toy train makes it to the list, it will join its counterparts - the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway and the Nilgiri Mountain Railway in South India.

My shameful note: I haven’t been on any of them, but will do, soon.

Age old beauty treatment for the Taj
Women have been using face packs of Multani Mitti (also known as Fuller’s Earth) for centuries. Its astringent qualities for cleaning marble have also been documented in the 16th century. ASI has already tried it out on the Taj once before and happy with the results, will be soon giving it a much needed facial. So, hurrah, we get to see Taj in its pristine, marbled glory, soon.



My happy note: Having been to the Taj thrice already, I am really looking forward to seeing it all cleaned up, and this time by moon light!

Exciting times for adventure sports enthusiast: The Siachen Glacier-Saltoro Ridge
A news paper report says that “India is now actively encouraging mountaineering and trekking expeditions to the forbidding glacial heights”. A 16 member Indo-french team has already led an expedition to Mamostong Kangri Peak, 30 kms east of the snout of the Siachen Glacier between July 30 - September 1. A 33 member Army expedition is currently under way. Another expedition of both army and civilians to Rimo Peak overlooking the Aksai Chin has begun on September 6, 2007. So, go conquer!

My happy to be far away and read about other’s exploit note: Go there, do that and I will buy the T-shirt!

Procrastinater, no longer (hopefully)

Am I procrastinator? I never seriously thought so. OK, I would like to tackle the easier, simpler and non confrontational tasks before the more complex ones. And occasionally, I’d like to shove the really unpleasant task under the ever present pile of papers on my messy desk. But this time, I really outdid myself. Could it be then, that I am a confirmed and beyond hope procrastinator?

I shifted residence (3rd time in as many years) in May end this year. This was peak work season. I managed two days off from work for the shift. We moved in to this really large apartment but without any woodwork what so ever. Just large bare rooms. Worst affected was my kitchen. There was just a long counter – a slab of black granite. And so all my kitchen ware, spices, grains, cereals etc were piled just any how on to the counter and left for a weekend when I could sort them. June, July and then August came and went. We settled in properly, the logistics, the maids, the shops, the electricity, telephones etc…except the kitchen.

The mess was incredible. In fact, the very sight of it was enough to have me shuddering and making a dash away from it. The few times I had to cook (maid was absent or the dish I wanted was beyond her) I spent an inordinate amount of time looking for the ingredients. I went out and bought stuff only to discover more of it lurking on the messy counter top. And occasionally, I’d have to get rid of something putrid from among the stuff which had been lying there neglected for quite some time.

And the guilt – oh god!

Since my maids were not going to lift a finger to remove the mess and neither would A, it would HAVE to be me. OK. So what if I tackled it bit by tiny bit. Perhaps all the large containers on day 1. All the smaller ones on day 2, all the Indian spices on Day 3, etc. Workable? Yes. And I’d feel a little less guilty with each passing day. So, I began on Sunday and finished on Wednesday. Wow! I felt like I had just scaled the Everest.

The kitchen is looking NEAT, everything in place and easily available and to my Surprise, did I actually buy so much and of nearly everything? I am after all the Timid Cook and the most adventurous that I have ever been was when, nearly four years ago, I tried to make Ras Malai (my first and last time …. And no it didn’t turn out bad… it was good…but the effort was too tiring).

The guilt which had rapidly evaporated on seeing my organized kitchen is back full force. I have spent so much on stocking up and yet in the last three years, have used less than 25% of what I have in my kitchen. Wasteful, zero planning / organising skills and WORSE - procrastinator.


This is what I found:

I have seven types of lentils – moong green and yellow, masur, chana, arhar, two types of rajma, lobia (am not sure if the last two are lentils)
3 types of breakfast cereals,
2 types of rice
4 types of cooking oil – mustard, vegetable, and two bottles of olive oil
11 type of sauces including teriyaki and black bean
10 Indian spices – cumin, coriander, poppy seed, ajwain, saunf, kalonji, black and yellow mustard, black and white sesame seed, radhuni, cardamom, cinnamon, mace, black pepper, red dried chilies, chili flakes, cloves green and black, thyme, oregano, basil and one mixed herb
Fried garlic and onions
Sooji, soya bean, dalia….


I am going to take a photo of my now tidy kitchen (should have taken one of the messy one too...but its too late now) to remind myself of the perils of procrastination.


PS - Now that I think about it, my desk at work was always messy. And ocassionally when things got really out of hand, once in 6 months or so, I would take couple of hours of tidying it up. And it would be such an event. People would gather to see. The housekeeping would provide me with a large garbage bin to dispose the useless papers and other stuff. A colleague V, would always click pictures on her cell of the before and after and send me the jpgs.

Noodles for Comfort

Its raining today. A pleasant relief from the opressive humidity of yesterday. Just right for some Comfort Food. Specifically, what I call R's Noodles for Comfort. Recipe up at Timid Cook.

Bon Appetit!

To Sir, with love

Today is Teacher's Day in India, celebrated every year on the birth anniversary of Dr. Sarvapalli Radhakrishnan, former President of India.

I have happy memories of this day when I was in school. The senior students (Class 7 & 8) took classes for the juniors (Class I to VI)! We followed the normal class time table but instead of Verma Sir, Sahu Sir or Das Madam, it would be Swati or Chetan or Sangeeta taking the class! And at the end of the day or was it the next day, at assembly, the best student - teacher would be announced!

Throughout my school days and later, college, university and when I was learning french, I have had many teachers : good, mediocre and frightening! None of them however inspired me to do anything astounding. Despite that, they are part of my personal history.

Sahu Sir, to whom, we collectively professed our love to, and I think scared him out of his wits (most of us where silly gigly third graders); Kovalan Sir, who became an instant hero when he caught the snake (a harmless grass snake that had somehow crept into a class on that summer day, so long ago, in Assam), twirled it round and round and flung it far away; Nadeema Madam my first arabic teacher who gave me such a hard time (I had joined my class after going to the Middle east, in mid term and was having a hard time with the aleph, bet etc); My math professor in Kolkata who made integration and differentiation into an art form (I wish my class would go on for ever, so lucidly and easily he taught us); Michel in Ecole des Roches in Paris - who would do crazy things to keep the entire morning class wide awake and pick up some french and many others whom I can't remember.

They had their lives, their families, their sorrows and happinesses too....but to me and maybe many other students they were simply - teacher. And although not all our memories of school and teachers might be good or memorable, they did to some extent, acutally more than 'some', made a change in our lives.

Therefore, to all of them, I wish, Happy Teacher's day.

Shankarpur Revisited

I had last been to Shankarpur in 1999. Along with Digha, about 10 kms away and neighboring Orissa, this used to be the longest unbroken coastline in the world. Digha was and continues to be West Bengal’s favourite seaside haunt, bursting at the seams with a million hotels and restaurants and what seems like entire West Bengal holidaying there, despite an empty Shankarpur next door with a lovely, virgin beach and handful of tourist – about 10 or 15, perhaps even less. When I recently revisited Shankarpur along with A and R (this was couple of years ago). Nothing seemed to have changed. We still had the place to ourselves except for the handful of tea shacks and fishermen and hotel staff.

The route from Calcutta to Shankarpur though considerably shortened (it took 4 hours instead of the earlier 6) was in patches terrible and our rickety ambassador was in constant fear of coming apart! Also, to enliven things up a bit, the radiator heated up and the hood blew off while we were cruising at full steam ahead, and fell on the windshield completely obscuring our view while we came to a rather shaky halt. Thank god there was no major traffic on the road. Our resourceful driver tied the bonnet to the chassis with a bit of a string and we were ready to go!

The scenic beauty more than made up for the discomfort of the terrible heat and humidity and the mamoth potholes. The foliage grew in wild profusion on either side of the road with none of the symmetry that is so inherent in the deepest of forests in Europe, but no less beautiful. The ash winding road, red earth bordering it was in places completely yellow due to fallen leaves crushed underfoot.

The greenery was broken at intervals by a shrill flash of colour of a house, the bigger the house, (meaning the more prosperous), the more colourful it was. The architecture too got more ambitious: cupolas, turrets, green, red, yellow, blue tiled walls; window grills with fantastic work on them.

More interesting were the small temples by the roadside at regular intervals, indicating the presence of a village. Mostly these were low roofed one room affairs. But that is were the similarity ended. Each and everyone were beautiful and different. One had, I remember catching a glimpse as we whizzed past, large oval platters with Krishna, Subhadra and Balaram's faces painted on them. Another had a life size Shiva, Parvati seated on a bench under a tiled roof, as if waiting for the next bus! In the 200 kms to Shankarpur, we passed nearly 20 such temples, including couple of mosque and one church.

It would be nice to travel the country and photograph these temples. Here's another of my "Things I'd like to do, someday" idea, thought of and filed away. Actually, if I were to be 100% honest, the thinking it up and dreaming about it gives me more pleasure.

It was four hours of delightful rural scenery: A women in a red saree, spreading grains on the road to be husked under the tyres of passing vehicles. In places, coconut replaced the grains. Bullock carts ambling by; cowherds leading their skinny cattle somewhere; kids fishing, locals going on their daily lives just as they had been for generations, completely oblivious to the huge hoardings dotting the place advertising mobile phones, corn flakes and latest gadgets and ignoring the fancy car loads of tourists whizzing past.

At the hotel, we had taken two garden view rooms, a better bargain, we later found out even though the 'garden' was nothing more than a messy green field where the hotel staff hung out their personal laundry! The more dearer Sea view was really the 'Tila' or hillock view studded with jhow trees which blocked any view of the beach that lay just behind it! We were the only tourist in the entire hotel and in fact in the entire area. So we did get some personal attention everywhere we went. In fact the staff at our hotel took to us so much that they had no qualms in wondering around in towels in front of us, bathing under the tap in the courtyard, making no pretence whatsoever of being a three star hotel! By Friday (when we were checking out) they had gotten their act together, sprucing up the places, getting into uniform for the hectic weekends when the hotel would be fully packed.

The Sea was unbelievably beautiful and the fact that we two were the only people bathing in that entire stretch had A extremely surprised. It was like having our own private beach, except the tea stalls and the fishermen and R who sat decorously in one of the tea stalls and broke many hearts. She was such a hit at Shankarpur. Quite a few people asked her if they had seen her someplace!

We took a trip to Digha in the evening. There is a very nice promenade by the sea dotted with souvernir stalls selling the most wonderful trinkets, jewellery and knick-knacks made entirely of sea shells. A new addition are stalls selling all sorts of sea fish that you pick up and they fry. We had to regretfully avoid the large prawns, A having just recovered from Typhoid.

R caused a sensation wherever she went. She thought of nothing to parade about in Digha in silk shirt and black trousers, every strand of hair and make up in place while A and I roamed around like a pair of sun burnt country bumpkins. She caused a jam at the shooting gallery in Digha where she popped balloon after balloon (one can hardly miss at that range). I could have walked past naked and not one person would have batted an eyelid, much to A's dismay.

I was very frightened should any one took too much of a liking to her and so at night, I made her stack a flimsy table against the door of her room and piled it up with glasses and bottles so that should anyone try to enter, the glasses would fall and warn her and give her enough time to ring me up. And I would sail in like a Royal Bengal Tigress! Luckily, nothing happened, no one got hurt except perhaps A's ego. He mentioned quite a few times to whoever would listen that S (me) is very popular in France!!!

After three days of sea, sand and sea food, we returned to Kolkata, but stopping for lunch, not at Sher e Punjab dhaba (much to A's dismay - it would mean a lengthy detour), but at a place called - wait for this - "Sher e Bengal"... obviously Punjabi dhaba food with a good dose of Bengal in it!!

I am told that apart from the odd Film crew (mostly Bengali, but also Mani Ratnam's Yuva) and a handful of tourist, Shankarpur still remains pristine. Thank god for that. And if you do happen to go there and find it the way we did, do make the effort to visit Digha next door: Just to savor the contrast!

Does size matter?

Since I last wrote, we have been looking around for a place to move to. Half heartedly really. Since our landlord had given us three months' notice (and out time is nearly up). Something would definitely happen in the meanwhile, we thought.

All that has happened since then is the realisation that the prices have sky rocketted. A tiny two bedroom in the same complex is a good deal more than the three bedroom we have.And the two bedroom flat is really, really tiny.

But that shouldn't be a limiting factor. Afterall, there is an entire universe of people living in small apartments and there is even a Smallest Coolest Apartement Contest 2007, no less.

That cheered me up a great deal. Till I took a look at a the entries! Egad.

Moving times

Once again, it’s time to move. The bother of shifting, not finding something nice within our budget etc is not worrying me. Sab ho jayega at the last moment, in a mad rush. It always does. No point worrying about that.

But what I am worried about it is how to explain the rust splotches on the white walls of our bedroom to the landlord (should he ask).

It’s mosquito season. And once the lights are off, they get into action driving us into a manic rage by their bites and buzzing. We get up, switch on the lights and with a rolled up news paper (which is always at hand, since I like to play a game of sudoku last thing every night) and an enormous amount of pleasure, swat them, who by now are in drunken stupor on the walls and occasionally, right by our side, on our pillows.

A, has on one occasion, even stood up on the bed and swatted two on the ceilings.

The Ride

What a hair raising ride that was. Can't imagine anything remotely like it. Not even the scariest loopiest of roller coaster rides.

We had gone to the Malls on Sunday evening. Another weekend, another trip to the multiplex to catch another crappy movie. The only break before another routine work week.

It was half past eight when the movie got over. It was drizzling half heartedly. We didn’t think much of it since it had been overcast the entire day and hadn't rained. We hopped onto the second Rickshaw, the first one was two small, A claimed, despite the Rickshaw wallah's protest that it wasn't. We had hardly managed to squeeze ourselves into it (requires some acrobatics), it started pelting. But we carried on bravely. It was coooold. I had to hold on to our shopping, my shawl which threatened to fly away or worse get entangled in the wheels and strangling me in the process, and keep from slipping off the shiny slippery seat. It was dark and the rickshaw driver couldn't see or didn’t care to avoid potholes. And worse. The lightening. Oh god. What wild flashes. There we were, a dark hazy object on a dark narrow road, streaking by in the pelting rain, occasionally lit up by wild lightening. I never noticed the crazy maze of cables criss-crossed overhead before. Death by electrification, or falling out of the rickshaw or getting run down by a passing car....would the excitement never end. I think it was the longest 15 minutes of our lives.

As if the fates, God and every body else fed up with my constant moaning about my 'stuck-in-the-rut' situation decided to give me a mighty cosmic jolt! And I guess it worked. The rains washed away not only the ever present dust, but the cloud of angst that had built up around my head.

Atithi Devo Bhavah

They say that the first impressions are often the strongest. Especially unpleasant ones, no matter how tiny compared to the rest of the good or pleasant impressions. That one tiny bad experience can colour one's judgement, perception (negatively).

On our arrival at the Indira Gandhi International airport, Murphy’s Law struck. We got stuck at the slowest counter at Immigrations. Then our luggage took its time to arrive. Others whizzed past.

We waited feeling dazed, disoriented having traveled across three time zones within 24 hours, jostled and shoved by others who got their luggage and rushed out. I left the trolley for a closer look at the belt, when there was a resounding crash behind me. Both A and I froze. My precious Indonesian fan had been knocked down. Having cradled the large cumbersome thing like a baby from Jakarta, only to have it crash so close to home, was too traumatic for me. I ran, picked it up and then before I knew it, I scowled (too mild a word), snarled was more like it, at the hapless (and I suppose bewildered Chinese co passenger, one of the large China Express group), who cowered. To our relief, it hadn't broken and was intact.

We collected our luggage and passed the Chinese contingent, who by now, were even more confused. Their leader was holding a piece of paper, no doubt with the instructions, which at the moment was making little sense. I can imagine what a contrast IGI must have seemed to them from the efficient order of Changi airport.

Outside, it was hot and dry and ugly and chaotic, traffic was bad, roads were dug up. And to make matters worse, remorse struck.

And just five hours back, we were in Singapore, where everyone, without exception, had been so nice, friendly, cordial. (A told me that was because S’pore is dependent on tourism). Perhaps it was. But they felt so genuinely nice and warm.

Lately, there have been these Atithi Devo Bhavah ads running on television as part of the Incredible India Campaign, Based on the ancient Indian thought “Atithi Devo Bhavah” Our guest is blessed. Our visitor is God”,

It’s simple logic, if someone in a house is rude to you, as a guest, you don’t encourage your friends and relations to go there”.

First impressions are often the strongest. And to the Chinese lady, I (Indian Jane Doe) was mean and bad to her. It was my fault after all, to have left the 4 feet long fan precariously balanced on the trolley. She would after all never know that I have cherished the thought of having my own Indonesian fan (since I first saw one at the age of 12) and finally getting one, what it meant to me. She would not know that we are, in general, a warm and hospitable race. She would never know that I am actually quite nice and non aggressive and helpful. Worse. What if, I was responsible for making her think badly of Indians forever.

A part of me says that as usual, I am blowing things out of proportion. She must now be busy in sightseeing. And yet, like a small itch that refuses to go away. I keep remembering that odd officer at the immigration desk at Changi airport who very curtly (and completely opposite to the warm and friendly Singaporeans) asked me to step back from the monitor and not see what he was typing in. (Also, the fact that he had a layer of foundation, eye brows thickly penciled in and had lipstick on which had smudged and spread over his lips. Yes he did!)

It’s never too late. Atithi Devo Bhavah

Jakarta # 2

Once again, we found ourselves in a new land with no knowledge of the language. We were completely dependent on our brother-in-law and his wife to guide us for each and every thing. The script is english and many words are a simplification of their english counterpart. Mobil means car. Diskon is discount. Apotik means pharmacy (some vauge link to apothecary??). And so on.

There was a doctor's sign Doktor Gigi. And later on I found similar signs every where. Perhaps this doctor had a flourishing business? No. Actually gigi means dentist!

Then suddenly, a word would crop up on a bus, on a board, reminding us of our shared heritage not so long ago: Widiawati (Vidya wati), prapanca (c is pronounced as ch), dirghaayu, jaya...familiar words many with similar meanings. Each time I saw a new one, I felt so thrilled.

But one word had us in splits: "Susu". It means milk. I had gone grocery shopping with my sister in law. And I had a fit of hysterics in the mall. Chocolate susu, soya bean susu, low fat susu, full cream susu...(for those who are not aware of it...susu is the common term for urine in hindi).

Jakarta

This morning, I got a mail from some one who wanted to buy my abandoned blog site. Am in Jakarta and I would have liked to return and then post. But not after this morning's mail. So here it is, my Jakarta trip, in bits.


At long last, another break. 9 entire days. Till the very last minute I couldn't believe that I was just taking off in the middle of a LOT of work. (But in an ad agency, there is never a no-work period). I almost didn't make it. In the end, I managed to leave, but a week after A did.

I stepped out of the plane and was met by a smiling man with my name on a placard. He whizzed me through the non descript airport and through the entire visa / immigration / luggage tour. I was wondering who he was, when I met A who tipped him, for his "services". (Out here, its apparently a common thing, to avoid long and bother some queques at the immigration and visa counters).

The exterior of the airport was so very different. The sloping dark brown glazed tiled roof, wooden beams running horizontally through out the breadth of the airport was a riot of orange bougaenvilla.

A's first comment on arriving in Jakarta (a week before me) was "Its just like Behrampur". This irked his brother no end! True. Small huts, banana trees, clumps of other vegetation, not unlike any small town / village in India and perhaps Behrampur.

And then yet another of those commonly done things...a small tip...and one can take the shorter route to the city on a road meant for government vehicles.

Predictable weather?

I had invited a few friends for dinner. And that was why I was in the kitchen on a HOT Saturday morning cooking, instead of vegetating like I usually do, on weekends. My maid Sarbati watched me getting hot and bothered, and said "it will rain in the afternoon".

Right. Blazing sun, not a leaf stirring. Rain? What nonsense, I thought. I finished off all the cooking by 1pm and sure enough, the skies darkened, a wind arose from nowhere and it rained heavily.

On Monday, I woke up to gloriously over cast skies. Grey never looked so good! I told my maid to make sure she had placed newspaper under the verandah doors (rain seeps in and how). She looked at the sky and said it wouldn’t rain.

When I reached office, my colleagues from Delhi said it had been raining furiously there! Here, it didn’t rain. Not a drop.

How in the world did Sarbati know? But know she did. Didnt seem like a sheer coincidence.

I had once read a book on water harvesting using traditional knowledge in Rajasthan. The Magsaysay award winner Rajender Singh successfully implemented rain water harvesting and conservation drive in several places in Rajasthan. He used the help of locals who could tell the lay of the land by looking at it with bare eyes. They would then construct underground reservoirs at the end of an incline (although from above, the land would look level). Rain water would seep through the soil and collect in these reservoirs.

An article in yesterday newspaper said that predicting meteorological events like heavy Rainfall or monsoon is a complex phenomenon due to the atmosphere being unstable and the systems dependent on many non-linear variables with scales ranging few kilometers to hundreds of kilometers. (Huh?).

How about, the met department, explore this traditional knowledge / talent and use it to predict heavy rainfall, droughts and monsoons with it, with cent percent accuracy! Now there was an idea, I thought. Would be much easier.



PS – Having written the above line, I casually asked Sarbati, when the monsoons would arrive? (The Met had forecasted 29th of June)!

"God knows when. It was supposed to start any time now (referring to the met forecast), but look it hasn’t"!!!!

Back to Nature

The weather was hot and dry. Oppressive. Opened all doors and windows to coax some air circulation. But in vain. It didn't help matters that I had pizzas and garlic bread for dinner. So, I decided on a post prandial stroll inside our complex. A slow lethargic amble would be a better description. The ground below was hard and hot. After just a few minutes later, I was ready to crawl back to the air conditioned comfort of my bedroom.

On a sudden impulse, I kicked off my slippers and stepped onto a strip of lawn. The slightly moist, springy grass beaneath my feet had a miraculous reviving effect on me. Now I understand why people loll around, at all hours, oblivious to the heat.

I sat on the grass and enjoyed "connecting" with Mother Nature. It was only at 11pm I reluctantly went back but only after A came to see if I was stuck inside an elevator.

I did a quick calculation and figured out that the last time I walked barefoot on a grassy lawn was probably in Assam, which I left some 25 years ago.

I was half angry, half saddened with myself and my life. In the mad whirl of life caught between home and work, I had no time for simple pleasures of walking in the rain, smelling flowers, walking barefoot on the grass. A lot of it was not entirely my doing. Kuwait was just sand. Calcutta - mostly smog.

But what about now? I have been here for nearly a year and a half.
How could I have not made more of it?

Mother nature too must have noticed my ignoring her. She has come back with a vengeance and how. Just as I was getting over my fear of the terrible earthquake of 8th October, she gave a gentle nudge once again last Sunday. It felt like some one had gently lifted the chair I was sitting on and set it back. I did panic wildly, if only for half an hour and made a mental note to look for a house closer to the ground floor.

And then, we have been having the most awful dust storms (almost like a desert storm) and last night, there was a terrific thunderstorm at around midnight. Wild flashes of lightening, the windows all a rattle. I thought they would shatter. And water pouring in through every crack and gap. I spent better part of the storm plugging holes with whatever I could find in the laundry basket.

Nature is all around, in every nook and cranny, but not quite how I imagined it would be!

Gold Blossoms

The heat is unbearable. Oppressive and dry. Out of the blue, a storm arrives. All the window panes rattle. The wind searing the skin of those foolish enough or compelled to be outdoors. Windows rattle. Dust seeps in through cracks and under doors and covers everything in dust. Visibility is reduced to a few metres or less.
Everyone who can is indoors. Those outdoors look barely human. Turned zombie like. I wonder if I am where I am, in Gurgaon or in some desert. Could well be but for the trees. How they blossom. Yellow, getting progressively brighter till almost golden. Baby green leaves peep out here and there. How is it possible. God alone knows. Such a sight for sore eyes.

Run Buddhia Run

On Tuesday 5th of May, 2006, Buddhia ran 65 kms from Puri to Bhubaneswar in 7.02 hours. All the news channels were full of Buddhia and with reason. He is four and a half years old.

When his father, a beggar, died, his mother sold him for 800 Rupees to a hawker. But he was rescued by his coach. He runs 50kms twice daily. And has run from Bhubaneswar to Puri more than once before. The CRPF who sponsored this last run, wants to adopt him.

He is the new “wonder child”. Now, which bit of this statement should I wonder at? That 4 year old Buddhia ran from Puri to Bhubaneswar? Or that it took him only 7.02 hours? Or he ran in the blistering summer heat of Orissa? Or that he is the youngest marathon runner in the world? Or that he made it to the Limca book of records? Or at all of these put together?

I am sure his coach is taking good care of him. But to me, childhood (and Buddhia is a child) is for other things. He probably is made of sterner stuff. But having seen the talent in him, he should be given a chance at a normal paced childhood, keeping the training for an age more acceptable. Four and a half means he is not in Class I.

I am wondering. But not in awe. I am wondering at the sadness of it all.

Another Radio Channel

Anita had written about Radio Channels recently. Which prompted another post on the very same topic.

I listen to them daily on my way to work and back and on my way to clients’ and back. Choice of the stations are entirely upto the driver’s though. Most of them play the latest hindi film numbers. What I enjoy most, more than the songs are the RJ’s commentaries. Inane, mostly. But funny nevertheless. I also, happen to pay attention to all the ads, but that is purely from the point of view of work. Ever since I have joined Advertising, I can never watch or listen an ad without, unconsciously analyzing it.

But of late, (more than a few months actually), ever since all Airtel numbers changed and therefore began with 4 instead of 5, my direct number at work, and mine alone, mind you, in a big office with more than 150 people, has somehow, become the number to of a popular Radio Channel. Throughout the day, I get numerous calls for this channel, and during call in shows, am beset by them. And hardly anyone bothers to ask if it’s the channel or not. Instead, as soon as I pick up the phone, I get a barrage of strange answers. From men, women and children.

“Its Ajay Devgan’s father”, or “the answer is Amanullah Khan” or “Hema Mailini” or “film ka naam hai…”.

And when I say “WHAT”???
“Aap kahan say bol rahi hain?” is the response.
I get angry and gnash out, “Where are YOU calling from? Who do you want?”
“No, who are you,” says the caller.
“No you tell me, you called me?”
And so on and so forth.

The obvious answer is both I and this Radio Channel’s share the same number. Only difference being the Radio channel has a Delhi code. But the RJ’s rattle out only the number and the code and all people from outside, get an irate me, instead of the RJ.

Occasionally, if I happen to be in a good mood, I explain that they have to dial the Delhi code before the number.

In the meanwhile, it affords harmless fun, a break from the back breaking work to some of my junior colleagues. Sometimes, they take the calls.
“That is the CORRECT answer. You have won a trip for two to Disney land.”
Or they say, “Your time is up….”
And one enjoyed his role so much that he started having long conversations even asking them for song requests!!

I have tried dialing my number with the Delhi code but can never get through. The line is always busy….

My Magic Table

I have a magic table at home. It’s a simple round cane table with a glass top. When I bought it, it looked like any other, regular piece of furniture. Once bought, it could be put to any use by its owners. I bought it as a dining table. Ha! Had I only known that, how different it would be.

First, our maid put a hot dish on to it and the glass cracked, edge-to-edge. Then, both A and I took our dinner / lunch plates in front of the TV which was in the bedroom. When friends came to dine with us, the table was too small to sit at, and so we used it for serving the dishes while we took our meals either in the drawing room or in the verandah. In case you are wondering about the crack, well, happily, it ran down the middle and I was able to cover it with a long runner!!

So what did we use it for? Well for piling things up on. News papers, bills, take away menus, files, water bottles, medicine box. The chairs were used to hang clothes…laundry, my duppattas, my tote bags etc.

When we moved into our new apartment, I made a mental note of using it as I had meant to. Also, our new place was much smaller and the table lay bang in full view of anyone coming into our apartment in the large hall which served as drawing / dinning.

But that was not to be. Strangely, despite my many attempts, it began to attract all the flotsam and jetsam in our home and lives. No matter how many times I cleaned it up, within a few hours, hey presto, a new set of things were back again on it!

This morning, I did some clearing up including the table. And yet now, some 7 hours later, I find, two bags (mine), a t-shirt, a pair of shorts (A’s), a news paper (I was doing the sudoku), a cook book I was leafing through during lunch, a cup, an empty match box, a nice wicker tray (which I have rarely used as a tray) holding three different sets of placemats (again rarely used; in fact one set still has the plastic covers on it). And oh, there is the nice glass bowl which instead of fruits, is full of little scraps of papers with phone numbers, assorted bills and what not. It held two apples a while back. But both got spoilt and had to be thrown away.

It must be the table then. It has a mind of its own. It was perhaps miffed at being bought by us, and then carted unceremoniously on a “thela” and hauled up three flights and getting scraped in the process. Perhaps, it had, while sitting to be picked up, visions of being amid a beautiful house, surrounded by beautiful things, greenery, beautiful people having candlelit, rose scented dinners with wine in beautiful glasses. And here we were. Dumping cheap take away menu, plastic water bottles, old ugly melmoware crockery, cracking it within a week. Oh ho. So this is my fate is it? The table thought. I will show them. I will make sure, they will never, be able to, let alone enjoy, even get close to having a pleasant meal atop me!!

I am alone now. My neighbour (whose verandah is within earshot) is away. I think, I will go and clean it up, speak to it gently, apologise and be generally very nice. Try and soothe it and tell it I am mending my rustic ways. And when A returns this weekend, we will, A, the table and I will begin anew.

The Birds

“I feel like wringing their silly necks,” I wrote to R, them being a flock of silly pigeons that have decided to grace our verandahs. “Call your nearest lab assistant”, she wrote back. (She was a zoology student).

Last winter, a solitary pigeon sat immobile on the verandah rails for hours on end. I felt really sorry for this perhaps old and dying / seriously ill / injured bird. It was there for a couple of days before it left. I let it be, undisturbed.

That, I think, proved to my undoing. It was, I am convinced, a stool pigeon. It flew back and informed its clan who thus emboldened, moved in. Though, not all at once. Slowly, in ones and twos. Faint silhouettes, at first, on window ledges. Then a sudden rustle of wings along the glass panes, a careless feather here, a squawk there.

I should have nipped it in the bud then and there. But I didn’t. Not only had they moved in, but made their presence known.

I think, they meet every morning or at night and divided duties amongst themselves. You, you and you…shit on verandah no. 1, you two on 2. Hey you two love birds…you get to wake them (me and A) up by frenzied lovemaking on their air conditioners.

They choose their time well for this last activity. Always on a weekend. Always in the bedroom we happen to be sleeping in. (We have two and alternate depending upon the weather and or guests etc).

Not exactly the idyllic cooing wake up call…but the irritating metallic clang of their tiny feet on the aircon and general squawking early on a Sunday. How many time have I stumbled sleepily from my bed to the verandah, struggling to open the door which just happens to stick at the very moment...by then, the pigeons have finished their quickie in record time and are sitting beyond my reach, cooing maddeningly, and I think, smugly.

They haven’t spared my little garden either. I do so enjoy my first cup of tea, there, every morning. Will have to give it up soon. Bird shit all around. And different dimensions. As if they had a shitting contest the night before. You clean and hey presto, back again next morning. Each evening, when I return from work, I find feathers galore on our door mat. (None on our neighbours….and we DO clean our mats everyday much the same as them).

Their take over is now more or less complete. And how do I know this? Last night, I found ONE LARGE feather on our door mat.

I don’t think I am getting paranoid. I have seen a similar pattern earlier.

At our last residence, the pigeons had done the same things. First the silhouettes, the rustles, the bird shit. And one day, A and I returned from a weekend trip to find a funny smell. Couldn’t figure out what it was or where it was coming from. I cleaned whatever I could think of. The kitchen, bathrooms etc. But the smell didn’t go. And then my hands started smelling funny. Yukh. The tea, the food. And finally while I was taking a bath, it struck me and for a few heart stopping seconds, I actually thought, that the source of the smell was me: I was rotting.

THE WATER. “Go check the water tank,” I shouted to A. Sure enough, there was, a dead, decomposed Pigeon. Of all the tanks (there were 4), that dratted bird had to choose ours to bid adieu. And what an adieu. Yukh.

Can’t pack up and leave at dawn ala the Hitchcockian winged drama… (sill have quite a few months on the lease and this place is convenient). Suddenly, R’s suggestion seems infinitely sensible.

Obituary

Addwaita passed away on Friday. He succumbed to liver failure. And that ofcourse made headlines and that is how I learnt about it. And why should that be?

Well to begin with, Addwaita was 255 years old. At firt, it sounds incredible, even awe inspiring to note that when he was born, Mozart, Beethoven, Napoleon weren't born, America was not "Independent", England had not yet become the mighty empire it subsequently became. He lived through numerous wars including the American, French and Indian struggle for independence, world wars, voyage to the moon, and when he died, voyager had aready set upon it's 10 year voyage to Pluto.

Consider that all the while that history was being shaped, changed, he was oblivious to it all, far away from his kith and kin, living his lonely existence so far, far away, in Calcutta.

He was a giant tortoise brought by some brits from the Seychelles and presented to Robert Clive. He was not the only one. It is on record that there were three of them. Two of them died much before and so it was Addwaita who whiled his time away, alone, a prisoner at first in Clive's home in Bengal and then for the last 130 years of his life at the kolkata zoo.

The incredible awe that I felt for his longevity, very soon, gave way to a sense of overwhelming sadness.

What a terrible curse then, this tremdendous exile.

Atlast Adwaita is free...and i sincerely hope reunited with his (hopefully equally long-living kins) in tortoise heaven.

Why I can't remember the roads....

Most of my clients are in South Block (the Ministries) and the UN bodies in Lodhi Estate, and despite going their twice a week for more than a year, I wouldn't be able to find the way on my own.
My attention is focussed elsewhere...

Just the other day on my way to the Ministry, my car was at a red light...cheek by jowl with other cars, when a fat, contented cow weaved its way placidly to the front row of cars at the traffic singals and waited patiently, believe it or not, for the light to change to green. And when the light turned green, it too crossed the roads, oblivious to the on rush of cars on either side!

And then on my way back, I saw a true example of "Hamara Bajaj". A man on a bike with his three kids. One was sitting on the engine in front of him and two behind and he had tied all of them to him with a bright bandhni dupatta!!

Un"Reel" Village...

India lives in it's villages. But not the villaegs romaticised in Indian films. Where the beautiful village belles go in a row balancing pitchers on their heads while the hero (often urbane and handsome) drives by singing and then falls for the prettiest one in the village, romances her through lush verdant fields. You get the picture.

The reality is (most of us are aware of this) very different. Harsh. Squalid and to a large extent, terribly deprived. Despite the harshness, the hardship, life in villages (rural areas) have moved on. There have been changes over the years. How much? I found out....on my trip to Ranthambore. The Sarisar lake was on our itiniary.

As we neared the lake, our cantors turned onto a narrow rut on a high ridge and got stuck. On one side was a low stone wall about one foot high beyond which the land sloped steeply to the lake. The other side was a sheer drop to large fields. The road was cracked at the edges and often the wheels had to pass over large gaps and finally, the cantors could move no further. All of us got down and decided to walk it on foot to the lake and back.

But what lake? It was more an enormous swamp of green vegetation and mud. And what little water was left, was being pumped out by atleast three or four small generators on the banks. To the fields on the other side of the ridge to the fields. We were aghast to see that so much water had been drained out.

We waited and took in the local scenery, while the drivers figured out how to get the cantors reversed.

Stretched on the other side of the ridge were magnificent fields. A wild (to my untutored eyes) tangle of all sorts of vegetation. Huge fields of mustard plants the fields demarcated by the direction in which the stalks had bent in the wind. Such a variety of green, yellows and browns in such a haphazard tangle. And the locals. What bright clothes, what lovely colours. Where was their village? Somewhere beyond both the lake and the fields I guess. There were the village belles in brightly coloured clothes, the goats with bells a tinkle at their throat, the fields in myriad colours. But that's where the similarity to filmi villages ended.

A solitary woman in a bright blue emrboidered ghaghra (skirt) stood by the ridge with a thick stick in her hand. Down below, were a bunch of goats grazing. And just a few minutes later, I found to my surprise, that the old woman was no longer besides me on the ridge. She had (god knows how), climbed down the steep slope (with no ruts, no visible foothold) and was herding her goats.

A little later, we passed by two young women in bright oranges and red which is so characteristic of rajasthan hunched on the edge, trying to push down a few really long (and I imagine heavy) PVC pipes down the slope.

While I recovered from my surprise of the old woman and the goat, the two women had not only got themselves and the pipes down the slope, they had gone a long way off, laid the pipes down at a distance from each other and then the two set about attaching the ends of each. Very soon, they had covered quite a distance.

Two men, (their husbands?) joined them. Eventually, they would connect upto the lake side and get waters for their fields? All in a hard days work for them?

Why wasn't I aghast at the draining of the lake and the obvious ecological damage? Well, at that moment, seeing the hard work those couple were putting in, seemed to me, justified it all. Did they have any other source of water? Possibly not. So do they sit back and watch their crops die? Could have. But they decided not to. Real life this.

Back to "reel life", village life continues....idyllic & wonderful.

Just another day...

I live in such a nice and quiet residential neighbourhood. Joggers, walkers, people pushing babies in prams, walking dogs; houses in neat rows; the occasional pretty park. And yet, people have been warning me about not venturing out alone in the dark. How silly. I thought. Of course I have been taking the usual precautions. Or so I thought.

Last weekend, A was away. So I asked M, a new kid in my team to spend the weekend with me. I do find it unnerving to be on my own in the rather large apartment block that I live. The newspapers are so full of stories of robberies and murders etc.

So, M arrived. And we had a nice and lazy weekend. And then we decided to catch a movie and if we couldn't get tickets, we could always go shopping in the malls. It is sale season. Around 4.30, sunday afternoon, we took a rickshaw, talking nineteen to dozen, and had just crossed a rather large and busy intersection when suddenly, a guy on scooter swooped out of nowhere, grabbed M's bag and zoomed off. Before I could react to what was happening, M first fell off the rickshaw and then was dragged along the road, her hand firmly gripping the bag, even as she fell. A little way ahead, the guy on the scooter let go of the bag and sped away, but not before he turned to take a look at us. His face was covered by a handkerchief. And there we were. M, on the road, terribly bruised and cut. I on the rickshaw, screaming my head off. Soon quite a crowd gathered around us, helped her up. No one had taken down the number of the scooter. There hadn’t been enough time for that. It happened in a trice. In fact, now that I think about it, the rickshaw driver hadn't even stopped or slowed down.

One chap approached us and asked us what had happened and could he help. I asked if there was a doctor around. He returned with his car and took us to a doctor. M was very badly bruised and scratched. But no broken bones. She was shaking badly. That was the shock, said the doctor.

I had been warned before by so many. Including a few rickshaw drivers. But it was something that happened to others. Too unreal to happen to me. And yet it did. I have become so nervous after this. I am walking everywhere I can, on foot, sans bag. Carrying money in my pockets, ever so often stopping to look behind me and if I see a cycle or a bike, I go right off the road and onto the sides. (Am sure people must be thinking I am mad). But what else is there to be done? If something like this happens in broad daylight, in a busy, crowded place, are we safe anywhere? Or do I just shrug and carry on? I will I guess, after a while. But for now, I am too terrified, and very upset. I had after all called the chirpy M over for a weekend. And it had been her bad luck to be sitting on the road side. I was on the curb side. She however (as the young so often are, was more worried about her broken nails and shoes! She even asked the doctor if she could carry on to the movies!!

Perhaps, this is one more sign that I am growing older (and perhaps sadly wiser and less intrepid), but it will be sometime before I can hop onto a rickshaw. But life carries on. We were not the first, nor the last. Life carries on. Just another sign of the times. Speeding cars, pollution, new viruses, power shortage, daylight robberies on scooters.....

Been there, done that!

...And bought the T-shirt, too.
(I really don’t know how to write short posts. Forgive me).

Ranthambore, Kanha, Corbett, Sunderbans... So popular with tourists wanting to get a glimpse of the Tiger in the wild. And atleast two of these have been on the list of places I wanted to / might have / could have visited. So, when A & I found ourselves at Ranthambor, we were mightily thrilled. Without quite knowing why. Why? Because. Tigers in the wild. Endangered. People do these safaris etc.

We left the hotel at early on a cantor. I was a bit disappointed to find that early meant 7am and not the crack of dawn (somehow, more appropriate with jungles and tigers). It was COLD in the open cantor and though I was warmly dressed, my attention was focused on wrapping the blanket (supplied by the hotel) around me. As we left the hotel and the little township and entered the fort, I was wondering, am I on the right side of the cantor? Should I sit by the side? No, that would mean more dust. The huge gate built in the stone ramparts of the fort took us, into a different world.

Steep hillside, shallow drain, blonde brush (what else is that spiky blonde coloured vegetation), plants with leaves, already rust. What colour will they be in the merciless summer?? And oh my god, the Banyan trees. Gnarled and entwined, enormous and not content to just reach an enormous length, they spread their gnarled, entangled white branches on either side and often across the road as well.

The driver cum guide pointed out a wood owl sitting concealed between the bare branches of a tree, looking like another pieces of stump. A vibrant blue bird flitted past. Kingfisher? Peacocks shone blue and green among the dirty green and brown brambly foliage. The driver leant out of the cantor and looked at something. Pugmarks. Clear ones. A loud cacophony erupted from the cantor. Tigers. But they are going the other way. People stood up. Children shouted. Cameras came out. The mood changed when the driver suddenly braked. He stood up and angrily told us to be quiet. If we made such a ruckus then he couldn't hear the "call" Monkeys, birds and deer gave a distinct call if a tiger was near. We sobered and sat down meekly. The driver went in deeper and perhaps from experience, turned this way and that way, left certain tracks and chose others. Occasionally a forest guard would pass by and confer with the driver. This "area" belonged to a tigress and her two cubs. "Shush". What? What? The driver had heard a call. A call? What call? The cantor was making quite a racket. We looked around anxiously this way and that. Minutes passed by. The driver moved on. He did try his best. He took us up and down, past water bodies and right up to the swampy land in front of a lake where the cubs are hidden while their mummy went looking for food. Then we heard it. A langur gave a distinct and shrill call. A herd of deer ran past. Others in the water stood stock still, ears perked up. The driver made a curious "Hmmmm Hmmm" sound.

Perhaps the elusive tigress would come out strolling lazily. Or we'd come across it lazing with her cubs. More pugmarks were sighted. Seeing our cantor, other hopefuls would stop by and we'd all wait together. But in vain. Till the very end, I was convinced that we'd see one. Perhaps, it would be me, who'd spot it and then I (hero of the moment) would say in a silent sharp hiss, "eyes right....there it is." No such luck. We returned three hours later, covered with dust sans a tiger sighting.

That very afternoon, most of us, agreed to take another try. Perhaps afternoon was a better time. "I have a feeling we will see it", said one tiger enthusiast. Right. And so we set out. Three dusty hours later, we returned without having a glimpse of any tiger. Also, we found out, that the pugmarks we had seen in the morning and later in the afternoon were three days old. Oops. And Ranthambore was 400 sq kilometers and the tiger population was 16 and not 26. The odds of our seeing one were minimal. We felt deflated. "Its not easy to see tigers". "We shouldn't expect them to come out just for us". "People have worked in the forests for 10-12 years and have never seen one", we consoled ourselves. We still had one more day to go. A trip to the Fort and the temple was on the cards. There was also the Dastkaar centre where we simply had to go shop.

Next morning, 4 of us, 3 ladies and a couple, set out in a low jeep towards Dastakar. We had barely left the dusty tracks leading from the hotel to the main road, when some one passed by and said, a tiger had come out of the sanctuary and would be there for quite some time. "Forget dastkaar. Take us there, now, we said". And we went, our (at least mine) heart a-thump. As we neared the gates of the fort, we met more and more locals and guards who smiled and either pointed or nodded to say, yes there it is.

The road narrowed with a wall of boulders on one side. A low stonewall about three feet high was on the other beyond which was a tangle of briers and brambles. A little way ahead, the driver stopped at a spot, indistinguishable from any other on that stretch and said, "look carefully, it should be here."

And then we saw a yellow haze. We had to stand up to watch it. Yes, there she was. She raised her enormous head and gave us a lazy yellow look and then lay back again. Then it struck me. My glee at being one of the first to see a tiger was replaced by a chilly terror. OH MY GOD. There she is. An enormous tiger. 7 feet away. With only a low wall between us. And our jeep was so low, so open. We have seen it. Done. Our tiger. In raw flesh and blood. Orange and black striped. Can we leave now please?

Others were however reacting entirely differently. They were busy trying to part the brambles to get a closer look, a photo. Soon, a cantor full of tourists came. Then another car and yet another. The drivers of the various cars began shouting at each other. "Move your car. Let my tourists get a view". "No, you move yours". STOP I screamed, mentally . What if the tiger got irritated?

And then came a huge car with three people and a dog. The lady got down. All the drivers immediately screamed at them. Get back into the car and take that dog away. NOW. This is where I thought, the end was nigh! The tiger must have got a whiff of the dog and if not, would have certainly smelled my fear. Can we leave? Even if we wanted to, we couldn't because the narrow road was jammed anyways. Somehow, a thousand hours later (or so it seemed, to me), we left and were soon out of the fort. We telephoned our hotel to tell the others to get into a cantor and come here quick. Locals said that the tiger would be there for a few hours.

Sure enough, it was still there later on in the afternoon, when we were going to the fort. By now, all of us and perhaps the entire tourist population of Ranthambore had by now seen it, and yet, they were not quite done. Again we stopped. Again people stood up, took photos. The driver (a different one this time) gave a running commentary. "Now she will look (and the tiger raised her head and looked), now she will stand (and sure enough it did). Oh my god. Will the others never get enough of looking / taking photos of it?? The driver overdid himself. A young chap passed by on his motorbike. An old woman and a young girl were on the pillion. Our driver stopped them and said, "Bhaiya, Mataji, get up on the cantor and get a good view of the TIGER." Had I not been so scared, I would have given the driver a good, solid smack. Shouldn't we leave? Although tigers haven't in the recent past attacked any tourist, what’s to say they wont? They are wild and dangerous aren’t they?

Later on, the driver said he had left hurriedly (bah) because Madam-ji (that's me) was feeling mightily frightened. And the driver-hero definitely wasn't, I thought. If I hadn't stopped him, he would have, I guess, jumped into the briers and patted the tigress on the head?

So why did I go? I hadn't till then thought much about seeing or wanting to see a tiger in the wild? What would I get out of it? Why did I want to see it? A photo? A story to tell others, "I saw a tiger, I saw a tiger, na-na-na-na"? I have a few friends who are die-hard tiger enthusiast and have been parts of tiger count surveys (or whatever is the exact term). Not so for me. Honestly, I went because. Because. Nothing more.

But now, I can firmly say, that having been there, done that (seen a tiger in the wild), and whatsmore, having bought a Ranthambor Tiger T-shirt, I don’t want to ever do it again. I really don’t.

PS- All we got of the tiger was a hazy yellow stripe behind the brambles. And none of us (thankgod) had the guts to go any closer to get a clearer picture. I guess the Tigeress had the last laugh!

Rape Capital Delhi

An article in a national daily reports that Delhi crime statistics for 2005 have only strengthened the dubious tag Delhi has had to live with for many years -- India's rape capital. There was (the paper reports) an almost 20% spurt in rape cases as compared to 2004. Every day, along with the usual report on Iraq, India's cricketing woes, and bollywood news is the obligatory para or two on another rape case.

Young girl abducted, minor raped, maid raped and most of these are cases of the women being hauled into cars and gang raped while the car roams around the city roads and then the bruised and battered woman is dumped by the road.

And yet, this past week, the top story in media is Brinda Karat's obssession with Swami Ram Dev and his purported usage of animal parts and human parts in the ayurvedic medicines that his organisation / ashram has been dispensing. I am neither for or against Ram Dev and his medications. If he is using human bones, it must be investigated. But what a collosal waste and shame that people in power, especially women, have remained mum or paid mere lip service to this horrific issue. Can we dismiss it by saying, its the responsibility of the Delhi authorities? Shouldn't women, and specially those in power do something about it?

I remember, back in France, in my french class, where the prof encouraged debates which often tended to be political. My classmates often would have scanty knowlede of India and I once proudly pointed out that despite being backward compared to the west and France, we had women in powerful positions including prime minister, chief ministers. Sonia Gandhi, Sheila Dixit, Jaya Jaitley, Jayalalitha, Mamamta Bannerjee, Brinda Karat, Rabri Devi and the scores of others women - celebritiy and film star MLAs & other party functionaries.

I no longer think its something to be proud of. What if women got thier 33% reservation for women in Parliament and State Legislatures. I donot think it will make lives of women any more better or safer than it is today. There will be more discussions on non-issues (not the domain of women alone) with more women now in a position of power, in a position to be heard of, with access to media.

Arm yourself with pepper sprays, learn some form of physical defence, avoid travelling alone, use cars...whatever. Donot expect any help from any of your powerful sister politicos.

Curiouser & curiouser

Monkey menace is a big problem in Delhi and the surrounding areas. Hordes of monkey pick up a spot / area, not to live in, but to visit, frolic, destroy everything in sight and occasionally attack a passer by and vanish en masse, just as suddenly as they appear. I had a taste of it first hand last year, (Local Fauna).

Recently, as I came out of the Ministry of Health & Family Welfare, I found the compound swarming with monkeys. Small, tiny, medium and big. Hopping, jumping, walking, sitting, monkeys everywhere. These are seriously city smart monkeys and not to be trifled with. A guard, who saw me run back inside, very kindly, escorted me right to the main gates and I was thankful for his presence.

The monkeys are not to blame. More and more houses, shops, malls, offices are coming up, depriving them of their natural habitat. They are being forced to survive in a hostile overcrowded city, and have become, really aggressive.

This morning, as I was entering the ministry premises, a man cycled past me inside the compound, at a leisurely place and behind him on the bicycle, sat a Langur. It was chained to the cycle and it sat there serenely, its long tail, hanging down and in fact was trailing on the path. There were no monkeys in sight.

This was not a mere chance occurrence. Believe it or not, this is a tried and successfully tested solution to the monkey menace. It is painless and brings instant but temporary relief. The presence of a solitary langur is enough to cause the most aggressive horde disappear in a jiffy. I don’t know what the logic behind the monkey's aversion to langur, but it seems to work. The resident welfare association of many a housing estate have hired the services of men with langurs. Usually, these are street side performers who earn a living from little acts involving monkeys or langurs. All the chap has to do is to walk about the menaced area with his pet / captive langur on a leash, or cycle past and hey presto, the monkeys disappear! Curiouser & curiouser, as Alice would have said.

La Belle Meunière

New recipe up at The Timid Cook!

Boys will be boys???

One day, last week, my maid turned up pretty late and though I was irritated, I didn't show it. She is after all, very sweet oldish lady. And her reason for being late, astonishing as it sounds, is produced nearly verbatim (as much as I could make out from her thick Haryanvi accent) below:

That morning, she went up straight to the 12th floor (instead of the 11th floor) and rang the bell. Most of the apartments are identical including the doorbell. A tall young chap opened the door, let her in and went back to reading the newspaper. My maid took him to be my brother in law (whom she had briefly met). As is her usual practice, she went to the kitchen and started washing the dishes wondering why she couldn’t see Mai-dm (that is what she calls me). Having done the dishes and still not seeing me, she started sweeping the floors. The young man continued reading the papers. This is when she asked the man if they had re-arranged the furniture. They probably had recently and he replied in affirmative. And then she asked, where is Mai-dm.

“Mai-dm?? There is no Madam here,” the man said.

“HOI? She went away and didn't even tell me”?? said my Maid

“What madam? We have been living here for months and there has never been a madam here”.

“HOI??? What floor is this”?

“12th”.

“HOOOOOOiiiiii, I had to go to the 11th”.

At which point she left and turned up at ours. And I presume the young man continued reading his papers.

Poor thing, she went on for quite sometime about what a dirty pile of dishes she had done and how dirty their room was!!

My maid is, like I said, very sweet if slightly batty (in a nice way) and so one can quite forgive her for turning up one floor above and doing the dishes. But the chap????? What was he doing / thinking?

There are 3 or 4 of them living in the apartment above ours. I have never seen them, but I often hear them in loud conversation at odd hours of the night. I have tolerated their weird urges to shove furniture around after 12am. And of course the dribbling of what sounds like a basketball, I have forgiven.

Boys will after all be boys. Even after 5 years of marriage, A shows frequent signs of slipping into I-am-living-in-a-dormitory-behaviour. So I wasn't too bothered by the antics of the boys (young men) living right above us. Till this maid incident.

It’s been around 4 months that we have shifted into our brand new appartment and already, there is extensive seepage in the ceilings of two of our bathrooms, just above the shower. We had duly informed the landlord and the housing society. They had in turn taken up or said they would take it up with the occupants above and see to it. And yet, the seepage grows daily. Last week, when we called up the housing society we were told that they had not once, but twice, visited the people above, repaired that seepage and told them to not pour water over it for a few days. They could have you know, there is a spare and third bathroom. But no, they either don't care or forget and wash the cement and away. Hmmmmpf.

I am sure they don't do it on purpose. It's just one of those things. They forget. I thought that I'd go and talk to them about it, kindly explaining the reason and asking for their cooperation. But after this maid, we are stuck with this seepage problem, for a looooooooong time.

Shameful plugging!

Well here goes : Finally, my food blog The Timid Cook

This is sort of a thankyou to R for her constant support and guidance about all things culinary. Also, I have so many food tales. Some about my experiments, others about R's cooking and yet others.

You may or maynot like my posts or even read them. But I can (thankgod for blogs) write and pretend that its a great blog. Can't I????

Survival of the fittest

Add one more to the list of things that couples do when they find themselves wide awake in the "wee small hours of the morning": Go on a murderous rampage.

A woke up around 5am to go to the loo. I woke up instantly being a light sleeper; Actually more than that, being terrified of being by myself in the dark. I asked him to switch on
the lights. Which he did. Which is when we realised that hovering over us was a swarm of mosquitoes. And for a frozen moment, we stared at each other - them (the hovering mosquitoes, frozen in mid-hover and I, frozen in my supine position, A, with his hand still on the light switch. The moment passed. And as if on cue, my arms started itching from a million bites.

Both sides were galvanised into action. A
tackled the ones above, swatting at them with a face towel and I, with newspapers (I am a sudoku fiend and must, must do one last one in the newspaper before lights out), my slippers (they are very effective) and even my pillows (yukh...will have to change the pillow cases).

We are on the 11th floor. Its pretty windy up here. How in the world can these tiny things fly so high. Or do they take the elevator? Or perhaps a single intrepid pair did. The Eve and Adam of this clan. Then they settled in nicely and rapidly multiplied and took over.

We won the first round. Within 10 minutes or so, their numbers dwindled to a scant 2 or 3. This small victory more than made up for the red splotches on the creamy walls and floors (not to mention, perhaps the underside of the pillows...eeks...I didn't dare look).

But the survivors were a tough lot. When we bent to the floor, they zoomed up to the ceiling and when we stood up, they sank to the floor. Clever little fiends. Whoever thought of intelligence in mosquitoes? That is not in the scheme of things. They are born, they breed, bite (cause malaria -- only the female anopheles mosquito, dengue -- these only bite in the mornings...yes its true...) and then they die. That's it. But here were 3 mosquitoers doing guerilla warfare.

We'd switch off the lights and quieten down and within seconds, there'd be the irritating nnnnnnnnnnnn in our ears. We'd switch on the light (taking turns) and find them, innocently sitting on the highest and farthest wall. And so on it went. A tie.

They might have outwitted us and pooh-poohed away our brute strength, but the war is not over yet...

"Remember to buy a spray or mosquito coil tomorrow," I said to A, as we decided to call it quits for the night (or pre-sunrise) and lay down and quickly pulled the covers over our heads. Survival of the fittest, afterall....

A million Rajithas

There was this horrendous story on a news channel on 23rd November: Ill treatment of a domestic help by her employers. This domestic help was a girl, Rajitha, not more than 10. Thin emaciated, with burn marks all over her body ... her arms, legs, back, and a fresh wound on her stomach, earned that very day. Her fault: She was a little late in warming the milk for the employer's baby.

Her screams had been fortuitously heard by a child activist who happened to be passing by. She got suspicious, so heart wrenching, so agonized, the screams were. After hours of knocking on the door and ringing the bell, did they and the world get to see Rajita and her plight. The look on her face on being taken out of the employer's grasp was not of relief. She still looked very unsure, frightened. She simply couldnot trust anybody. And with good reason. Seeing the burn marks on her body, this must not have been the first time she must have screamed. And yet, the neighbours had been mute onlookers for the 6 months that she had been in Hyderabad.

Here too, in Gurgaon, I have seen many families with several little children as domestic help. Once at a local restaurant, while a family gorged themselves at a table, a little boy of maybe 7 or 8, difficult to guess since their growth is stunted due to chronic malnutrition, waiting (not even seated), next to the table, patiently. Occasional, he would walk the couple's crying baby in his tiny, not yet adult arms. The couple went on calmly consuming great quantities of food.

Yet another day, I met a couple in our very building, coming up the elevator with their tot and her minder ... another little girl, barely 7. This 7 year old girl, was well dressed and looked well fed, but she was so adult like, so responsibly, gently preventing her guard, the baby from clutching onto the various buttons in the elevator. No time for her ofcourse, to indulge in simple childish pleasures.

The only good thing to come out of this sordid incident, is possibly highlight the plight of thousands, maybe millions
of children in so many houses in India. Domestic labour. Hyderabad alone, according to the news report has 47,000 children working as domestic laborers. God knows how many there are, through out the country.

There are laws to put an end to such things and maybe, India will get its act together to make sure, legislation is in place to end domestic labour and their ill treatment.

But what is frightening is, this is human behavior. Of educated, well off people. Those who without any qualms whatsoever, in cold blood torture helpless, innocent children; And those, who are mute, unhearing spectators. Can we change human behaviour with a few laws? It can be suppressed but not eliminated. Despite the threat of the death penalty, rape happens. God knows how many Rajithas there are, crying, with no one to hear them cry.

Viva Roma!

Got this one from Joe

And how true. Outside India and Calutta, Rome would be my first choice. I fell in love with Rome the minute I landed there. A thought that was because Rome is a bit noisy and chaotic. Anyhow, here it is, although why would anyone be interested in knowing which city I belong to...(blogger vanity)!

You Belong in Rome

You're a big city girl with a small town heart Which is why you're attracted to the romance of Rome Strolling down picture perfect streets, cappuccino in hand And gorgeous Italian men - could life get any better?

What City Do You Belong In?

Cloud End

(Longish post ... this...bewarned)!


Atlast a break. Even if it was only for 5 days, after an entire year.

Our destination: Cloud End. And please those of you who have read "Eats, shoots and Leaves" or haven't, it is Cloud End and not Cloud's End or Clouds' End.

Shatabdi Express to Dehradun. Then a 1&1/2 hour upward trek by taxi to Mussorie (Plain dwellers, do not eat anything before that uphill completely cicurlar trip to Mussorrie. There wasn't a single straight or flat stretch in that one and a half hour journey). And still upwards, through a dirt track snaking between the hills and a sheer drop.

The houses thinned out as did the cacophony of Mussorie and finally, viola, at the very top of the tallest of the hills, sat a green and white, glass and wood bungalow, gently snoozing in the warm evening sun: Cloud End.

The only other guest was away most of the time. I forgot to take books or even playing cards. Our camera jammed so I could take only 5 or so pictures. No magazines. No television. Just the two of us, at Cloud End.

Vacations can be very tiring. So many things to do and to see. But fate had it planned otherwise. A proper break. So there I was, at 8000 m above sea level, 5 days of enforced solitude.

After the slightly panicky feeling of "god-what-will-i-do?", I rediscovered so many things that I had forgotten in the smoke filled mad rush of city life...

We stayed in the log cabins about two levels lower than the bungalow. My day would start early. Around 6, when it was still dark. I would put on multiple sweaters, cap, gloves and socks and come and sit at the chair and table just outside the log cabin, a few feet away from a sheer drop to the valley below...

...Listening to the sound of silence. It took some getting used to. Every sound seemed magnified several times over. A bird chirp here, a shrill note there, the buzzing of flies, the strange brrr of tiny crickets rubbing there wings behind their backs, the rustling of leaves. I would be sitting out there and turning and twisting in my chair at every rustle, every call, every chirp!

...inhaling the fresh fresh air.

...Rising early and waiting for the sun to rise and the mist to lift and reveal the magnificent snow capped Himalayas, which would, just as quickly, disappear from view.

Plants grew in wild tangled profusion. Red and brown flowers dotted the place. Suddenly, I would catch sight of a strange purple blossom. Dainty daisies (forgive me for my scant knowledge of plants) would nod gently from a precarious perch.

There were hills all around. The trees giving them a dark greenish look. The highest hill was bang opposite as the crow flies but an arduous 3 hour uphill trek as the man walks. I counted about 14 hills.

Ah the simple pleasures of drying my hair in the sun; basking in the sun. But how fast it moved. I had to constantly shift my chair in the small gravelly path to follow the sun! Till the warm rays from the west were overpowered by the creeping chill from the east as the sun slowly sank behind the hills and disappeared.

A flock of pale green parrots, and not the usual dark green(parrot green) ones, descended on a bare tree, each on one branch...and just as suddenly, at some silent signal, flew off. 2 long birds with a curling tail (or is it called plume) twice the size of their body, hopped, jumped and cavorted. A solitary crow, oddly out of place, cawing away with great gusto.

A hairy, hairy goat with curved horns and bell at it throat, nimbly jumping about, mocking our pathetic panting gasping progress on the slightest of inclines.

Dinner in that long low dining hall on Major Swetenham’s original dinner table, beneath the huge tiger skin forever fixed in a glassy glare.

The house had most of the original furniture. The polish dulled over the years, which somehow added to the overall atmosphere as did the low voltage electricity. It was as if the place was lit with lanterns, as was when Major Swetenham moved in with his lovely garwali wife!

It seemed a bit too real and I refused to sleep with the lights off. I lit the candles supplied by the staff and it cast a cheery glow all night long! Who knows what these log cabins were used as during Major Swetenham's days? Stables, A thought. He said he got a distinct horsy whiff (from over a 150 years ago??). Maybe nursery? So far away from the main bungalow? The family history did mention one of the 5 boys fell down a "khud" and died at the age of 11 (yes the khud was there). That scared me most.

When I first arrived at Cloud End, time hung heavily, Minutes hanging on lovingly.

Back now, to the daily grind, of never ending work, deadlines, schedules, it seems like that for those few days, I was transported to a different dimension, where time hung heavily, minutes ticking past sluggishly, when time stood almost still...


A spot of history about Cloud End: A Major Swetenham out on a picnic was enchanted by a melodious voice and ran after it and startled a garwali lass. He fell in love with her and her voice and asked for her hand in marriage, which her father gave along with 2000 acres of virgin forests as dowry. It was here the Major built Cloud End in 1838 and lived with his wife Rose and five children. The last of the Swetenhams left India in the 1930's.

Untitled

The building was very ugly to begin with. And Solid. And yet, some one decided it needed a face-lift. Scaffolding all around. Huge lengths of green thick cloth, hung haphazardly. Sheets of corrugated tins placed all around the building to create a safe area – apparently to ensure that no visitor would be injured by falling shards of cement and debris. But this made it impossible to walk down the narrow path in front of the building. Visitors now have to hop onto the green (mostly mud) stretch to make it to the entrance which hey presto, has vanished. A sign, on a piece of card board, no doubt torn from a carton, the writing faded in the hot sun gives direction to the new entrance…the best treasure hunter would be at a loss to decipher. The construction goes on and on. No sign of any change even after weeks. The busy throng of people pours in and out of the building. Workers are up and down the scaffolding. In dusty clothes and yellow hard hats, (very incongruous with their clothes - no overalls) perched uneasily on their heads… The green canvas, the yellow hard hat, the corrugated sheets…all appear to be there, not for safety but to ensure the fulfilling of some international safety standards.

I look up and find, a young woman. Up on the scaffolding. Maybe on the 5th floor. In a saree. Yellow hardhat on head. (I am wearing a saree as well). She looks down at me and her eyes follow me as I pass below. I am shocked to see her up there (no stereotyping this…but u would be, had you seen her). God knows what goes through her mind when she sees me. Perhaps angry at why am I down there and she above? Why is she in her dusty saree, me in my fine one? Why does she have a hard hat and me cradling my smart file of papers? Why is she up on the scaffolding and I am on terra ferma?

Or perhaps she is just curious.

I find the new entrance to the building. Amid debris, little dunes of sand and cement, the betel-juice-stained walls. The ugly metal detector, the lazy guard. And as I gingerly step on the wobbly concrete flooring, I see a little kid seated on the bare earth. Can’t be more than two, powdered by dust, all alone, looking up at the world as it passes by. Welcome to the Ministry of Health and Family Welfare, Government of India.

....Perhaps, the woman up there was just curious. I'd like to think that. But the truth would be, she was too busy trying to do what she had to, look forward to the next break, when she could come and pick up the little tot floors below, waiting for her, patiently (already aware that he had no other choice, no luxury of temper tantrums that other fortunate tots can afford to throw). Both aware of their roles, unawares that right inside, the enormous and complicated machinery inside the ministry toiled amid files and meetings and projects and plans working for health and welfare of families of more than a billion people.

Bitter Moon?!

Last week at a salon I was wallowing in the luxury of a 'deluxe' pedicure, when the pedicurist whispered that they had a Karva Chauth special.

[I get very irritated by this hard selling of their packages. Go for a head massage and they will say "Ma'am you feet NEEDs a pedicure. Go for a haircut, they will say ma'am you are going bald and need an ultra-ozone-olive oil-steam-hair-scalp treatment. So on and so forth].

I snapped (a trifle harshly), "I am a BONG. We donot have karva chauth. We never fast and never have to. Thank God. They poor pedicurist crumbled into hurt silence (but thankfully continued with the pedicure with as much care as before).

On my way to office yesterday, I saw makeshift mehendi stalls dotting the roadside. And office WAS different yesterday. It WAS full of beautifully dressed women. In sarees, mehendi on their hands, all a-tinkle with bangles and earrings. All joyously observing Karva Chauth. Which in effect meant they were fasting for the long life of their husbands, and dressed in their best. And so happy about it. Not even a drop of water. Till moon rise. When they will (here there is a variation. Some do and some don't), look at the moon through a sieve and then at their husband. And break their fast.

I remember, from way back, when I was in school, one morning, the ferocious Mrs. G, our hindi teacher, swished into class in a dark violet silk saree with silver zari border, large earrings, 2 pinks spots of rouge on her cheeks. Zapped, we burst into "happy birthday to you..." and sang it with great gusto, if not tune. She beamed at us through it all and then said it wasn't her birthday. Oh. Happy Anniversary. No, not even that. Then?????

She coyly (very coyly) announced it was for Karva Chauth! The first I had ever heard (well maybe I had heard it before) but came to know that it meant something special. But then being a bong, it was not in the Bengali scheme of things where any thing special meant food, food and more food.

I had always found KC rituals a bit strange. What is this fasting for husbands,who were hale and hearty anyhow? And then what is this looking at the moon through a sieve etc. This probably stemmed from the numerous hindi movies where there was (and continues to be), along with the mandatory Cut to Switzerland for a song, a karva chauth scene.

Quite unintentionally, I was well dressed yesterday with (I sometimes get that right), matching accessory. I was asked quite a few times if I was fasting. I repeated the entire thing about being a Bengali and not having to fast except on one's wedding day, when the groom and the bride and the person giving the bride away fast till the wedding is over.

But that changed on seeing my colleagues obvious pleasure at it all. Some even said that their husbands too were fasting (to give moral support to their wives)! Couple of years back, on another KC, back in Calcutta, I was standing on the landing in the evening when Mrs K and her short, podgy Mr. K came down the stairs from the terrace (after the sieve and moon thingie), Mrs K smiling coyly and Mr. K looking sheepish when I smiled at them. They were so sweet - that podgy pair!!

No, it doesn't inspire me to keep a KC. But generally, not be dismissive of it. I didn't think it correct to mention that not only was I not fasting, I had infact, the previous night, cooked 2 kilos of meat ahead of a small gathering of friends, on the following day.