An Indian's Olympics connection

...the Tricolour outnumbers even the host countries flags. Almost all the news media from India have thronged the stadium. The starters' shot seconds away from ringing through the air, already heavy with sounds of various hues. The polished tracks glisten bright. I can feel each of my muscles twitch and almost hear the breath of my fellow athletes. I have had more difficulty fending questions like "How does it feel to be the first Indian male to be hailed as an olympics medal hope in athletics", "How has your family endured the pressure..." and many such more. It kind of prepared me for the finals of the 400 metres relay on the biggest stage ever. Fan mails, prime time coverage, endorsements...I had tasted a slice of these even before I set foot onto the arena everyone expected me to set on fire. Even if I managed a top 6 finish, I could expect much more to come my way, let alone the 'prestige-money' which would flow into my bank accounts. 4...3...2...1...BANG! That was enough to wake me out of the most vivid siesta dreams I have had in recent times. Blame it on the sumptiously think Dal Makhani and Achari Murgh Tikka my wife made for lunch OR on the never-ending desire for atleast a singlepiece of metal an average Indian longs for as each edition of the event that passes by.

It is beyond logic why a country with over a billion heart-beats cannot produce a few with passion enough to pump enough adrenaline that will bring us a clutch of medals. Let alone a top 5 or top 10 slot in the final hustings, but enough to salvage some prestige that has long been charred beyond recognition. In a country where terminologies such as 'horse-trading' and 'marathon-yatras' are heard beyond the realms of sport, a wind in the right direction could yet turn our 'burp belching bellies' into the right curves to help us cut through olympic pools and double barrel flips.

Till then I guess its just the siesta's which will bring the average Indian the only succour...

...and thats the first home run!

Yeah...the title exemplifies the feeling of having completed a whole year post the most significant event in one's life (er...is there a doubt?). My in-laws were in town. We took the day off. It was a Tuesday. We had collected some of our snaps together since marriage and increased the number of photo-frames by over 1000% and dressed up the apartment for the day. Got up late (woke up early but got out of bed late :-) if you know what I mean) and kept our stomachs empty till the sumptious luncheon at the Taj. Saw a movie that evening and gave a lot of time to ourselves.

A year gone by and by God's grace, a LOT more to come...

Lifeline

There are many lines that play a pivotal role in one's life, especially post marriage: common ones that are needed for electricity, telephone, internet, cable TV among others, lines that decide your performance like sales lines, profit margins, attrition graphs and most importantly, your fate-line.

But a post marital line that forms an integral part of one's life is the clothes line. It decides whether one goes to work dressed well the next week. It decides whether you are equipped to give your next presentation well and whether you are going to sleep on clean sheets the next day. This line is also an important aspect in a post marital relationship. It helps decide whether you share your responsibilities well; it symbolises a nut and bolt in the wheels of a dual relationship and if you havent been seeing this line too many times in the past few days (and you arent one of those lucky ones to have enough helping hands at your house) then you better watch out!

We husbands better learn our lines fast!

And they finally came...

My parents have a unique feature...they plan, and plan and plan and it never happens. They have been enticing me with their idea to drive down to Bangalore from our native (Trichur) by car from the time I had shifted base to this IT city. That was nearly 6 years ago. A lot of things happened of more improbable nature: I shifted my house a couple of times, I changed jobs, I got married, my brother moved to Bangalore, Shermin got pregnant and life changed as the wind blew. They kept planning, but never managed to drive down. They did come by train a few times, but the significance of coming down by car was far more, not of particular necessity to mention in this post.
They finally made it a couple of weeks back accompanied by Anil, the manager who supervises our family business and Jasmine, mom's younger sister. They had a fun ride into the city taking the Mysore route coming through the erstwhile Veerappan (a late forest brigand feared by police and people alike) territory resplendent in scenic beauty captured in many a south-indian film. They made a few stops - made tea in a poor woman's cottage, lit a fire to cook food by the road-side and came through a large sun-flower field - equivalent to wading through the Amazon for the most seasoned of adventure seekers.
The next day happened to be their 33rd wedding anniversary. Some delicious coffee mousse was cut. It filled our stomachs as well as made for some war-paint on their faces! We had gone back to some of our good old days by blowing balloons in tandem. Sounds of balloons bursting had us reminisce old memories from Muscat...
The 2 days they stayed here ran like the gazelle. Wish they had planned it better...well...I guess the planning couldnt have got better than 6 years...

Sometimes it's best to not plan and go by your insticts!

(Gas)tronomy

Its one thing to cook by yourself (I shudder to think what would happen in my case) and its another to watch your wife cook for you. Last week, I managed to click a snap while my better half whipped up the family's (atleast my dad's) answer to the 'quicky' before catching the next movie in town and South India's pride on the menu - Dosa! She prepared some crispy brown masala dosa's (the ones with cooked potato stuffed and rolled into them). As one's olfactory system gets a high as the drops of desi-ghee simmers into oblivion on the smeared batter, its satisfaction guaranteed for the cook when the perfectly shaped crisply fried rolled dosa's are carefully placed into the hot-pot.

Its pure love (that of my wife's rolled into each dosa, as well as that of a south-India foodie for his well made fav dig) that went in that morning...

Royalty regained

I have often wondered what it would have been to live like royalty, especially like the sultans of the past. We got a glimpse into a few of the aspects - what it would have been like to sink our teeth into their food and how we would have looked under some of their head-gear. The fact that I got my in-laws to relish the same in the bargain added to the fun.

A night out at Jalsa, a restaurant shaped and based on the Moghul royalty theme on a deserted stretch of the outer ring road gave us the ideal opportunity...

It was a night to remember...

Freedom fighter

I went to buy chicken along with my dad-in-law. Apparently he is a stud at buying groceries & meat...seemed pretty decent for his experience. No stud though! Maybe my wife and I have different standards of a 'stud', especially one at buying groceries & meat. Though buying vegetables went about without much of a hitch, the chicken shop was flooded with customers. He tried his frantic best to get the attention of the guy who was picking up live stock from the cages and churning out pieces of cut-meat. Then he tried his best to get the attention of the other couple of guys helping the main guy out.

While he kept trying to get attention, what got my attention was that of a small kid who was apparently amused by the live chicken in cages who either buried their heads within their white feathers or sat flocked together with their eyes tight shut, scared to their pink bones, probably counting their seconds till they were picked up by the butcher. The kid kept sticking his fingers into the cages trying to pacify the worried lot. He also tried his mighty best to free them out of the cages, having seen the blood spill all over. The butchers, in giving the customers 'halal' meat, spilt a lot of blood on the ground (the halal method of killing live stock ensured that maximum blood oozed out and prevented blood from clotting within the body, apparently resulting in more hygiene), which spurred the kid to release the caged beings from their murderous captors.
Oblivious of my attempts to capture his courage on my mobile phone camera, the little guy braved possible pecks at his tiny fingers to keep trying for the 'right' thing. This struggle to deliver freedom went on till his dad, who till then had been doing the same thing which my dad-in-law had been trying, noticed what his little Napoleon was upto and picked him up. The little fellow might have been surprised at his dad's apathy (or mabe not), but had to give-in to the temptation of a piece of chocolate he got.

I turned back to see the sorry state of affairs with my in-law and called out to the butcher, who I knew from my many past visits. He quickly acknowledged my call and the next bag of cut chicken pieces was ours.