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.

Testimony to growth

G R Masilamani once said - "One cannot just soak the spirit of something by just seeing it, one should feel it". Neither is Masilimani someone famous, nor is his ability to translate regional proverbs into english anywhere next to comprehendable, but its the only saying I can think of as I write about the subject of discussion. The structure of the quote above is my translation of what his 'Tamlish' (a Masilimani concoction of tamil & english) would have meant.

The spirit of being an Indian in a city which prides itself as the wheels on which India has traversed the rankings of technology charts does provide a lot of scope for getting soaked into, but definitely not where the wheels of our trains traverse on! Adorned by empty plastic bottles (waiting for some good samaritan to take them to be recycled into new avatars), delectable assortments of human life's remnants (so carefully and kindly provided by the railways, to allow some of the members of our precious fauna to remain in the ecological system), a pot-pourri of materialistic remnants and the inevitable oily filth, which either has been untouched to preserve the 'railway couture' or has not been cleaned by them in fear of being run over by the next train.

All this carefully set environs of our railway system, especially the Bangalore railway station would throw to the lions Masilamani's statement. If seeing is ever believing, then this sight would be its best advocate! It doesnt leave much scope for 'soaking in', does it? The music of the local crows, pitter-patter of the cute-'little' rats, chirp of the myriad lizards, flutter of the camouflaged cockroaches and the sounds from the other members of an ecology which has somehow till date escaped the lens of National Geography (hope this blog helps!) just blends into the symphony orchestrated by the very vocal trains that we are proud of. The music from these long marvels which have been bequeathed by our white rulers and are still running strong, just get better with age.

Somehow, this spirit of our city can never be fathomed by the many columnists, NGO's, so-called critics and the creme-de-la-creme of its junta. This is definitely to be preserved and nurtured. A situation to take strength from. This is testimony of our growth. The more we grow, the more this special ecology grows.

A toast to our pride! Lets soak in it...

Once upon a time there was electricity

As India steps into the next decade as an economic power, military power, technology power and other sobriquets garlanded by so-called pundits of the new world, its engines on which it runs - Mumbai, Delhi, Bangalore and other cities stumble along on some old fashioned crutches. As a member of its tech-engine diaspora, yours truly has endured the necessity for the crutches that Bangalore supports itself on. While it is the grit-determination combo of the Mumbaikars, the tradition-innovation duo of the Delhiites and various innate qualities bequeathed by tradition for the other engines, it is more of a portion of chance and benevolence of nature that fuels Bangalore's crutches.

One of the turrets of infrastructure taken for granted is electricity. In Bangalore, its more of an amenity, which one pays for in case its granted by the all pervasive BESCOM. It has for one, managed to change a habit in me which my mom had given up hope on - the age-old wisdom 'early to bed and early to rise makes one healthy, wealthy and wise'. Although the former part is still untouched, the latter part is now literally controlled by BESCOM (sounds like MOM - guess providence had a dirty hand to play in this one).

Even though Indians' dependence on electricity is not as 'scary' as those of the Americans (they have almost everything from their alarm clocks to smart homes hooked-on), it has a stronger story to get an entry into the roti-kapda-makaan coterie than does India in getting into the UN security council. One reads the paper to often see the powers-that-be put up an act of helplessness when mildly troubled on such issues - but its never surprising that they dont break a sweat even in the face of global warming (which may have something to do with the fact that media coverage usually happens in the confines of generator backed 5-star environs).

The day usually starts with one being woken up by the tickle of a drop of sweat that traverses from brow along the contours of the face to the neck. When realization dawns that one's sleep is no more accompanied by the fan or A.C. and the bedsheet needs some bit of sun, there's not much option than to get under a cold shower. Some cold milk and the soothing confines of the air-conditioned office has become more enticing than a usually logical work-at-home option. The age-old 'warm welcome back home' is quite literally warm! You are back home, but not Mr. Electricity! The plot of a racy Frederick Forsyth novel might have contemplated a nexus between the candle traders mafia (or the generator makers association) and the government, but had the grey cells of our politicians enough ability to digest lesser authors, our mom's wouldn't have had to thank BESCOM officials for waking us up early!

Hmm...On second thought the lack of TV or the internet at night gives me some more time to be spent with my wife! Thats when one manages a long pending snap of hers :)

A Play called Life

Silhouetted; many an outline,
Of characters in various plots,
Plays parts of his, hers & mine,
With shades of all sorts.

Memories etched in mind,
Experience, the beacon of light,
Losses left behind,
As friends become our might.

As tears wipe our sins,
And laughter's the ale,
As we learn from our wins,
And through losses we sail.

From womb to the end,
Life tells us a lot,
Through curves and each bend,
Love, forgive & forget not...

Cakes in the bay

There's always a birthday or two in the bay every time I warm my ass in front of my system for some serious work. Its just one of the occassions the bay turns into something short of a patisserie - only that most of the whipped cream ends up on the outside rather than the other way round. Its kind of a tradition in the bay. Irrespective of gender, the baked flour adorns faces, legs, hands, backs and body parts usually not privy to baked food even in the most improbable of circumstances, except of course this one.

Last week this honour belonged to one of my team members - Bhavani. As per her, it was her best birthday ever! Doesnt look like she has had too many evenful birthdays. Despite all her efforts to look her naive best, she just could not evade the legacy of this tradition (the history of which I have absolutely no idea of). Tsk tsk - some really good mixed fruit gateau from the Oberoi was the martyr!

Cow dung vs. Hope

My home state is known as God's Own Country. It is lush, green and as close to nature as you possibly wouldn't want it to! I would have loved to be within smelling-distance of nature, but not when it stinks. Cow dung! That’s what we had to dig into everyday in front of our gate.
The view from my window paid glowing tributes to the imagery I have so often mouthed with the utmost ease about a country which God so lovingly moulded, but had to be content with being a state. This view had (and still has) cars, trees, rickshaws, road-salesmen of various hues and wares, fauna of an abundant variety and the odd cow which trudged along with its master everyday between 10am and 10:30am. I had often wondered what kind of a relationship the master shared with the animal, apart from being amazed at the consistency with which it dropped dung right in front of our gate everyday…
Sometime last month there was a gap of 3-4 days before my dad and I realized one day that we didn’t have any dung to clear, partly because of the fact that both of us had much more important things in life than to keep track of dung outside our gate and partly because of the local festivities that resulted in a lot of fanfare in our immediate neighbourhood. It also caught my fancy then on that I did not see the duo walk past our gate in the morning. Even though I ran this observation of mine past my dad, it did not elicit more than the usual flick of his eye-brows. This meant either of the two – ‘why the hell should this bother me’ OR ‘good point’. Considering the fact that it was me who had made the point, I figured it was the latter. Whichever way, I had made up my mind to find out a rationale.
A couple of weeks passed by without me being able to locate the master (I hadn’t made an attempt to locate the cow, as I didn’t think I could differentiate it from two similar looking ones). Not that I had made a great attempt, but I presumed asking the neighbours and watching the gate from my window would be good enough – wasn’t so. It was during one of my sulky trips to the local vegetable market on one of the 'accompany-missions' with my mom that I chanced to see the fellow. He was trying to sell a couple of old rickety chairs in the corner of the market where locals usually sold used house-hold items. I went up to him and caught his attention. He responded with a flick of his eye-brows. It wasn’t similar to that of my dad’s, but was clear from the add-on expression that he didn’t particularly like me eating up precious time of his. I later wondered if my presence with my dad when he reprimanded the fellow for his cow’s droppings had anything to do with it. I enquired with him as to why he and his animal no more walked past our gate everyday morning. The change in his expression from annoyance to that of extreme grief was instantaneous! He broke down. It was as if a large swathe of moisture laden clouds had been waiting for a prick to result in a downpour. It would have been an understatement to say that I was embarrassed, but it was then that I realized why my teachers always ‘commended’ me for my thick-skin. Embarrassment turned to sympathy and later to outright helplessness as the downpour prolonged. It was when he managed to gather himself that he looked directly at me. He then told me how he the cow had been left back when his wife eloped with the local meat seller and how he took care of the then ailing cow. He talked about how he would go to the temple everyday with it to pray for his wife’s return. It was when he told me that the day after the cow died (of some illness two days after it had collapsed) he had received news of his wife’s death, that I had tears rolling down my cheeks…
People standing around us then might have thought it odd for two grown up people to be weeping together, holding hands sitting on two chairs propped up close. But I shed all my inhibitions to join in grief for the first time with somebody I hardly knew.
That was the moment I realized that a nuisance such as cow-dung for someone may have been even more sacred for another and that one day this would bond us in the most bizarre of situations.
My mother saw me and had the good sense to sms me to come home when I was feeling better…

3 firsts in a go

There are times when one waits for a day of 'a first'. The first date, first 5-star hotel feast, first drive, first marriage (oops!)...well today Firstapopulous (the name I would have most likely given had I been asked to name the God of Firsts) had diarrhoea...it had nothing to do with how my bowel behaved today morning. It was a triplet - first time I bought a laptop for my wife, first time my brother bought me & my wife lunch and first time I started a blog.

The next time Firstapopulous decides to eat bad, I better be prepared...thank God it is a Sunday today...