"Whatever... Chumps!"

Eureka Forbes Aquasure Water Filter, HomeTown, and Why India might never have a double digit growth rate

2012-02-04T11:40:00.000+05:30

There are many in India who will read this post, nod vigorously as I recount my story, chew on the state of affairs and wash away the pain of incompetence with some Kingfisher beer. As writing for me is cathartic, this post is for medical reasons.

My time has been spent this week doing two things - getting a filter for our Aquasure non-electrical unit and chasing after HomeTown for a delivery.

A bit of background on the HomeTown. We ordered a cabinet on 15 Jan and after a delay, two boxes were delivered on 26 Jan. On 28 Jan an assembly person put it together only for us to discover that it was not what we ordered. Phone calls ensued - I was asked to repeatedly confirm on which floor we ordered it from and what the price was. That's how they keep stock of their inventory apparently. The store is 20kms away and I was asked to visit to confirm my order. I said I would, only if I was reimbursed petrol costs. Luckily the assembly person remembered that what they delivered resided on the 4th floor while I was clear from the start that my order resided on the 1st. The sales person and logistics incharge thus agreed that they made a mistake in how our order was coded. I got an email admitting this and a promise that Sunday would see a pick up of the old stuff and by Tuesday we will get the new stuff.

Read on for the rest of the saga...

Monday:

Called the Eureka Forbes (EF) help line to ask where I can get a replacement filter. Was pointed to nearest customer service centre. Visited centre to learn that they don't keep parts. Was given number of sales rep who can help. S says he will come tomorrow with filter.

Tuesday:

I call S in the morning to find out when he will come. Afternoon, madam.
Call HomeTown. They only open at 11:30am. Try reaching them after this - its more popular than the prime minister's office. Finally get through and informed pick up of old stuff will happen today. Complain that this should have happened on Sunday. Don't know when they will come today. I ask for Manager's name and contact. It's her day off. I ask for the next incharge. They will call me. Hrrumph.
At PM hours S calls to say product is not in stock, he will get from other centre and come tomorrow. I ask for two filters. Sorry, only one is available. I don't understand how for the entire city of Bangalore only one is available!
I call HomeTown again about the pickup. No update. I write a stinker email to the logistics incharge.
I try the EF chat helpline. I give my name, number and product. I am informed that a technician will visit my home and charge Rs 200 for servicing. I growl - I need a filter. I can install it myself. I just need to know where to buy it. Chat reply - A technician will contact me shortly.
In the evening I pop into the nearby Croma, since they stock EF products. Not surprisingly by this point, they don't store replacement filters. I am provided numbers to follow up - all dead ends. I leave a complaint with the store to pass along to their EF contact.
I receive phonecall from Manager at Hometown. Sorry for delay. A pick up will happen this evening by 9. No one calls or shows up.

Wednesday:

I call S to find out what time he will come. He's non-commital. I press for afternoon before 3:30pm.
I call HomeTown at 11:30am. Impossible to get through any number. At 1pm I am able to reach the Manager. He's surprised to hear that a pick up has not happened. It will happen today, I am promised.
S arrives, bearing the wrong filter. S asks me to call EF helpline. Wait, isn't this how the whole story started? Chagrined and highly peeved I ask for the number of a manager to talk to about this. No show. S calls the call centre himself. I am provided a number of the service centre where filters are available. No address is given. I call - it's continuously engaged. I call the help centre and ask for the same agent who then gives me another number (Why didn't he just give me all available numbers the first time?). I call this number and reach P, who confirms that I will get three filters tomorrow. I describe the filter in length since here too there is no code that they seem to understand. I even give her the barcode number still stuck to the bottom of the filter. We finally agree that technician will come bearing three each of all possible filters. I ask where their office is - it's exactly where S came from. How is it that they have everything in stock? I rat on S.
I call the EF main office and complain that no one seems to know where these filters are available and the customer being God is myth. I am asked to contact helpline. I scoff and say I want to complain to someone who is incharge of the Aquasure product line. She give me the number of the sales chap, whose mobile is switched off for 3 hours. I give up.
Hometown chaps show up. Wrong item is removed from premises.

Thursday:

I call P in the morning to confirm when filters will arrive. She hands phone to technician. I once again try to describe the filter I have. We reach consensus on the colour of the filter.
11:30am: I try HomeTown. Impossible to get through as usual. I write another stinker email threatening consumer court action.
1pm: Husband calls HomeTown. Delivery of the correct cabinet will happen today. Don't know when.
Technician arrives at 1pm. Hurrah, or should I say Eureka, filters are correct. I get three.
HomeTown calls. Driver on the way. Assembly chap calls me to ask if he should pop over. I inform that there is nothing yet to fix - still waiting for shipment to arrive.
5pm shipment arrives. 7pm assembly person arrives. 9pm Ktichen cabinet assembled and placed in living area.

4 days, 2 tasks completed. I operate on prepaid now. Between calling HomeTown, the drivers, assembly person, Aquasure helpline, technicians, offices I have spent Rs 150. I am sure a few of my nerve cells have burned out in the process but these are harder to quantify.

I have three observations:

1. Processes are there. They don't work. helpline, chatline - useless. They have trained parrots to tell you that a technician will arrive and will cost you Rs 200. They are either trained to deliver a single response or not provided the authority to use common sense. No one listens to a question, and information provided is incomplete even if they do. For e.g., delivery will happen today. Er, when? I don't know.
2. There is inadequate information distribution in a company. One helpline person directed me to an office where no parts are sold, and the other gave me the number of a person who actually deals in these parts. The Office I visited gave the number of a salesperson who told me that his Office doesn't stock extra parts of the filter and then a day later, someone from that very office showed up with 3 of at least 10 different kinds.

3. Zero follow through. You may be the customer but it's your responsibility to follow up through with the status. Except on Thursday, there was no communication from HomeTown to monitor the progress of a wrong delivery.

India shining? Better buy some Brasso. Buy 2 actually.

Lemongrass flowers

2012-01-31T17:03:00.000+05:30

One of the first things I started to grow was lemongrass, because a friend had introduced me to the joys of having it in tea. With time, the plant has grown and it's aromatic stalk has been a great addition to soups, salads and tea. This plant was also my first success as a gardener and I was pleased as a punch when I was asked to provide stalks as a starter for other people. One such stalk went to my friend A. Almost a year later, A reported that her plant had flowers. I scoffed and sneered. For good measure I also made unpleasant remarks about her eyesight. Not to be undermined, A sent me a picture of the plant, and later when I visited her home, ensured that I got visual confirmation. Now I was annoyed - why hadn't my plant done this? To further aggravate me emotionally, my colleague in Office, who got his stalk from me, reported that his was starting to flower too. But a few weeks later, my plant started to put out long shoots as well and lo, they turned into flowers. Aren't they beautiful? I have never seen this happen to a lemongrass before and find them delightful. I now have to figure out how to save seeds from this crop. But meanwhile, I am enjoying the lemongrass gone wild.

Baked papdi with Ragi

2012-01-29T10:50:00.005+05:30

I have been slowly getting through the sea of boxes, although much of our guest bedroom continues to be cardboard-land. Since N and I had fully operational kitchens almost every utensil and grocery staple is duplicated so finding space in the kitchen for all our things have been an issue. During the reorganization I stumbled on products which we bought with much enthusiasm since it was healthy. One such product was the Ragi Dosa mix. My typical ragi dosa is merely ragi powder thrown into dosa batter but this was one of those packet contraptions that promises you heaven and delivers NH7. So, here's my attempt at recasting the product into something else.

Composition:

1/2 cup ragi dosa mix*

1/4 cup whole wheat flour^

1/4 cup bleached wheat flour (Maida)

1 tbsp vegetable oil

1 tsp Ajwain seeds

1/4 tsp chilli powder

Salt to taste

Water for mixing the dough.

Dough:

Mix all ingredients into a slightly wet dough. Knead well and set aside for 20mins under hydration.

Papdi:

Roll out dough into a thickness slightly more than a roti. Cut out circles. I used the lid of a jar. Place in a slightly greased tray. Poke holes into the papdi with a fork or else it will fluff up in the oven.

Baking:

Set oven to 175oC.

Place papdi tray in heated oven. After 6 minutes flip the papdi. You can spray some more oil on the papdi, or on your finger and rub gently onto each papdi. I made one lot without oiling at all and it turned out OK.

Bake the flipped papdi for another 6 minutes. The surface of the papdi should be browned by now.

Remove and cool.

Store in air-tight jar.

Result:

The papdi were crisp but because I used the dosa batter mix which had undefined levels of methi, salt and spices so the final taste is a bit off. It's spicy but the hing seems to have developed a life of its own when baked, and is the predominant taste and smell of the papdi. I suspect the 75% non-madia and 25% maida ratio works well and in future will use the whole grain flour of various proportions in this mix.

* This is what was written on the packet I used: 52% Ragi, 26% atta, 7% urad, 5% chana, 5% rice, Methi, salt, spices - I detected hing
^ I added the flour we typically use for making rotis which at the moment has about 1/4th Ragi, 1/4th Bajra and 1/2 whole wheat.

New look

2012-01-25T17:02:00.005+05:30

It isn't often that you have hours to kill on design elements of the blog. So when I took a picture I liked I thought it would be a good idea to rejig my space.

The last picture of the pansy was taken on a trip to Chail (near Shimla) on vacation in March 2010. It was my first vacation alone and pleasantly, I was neither bored nor wanting of company. Instead, I had all the time in the world to absorb nature. What looked like yellow flecks from a distance turned out to the pansies and I was thoroughly amused how impish they looked.

In a similar frame of mind, I was walking home from IISc and looked up to see a beautiful tree against a flawless baby blue sky. I took this picture from my new phone and I was not pleased with the effect of sunlight - but hey, that just might by my poor picture taking skills. When I came home I started to play with the picture, which eventually turned into a marathon session to change the look of my blog. A few codes later, this is the look. I am not entirely satisfied, but I think it's time I unglued my ass from the chair.

Goodbye Hyderabad: Things to do before I leave

2011-12-30T18:22:00.004+05:30

I find myself in the same spot that I was 3+ years ago: voluntarily unemployed. This time however, it isn't quite so dramatic as moving countries and rediscovering myself. The current phase is all in the name of holy (?) matrimony. Both N and I do enjoy being solitary but I felt it was time we discovered the joys of sharing a refrigerator and closet. I am sure my readers out there who have experienced the state of sharing with a non-sibling will understand the process of adjustment I am alluding to.

Hyderabad has been a lovely city to start my professional life in. It is not a city I or my family were familiar with - we had only heard of Banjara Hills in the context of it being a classy address. Therefore my sister was most perplexed that despite not being a B-grade actor or soap opera double I was easily able to find a giant 3 bedroom place to live in here.

My apartment is on one of the several hills in Banjara Hills and thus the view from the Balcony is quite beautiful. At night drops of orange and yellow colour the asphalt and concrete. If you squint your eyes enough it looked like a large canvas of pointillism. In the morning, if it's clear enough you can see the silhouette of Golkonda Fort. Along with the visual treat, I also enjoyed audio soundtrack from the 4 mosques whose loud speakers seem to be directed right at my balcony. Harmony is not a concept their believe in, so each mosques' prayer is just a few minutes out of register. During Ramzan, the alarm clock was a gentleman on a bicycle who beat loudly on the drum attached to his cycle and rode in every lane. I did find it useful once to get up at 3am to catch an international flight.

Hyderabad also revealed to me a cuisine I had never tried much at all - andhra food. My colleagues at Office treated us to goodies from home all the time, the spice always leaving my lips on the fire and my nose fluid. Ah, but the flavours - sheer poetry of tastes and smells.

The person I will miss the most is my housekeeper. A has been very professional person who has developed into my friend and confidant. Without her, I would be ineffective. In fact the month she took off to grieve for her daughter is what drove this message home for me. She has a limited vocabulary in Hindi yet I have managed long conversations with her on almost everything. The virtue I admire most is her discretion. I am aware that household help offer advise and are convenient vectors for a disease called gossip. But A was amazing - never once asking me about my singleness or querying N's presence when we weren't married.

Last but not the least what Hyderabad has given me is a love for fabric. Hurrah for Daram.

So here's my list of things to do before I leave:

Shop at Evolution, Punjgutta
Shop at Shilaramam
Shop at Daram, Begumpet
Eat at Chutneys
Walk along Tank Bund
Eat at Southern Spice
Have a drink on my balcony

Red and Blue

2011-09-09T09:29:00.004+05:30

A woman in a blue sari entered warily and heavily - this was her first time at the Bar. Rukmini sensed the unease from behind the counter and loudly welcomed her.

“Hello Ma'am, If you are alone why don't you sit by the bar?” Rukmini's voice echoed through the filtered light.

Blue looked up, smiled, picked up her pace and adjusted herself on the tall stool by the bar counter. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, with all the trappings of marriage - thali, bangles, gold watch, and matching blouse. Being used to surrounded by family or friends or maids, it was unsettling for her to be alone and that too, at a bar. She tried to loop her titantic handbag on the stool but its weight unsettled the balance of the stool, so she let it hit the floor like a brick. The handbag was more of an accessory for utility rather than style. Although her children were older she had not yet stopped stuffing it with things they might suddenly need.

She looked nervous, so Rukmini leaned forward and sincerely said, “How can I help you? If this is your first time, let me assure you as the proprietor that your privacy is respected here. You can have a drink or a lime soda. Just make yourself comfortable and relax.” and then softly she added, “This bar is a place that allows you to be alone yet surrounded by people.”

Blue looked her in the eye and whispered “Thanks ma. Can I have a whisky on the rocks?”

Rukmini had learned early in the business not to judge people by what they wear and what they drink. It rarely followed a pattern and in any case, clients found it patronizing when she tried to guess their favourites. Now she either let the menu card or the client decide. Without a trace of judgement she asked, “Would you like domestic or foreign? If you like single malts I recently got 16 year aged whisky?”

Blue was certain. “Single malt sounds very good. I want lots of ice”.

Rukmini fixed her the drink, and asked Thangai to bring over some bit size potato samosas. Blue took a long sip, sat back and closed her eyes. Rukmini felt some sadness radiating from her. A story would unfold; she must wait.

Across, in the horizon of the bar there now appeared a new client. From afar she looked like a college student and for a moment Rukmini wondered if Swami had checked her age before letting her in. But as she walked closer, she observed the slim hands give way to folds under her arms and birds feet at her eyes. She wore a red sleeveless dress, red heels and looked stunning. Rukmini did not recognize her as a regular.

“Hi”, gushed Red, “I have heard so much about this place and wanted to try it out.” She smiled from ear to ear and planted herself firmly on the bar stool. Not wanting personal prejudice to overtake her business interests Rukmini let the two ends of her mouth twitch upwards about a fraction of a centimetre, let her eyes twinkle a bit, and jauntily said, “Welcome then. How would you like to start the evening?” Red asked for a cosmopolitan. No surprises there.

Red watched Rukmini closely as she made the drink and gave her an appreciative nod when she took her first sip. Rukmini was wary.

She slipped closer to Blue and asked her if she wanted another drink. Blue nodded and Rukmini this time served out two portions. The second she took and sat down by Blue.

They didn't say anything for while, till Blue asked, “Is this place only for women because you hate men?” Rukmini got asked this often and she searched in her head for the stock answer for the married types. “No, my husband cheated on me and I felt very lonely during that time. I didn't want to drink at home in front of the children and I didn't have any other respectable place to drink in private. So when my husband died I opened this place so that I could provide a space for broken-hearted women.” Yes, Rukmini lied when she wanted to hear a story.

Blue took the bait. She looked around her, assured that no one was within earshot and began. She was 47. Despite objections, she married for love. They had been married for 25 years now and had two teenage children. For the past year things had become unsettled. Her husband took more business trips alone, stopped making love to her and she noticed that he purchased jewellery that was gifted to no one in the family. She confronted him; he accepted it. She asked him to end it; he said that he couldn't stop. She asked for a divorce; he said he would fight to get custody of the children and she being unemployed, he stood a better chance of winning. She asked him what she should do; he asked to be left alone. Rukmini had heard this story many times, she squeezed Blue's hand and asked her if she wanted a third drink. Blue agreed.

While Blue was talking, Rukmini was watching Red from the corner of her eye. She was on the phone, having a soft but aggressive discussion with someone. When Rukmini got up to prepare Blue's drink, Red summoned her. She acknowledged the summon, took her time to prepare two drinks and served Blue. She waited till Red finished her conversation before walking over.

“That was the best Cosmo I had”, beamed Red, a hint of ruby now visible across her fair cheeks. “Can I have another?” Rukmini obliged and while she was serving the drink, Red asked her, “The décor is beautiful here. Did you design it yourself?” Rukmini decided that it was time to indulge. “No” she said flatly, “my boyfriend is an architect and he gave structure to my emotions.”

“I wish my boyfriend was this creative. He only knows all the standard things - dinner dates, movies, vacations and buying me expensive things. He's good in bed though but still when will men understand that we need more than all that? Who will feed the soul?” Red winked and looked to Rukmini for a response.

Rukmini stifled a grimace and asked sweetly, “What does your boyfriend do?”

This was the opening Red was waiting for. Raj, as the boyfriend was alluded to, was the CEO of a software company. He had started it from scratch, right after completing his engineering. It was now one of the top 5 tech companies in the country. They met at a mutual friend's house. He was a shy man so it was she who first approached him. They chatted desultorily for a while, till she suggested that the party was the drag and if wanted to go somewhere private. That time, the only she could get him to agree to was a walk on the beach. That was a year ago, and today they are inseparable. Well, as inseparable as other responsibilities in life would allow. She has rolled her eyes upwards at this point. They vacationed often together and had just returned from Bali. She was trying to convince him that the relationship had potential for the long term. He has disengaged from this discussion and here she was.

Rukmini decided to be mean. “Yes, it is hard to be on the same page sometimes, isn't it. My boyfriend and I went through a similar process, but we are getting married now. We are planning to honeymoon in Bali. Is it nice this time of the year?”

Red pouted for a short second and then exclaimed loudly, “Congratulations! When are you getting married? How long have you been seeing each other?” She bluntly left aside answering about Bali.

“For 3 years. We were both undecided about marriage as an institution but after a while it just made sense. He proposed six months ago and we are getting married next month.”

Red slumped on the bar counter, her face in her hands, “You are so lucky. My boyfriend loves me a lot but he just doesn't mutter the m word.” Rukmini nodded sagely before indicating that she had other customers to go back too.

At the other end Blue was sitting up straight despite the three drinks. When Rukmini had brought the fourth she asked Blue how she was getting home. A driver with car waited outside for her. Then without preface, she became blunt with Blue, “So what's the plan?”. Blue looked hopeless and tired before saying, “I want to meet the woman. Maybe she and I could come to an understanding? After all he is using her as much as me. Why should he have everything? I think that if I talk to this woman face to face, heart to heart, we will be able to sort this out.” Rukmini did not offer advice unless explicitly asked of her; keeping with this policy she only acknowledged the plan.

Blue drained her drink. She asked for the total. She didn't have cash so would a card do? “Yes”, said Rukmini, “A card would do”. She took the card from Blue and walked to the till. Red too wanted to settle her bill. She had cash. So Rukmini settled with Red first and then went to swipe Blue's card.

In the brighter light of the till she saw the name on the card: Bharathi Nataraj. It was a company card and imprinted below was the company name: Raj Technologies Pvt Ltd.

After Blue signed the bill, Rukmini watched as she gathered her belongings and walked toward the exit. Red followed her. For a brief moment their eyes met, they checked each other out, smiled perfunctorily and exited together.

As Rukmini shuttered down for the night, she thought about Red and Blue, and what could have been. All in a night's work at a bar called Shantam Pappum.

A bar called Shantam Pappum - Short Story

2011-09-04T10:42:00.010+05:30

Rukmini saw the red brake lights in the distance and scowled. Nothing seemed to be moving on the road ahead. She came to a grudging halt, placed her hands impatiently on the steering wheel, observed her nails and then cursed. If traffic was held up this far away from the intersection it only meant that an accident had happened, and a drama with all involved must have ensued. She only hoped that the accident did not involve the summons of an ambulance or a tow truck because then, she might as well hop over to the beauty parlour on the side and get her nails done. The vermin like two wheelers were still moving; trying to occupy every available lacunae between cars. It incensed her ever more. She was going to be late and she didn't like it. The bar would have to open later than usual.

Luckily her ire was short-lived. Shortly after she had exhaustively tested every available frequency on the FM radio for decent music or news, hand brakes were released, ignitions turned on and traffic started to snake ahead. Indeed, it was an accident that held up things. A tomato truck had over turned and created quite the scene; “One bloody Mary” would probably have been Murugan's quip at this point.

Ah, Murugan. Rukmini was not a wistful woman so she didn't prolong the sigh of thought that threatened to slip into a vortex of nostalgia. Murugan was her husband, now dead.

At 20, mid-year through college, Rukmini decided that she didn't want to follow the preordained path that defined women in her family - marriage, children and death. How this came about remains a mystery to her and everyone around her. In her orthodox Brahmin home she quietly but steadily rebelled, with the winning play of marrying Murugan: college union leader, 2nd Class BA graduate and out of caste. Doom. That's what her family foretold. Rukmini on the other hand saw opportunity and at that time, love. Murugan and she set up a small home separately, ostracised by both families, but content in their own company. Three years of marriage flowed past, but before Rukmini could identify the monotony, Murugan was run over by a truck.

Her family rallied around on their own terms: not abandoning their “I told you” stand yet insistent that she should now come back to the fold. Surely a older brahmin man, perhaps divorced but with children could use her? Murugan had left Rukmini some money and more importantly, confidence and self-esteem. She decided that she would celebrate Murugan's memory by setting up a bar since he liked drinks and he liked people. And that is how, the bar was born. The name too was important to her. While with her family, many people stopped in to pay condolences but actually to pass judgment and pity. The older ladies would tut-tut when her mother recanted the story of Murugan, the elopement and subsequent death. When informed that Rukmini intended to start a bar, they would touch both sides of their cheek and exclaim, “Shantam pappum”.

Rukmini started her business with gusto. She bought a small place, decorated it modestly, invested in music and to create a niche, decided that her bar would be for women exclusively and serve vegetarian food only. At first it was slow and hard to break even. But as word spread about her service, the privacy afforded and the piping hot vadas, clients became regular and she started to do well. The bar kept her happy, occupied and focused. Not in the least because she always had stories to tell and stories to listen to.

As predicted, Rukmini was late opening the bar that evening. Couple of clients and her staff were already at the door. They greeted her with warm smiles as she unlocked the premises and turned on the warm lights. Music started to filter through, a string quartet she enjoyed and Thangan had begun to heat up the oil for the vadas. It was Thursday so she didn't expect a crowd. She settled herself behind the bar and watched life unfold around her.

NB: N and I were driving to a restaurant in Hyd and lamenting that our destination probably would not serve alcohol since it was "Pure Veg". Why is that this combination is so prevalent? Are drinking and being vegetarian of equivalent "moral" value in our society? If one were to look at it biochemically alcoholic drinks for the most part are pure veg. Think of the ingredients of beer: Hops (flowers), malt (fermented barley), yeast and more barley. Yet killing another being and drinking an alcoholic beverage in the restaurant business is equivalent sin! Go figure.

Organic vegetables from my balcony gardening

2011-08-27T13:52:00.011+05:30

When I had first written about composting, a reader asked what I intended to do with the compost once I had made it. Luckily composting takes months so I had enough time to think about this. After about 8 months the bottom pot of my khamba was full and I had a plan.

I purchased a trough (2 ft wide X 3/4 ft deep), added some mud (notice how red uncultivated mud is) and mixed in my compost. I made three troughs this way and planted scallions, radishes, broccoli, beetroot and zucchini. Thus far, no sign of the scallions or zucchini.

Interestingly though I soon had plants that I did not plant! My compost was all the kitchen waste I generated and therefore, was rich in seeds. Apparently, some survived the dessication in the compost. Soon after preparing the pots, pumpkin saplings sprouted in all the troughs. In one, I allowed two to mature while in the rest I proceeded to commit mass murder. However, after the squash invasion was (s)quashed, I noticed a whole bunch of plants with non-squash like leaves. I let them be out of curiosity. In 6 weeks though these champs have grown strong and tall. I have identified one of them as a tomato plant (the fruit was a give away) and another, as a pepper plant. I think the pepper plant is green capsicum; no fruit yet, only flowers.

So in effect I have managed to grow organic vegetables on my balcony and what a joy it is to see them each morning.

BSc - a degree but no learning

2011-08-21T19:18:00.003+05:30

I am reading a book called "Timepass: Youth, class and the politics of waiting in India" by Craig Jeffrey. This book offers an academic view of how youth (mostly male) in Meerut College and Chaudhary Charan Singh University, Meerut indulge in "timepass" and its socio-political ramifications. I am yet to finish the book, yet half way through I am already provoked.

My feelings right now are of sadness. The research elaborated in the book takes place in 2004/2005. A section of the students indulging in timepass are in their late twenties to early thirties, accumulating degrees because they have not been able to secure government jobs or any other salaried job. The book does not record what percentage of the youth in the college belong to this category of the chronically unemployable, but this struck a chord. I have interviewed many people for assistant positions at my organization. Many come armed with an MBA and are applying for the receptionist's position.

Imagine doing a postgraduate degree just to become an office assistant?

It's a cruel joke that our education system is playing on the students. It is acknowledged and accepted by parents of poor economic and social means that education is the ticket to upward mobility. So they toil and sweat to send the child to an English-medium school where with each passing year in addition to regular fees they have to cough up for some fund or another. Then to be able to get a seat, despite our quota system, many will go for tutions and yet, ultimately may only end up doing a BA or BCom or BSc. Of this, having completed a BSc, I can confidently say that in the BSc I got a rubbish education. We memorised heavily for an annual exam and there was no thinking or logic needed for any of the subjects. The course material was archaic and the exam was a test of your ability to reproduce from memory. The only thing I did enjoy was poking around in the laboratory and thinking of the cool experiments we could do with the resources we had. And also Sanskrit - but that's another story.

My point is, we don't have a system where acquisition of a degree ensures employment unless you are at a top school. Even an engineering degree from a B grade place appears to be insufficient (at the last bank adventure N and I undertook, our FD processing agent was a BE in computer science!). This is just wrong. Heck, I am sure that many of the ATM watchmen I worry about are lettered folk who just were not able to find jobs. I have even chatted up autodrivers with postgraduate degrees! And then you see a headline on what the topper in IIM is going to get as her starting salary.

I am all for free market but about about a free and fair market? How can our education delivery spectrum be this wide and importantly, be so redundant?

All countries struggle to determine the best approach to education and we too are learning. But I worry the pace is not good enough, so this demographic dividend which we are all supposed to be thrilled about is going to turn out to be a demographic division; unless, manual labour becomes a major economic force or may be, just may be, we are able to scale up quality of education in this country.

Pace vs knee pain: my running paradox

2011-08-08T21:36:00.006+05:30

N and I have signed up to run a half marathon (Kaveri Trail) and I have been training for it from early July. Since I was trying to lose weight by running, it made sense to have a goal for the work out. (Note: interested readers may wish to be informed that I have lost NO weight whatsoever since I started running. Go figure.)

I enjoy running, well...at my pace one may call it jogging or trotting. My pace has never been great but sometimes, when my heart is beating steadily and my shoes beat rhythmically against the asphalt, I reach a place of immense tranquility - this is when I think I am in the zone. I feel like I don't ever need to stop running. Luckily (?), the shrill piercing sound from a horn of an irate driver is all it takes to break the spell.

The problem with running though is knee pain. It normally manifests during my longer runs but in this training cycle I was rather amazed that even the weekday runs were turning sour. A kilometer into the run and my knee began to announce it's unhappiness, escalating quickly to a screaming inflammation in the next 10 mins or so. This is not fun. It prevents me from getting in the zone; heck, it prevents me from simply signing off from life and living in my head for a while. I can't think: that's the level of pain I experienced. I tried ice packs, strengthening exercises and the whole drill that worked previously, but to no avail. Then, at my last run, not wishing to prolong the agony (my goal is always distance not time) I decided to quicken my pace. And lo! no pain. I went from doing 8 - 8.5 Km/hr to 8.2 to 9 Km/hr. It's not a major change in pace at all, but the relief from knee pain is immense. I never thought that increasing my pace would reduce the pain. I have only tested this hypothesis on the treadmill and will explore it more when I run in the park on Saturday.

It's counter-intuitive but I am fairly certain that increasing my pace has improved my running form to the extent that I am knee-pain free for a large part of the run. Tomorrow morning will tell if there is any stiffness but already while doing bends I don't sense any residual throbs of pain in the knee. Hurrah! I do wish all solutions in life came so easily.

ATM Watchman

2011-07-21T20:30:00.004+05:30

There is a profusion of watchmen in our lives. Like potted money plants, they are present everywhere, nestled to one side of any space and seeking little attention. Well, unless he has a whistle and is a parking lot watchman; then he makes a racket.

But I am writing this as an observation and concern. My building watchman works crazy 12 hour shifts; sometimes 24 when the person to replace him doesn't arrive. However, I see my building watchman busy, pottering about in the parking lot, sometimes directing people, sacredly protecting the residents of my building from pesky door salesman and keeping tabs on the newspaperman, the milkman, the maids, the dogs, the cats... But what of the other watchman?

I am particularly struck by the ATM watchmen. Some lounge indoors, in the full arctic blast of the AC but I rarely see them reading anything. They are simply sprawled on a wicker chair doing pretty much nothing. It's not like you can get any advice from them on your bank or your account. He (for it is always a he) stares numbly as you enter, and like a tennis match, his gaze follows you out. In my fertile imagination, I think of this person as a someone who can work with their hands and mind; perhaps repair watches? grow tomatoes? I am quite curious: does this person really want to be a watchman? The ATM watchman also bothers me because whom do they talk to? Sure they have chumps like me go in and out, but imagine having no office colleagues? Also, what is the job description of this person: I don't see this person being able to stop a bunch of hoodlums from doing as they please. He's been sitting on his bum all day long and really, how active do you think that sort of lifestyle is?

Growing up, a watchman meant that something important was happening and he was hired to shoo away the crowds. But in cities today there is an entire platoon of people in gray or blue outfits who are ubiquitous and we do take them for granted. They need jobs, they migrate from villages deep in Bihar or UP or the northeast; I see how economic necessity is driving this market? But shouldn't we stop to think about what we are building - a nation unable to even withdraw cash from an ATM without human presence?

Ajwain Patta Parantha

2011-07-16T12:04:00.004+05:30

The other day I googled "Ajwain patta parantha roti" and drew a blank. My colleague brings many dishes peppered with Ajwain ka patta and I had naturally assumed that Guru Internet would list a range of options. Sadly, besides the pakoda recipe there was little to be had, even on the normally fertile food blogs. So, inspired, I have jotted down my usage.

I have to give credit here to my colleague and foodie friend N, whose mom plies us with delicious rotis stuffed with these leaves. The crux of this recipe comes from his instructions. N gave me a plant cutting a few months ago and it has been relatively easy to grow; despite my homicidal tendencies, this plant has thrived in the garden. Newbie "edible garden" enthusiasts can easily use this to boost their gardening morale.

Main actors in the plot:

6 large Ajwain leaves pureed (minimum water) with
1 green chilli
3/4 cup whole wheat flour (atta)
3/4 cup fox millet flour (bajra flour)
1/2 tsp grated ginger
Salt to taste

Drama outline:

The trick is to not use water for making the dough, but instead to use the wetness from the ajwain puree. I essentially threw everything into a mixing bowl and checked for consistency as I would normally do for making roti dough. Because of the bajra flour the dough remains a bit wetter and stickier than just plain atta dough. The point to stop adding water is when everything comes together. Then you knead it with knuckles and thumping fists. Generally, this works for me.

Rest the dough for a while. I leave it in the mixing bowl with a wet cloth on top to maintain humidity of the chamber.

I made the paranthas after leaving the gluten to break down for about 20 mins. Drink a glass of wine in the meantime.

For the parantha, I normally use as little oil as possible. I cooked the parantha on one side, till little dark spots appeared, flipped it over and for the grease, put a bit of oil from the back of a spoon on the cooked part. Then I flipped it over again, greased the new side and generally, flip it back and forth till I am happy with the colour. I have noticed however that once the roti rests for a while it changes colour. When I first started cooking I kept looking for the perfect brown and ended up with the perfect black. Now I know to look for a slightly under-done colour.

Drama outcome:
Ajwain ke patte ka parantha

WHY didn't I join the gym sooner?

2011-07-14T21:37:00.003+05:30

Many (OK, the few that land here by mistake) might have assumed that I had not written a follow up to my new life at the gym because I may have dropped out. Wrong. I was merely being lazy about updates.

It's odd how for months I thought I didn't have time to go to the gym and yet, now I go religiously 3 times a week; even to the extent of planning my running days and times according to my schedule. A full work out (I have added some toning exercises to my 4K routine) takes me about an hour. Add to the fact that I travel to the gym in peak hour traffic, it's another 30 mins to schedule. So I have mysteriously found an extra 1.5 hours in my day?

My gym is also a great place for people watching. The windows overlook a car park that appears to cater to teenage brats driving their parent's Skodas. Double parking is the norm and countless time cars are pulled out, re-adjusted, pulled back in - it's quite interesting to watch because at least in the limited time I have watched this, there is no apparent rule.

Then there are my gym buddies. Technically, I don't even know their names, but I see them regularly and I have even managed to exchange smiles with one of them. I am absolutely inspired and impressed with my buddies. They come in all shapes and sizes, yet they are determined to work out. It's funny when some of them get on the treadmill with a newspaper or magazine, intending to catch up on their reading only to realise that reading and walking are not entirely compatible. Or I will see a whole row of damsels by the stationery bikes, with their legs mechanically moving as their minds carefully absorb the crystals on a dress worn by someone in a glamour magazine. My favourite though is the BB crowd. It's interesting how a mobile phone is like an an essential organ now. Some only keep it for emergencies while the some text non-stop. I have overheard flirting, cooking tips and bitchy gossip, and it's fun trying to imagine these people from the conversations. Who needs a TV with this kind of entertainment? It's all too jolly.

I broke one of my rules BTW. I weighed myself. About two weeks ago I was 55.4 and yesterday it had moved down to 53.9. No measuring tape yet so I don't know what the hip/ waist situation is like. I do feel lighter, and the crossword is getting is better.

It's going somewhere - hurrah!

2011-06-30T07:42:00.002+05:30

The calorie-burning program has been initiated. They say it typically takes 2 - 3 weeks to know if you are going to stick to a program; but I am on outlier. Well, I am also an optimist. I didn't realize what a disciplined chimp I was till the day of the my first Marathon in DC. The entire gang that trained with AfE New York was bundled in with million other runners in the train to the starting point and a discussion began about how often one missed training runs. Our training was over a 6 month period and as the rest spoke, I realized that I did not miss a single run. I certainly delayed some runs, especially the Sunday 3 miler; but got it out of the way. To give credit to my running mates, their miss-rate was not high either: they could count the missing runs on their fingertips. My point: I have a bit of history sticking to routine.

The gym is quite nice. Filled with babes, mostly determined to lose weight. The weight loss chicks have cards with their details filled out and a measure of accomplishments. I wonder if the gym will publish statistics of how successfully they can motivate people? Anyhow, as I left last night, I noticed they had a message board out in the front in which someone in neat handwriting had proclaimed that pistachios, among other benefits, helps to keep integrity of the membrane. Got me thinking... the things I know that destroy integrity of membranes are detergents: octyl glucoside, SDS or pore-forming toxins. I am not familiar with any agent that helps the integrity - maybe in constituent parts - surely, cholesterol is most important. Academic rigour might not be a strong suit of the gym.

I have a trainer BTW. S is interesting; she flits from "Madam" to "Madam". My efforts to get her to just say my first name are in vain. She still has not understood my motivation and therefore, we are working on getting a routine. The happy news is - running is back on track.

I would inform on the change in stats of body parts; only, I don't have a measuring tape. So once that is procured, I can get a little more quantitative with my progress. Empirically though, it's working: I can solve an average of 1 clue on The Hindu's cryptic on non-exercise days and it jumps to 4 on exercise-days. Happy Days!

The next run

2011-06-25T21:22:00.003+05:30

It was better than the first in that - I could do more running than walking and I therefore, took lesser time. But, it was still unpleasant. I have now convinced my soft चन्दन-सा बदन that it is the heat. Admittedly, it was cooler on this run because I left Office later (6pm vs 5pm), however, my ears got really hot like last time and I found myself panting more because I was thirsty than out of breath.

So, in order not to let this become a losing battle I did something I never thought I would do - signed up at a gym. They call it Pink, some sort of chain, and a sassy young thing walked me through the gym this morning recommending with a beaming smile that I don't need a weight loss package; just a general fitness package would do. If only she knew of my paunch anxieties. I was planning to go back in the afternoon, but I was too happy with my efforts on securing a gas connection with HP gas (this story only when there is a ending) to drive back to the gym.

Now the cryptic crossword awaits.

Progress?

2011-06-22T20:28:00.002+05:30

Well, Day 2 can hardly qualify as progress.

As I was popping a mysore pak in my mouth yesterday, I was re-contemplating the whole fat situation. Like, is my fat transient or permanent? As the ghee from the mysore pak melted, I wondered if the fat that I am going to lose (crossing fingers here) is actually going to go away? or is it going to get converted into something else? or is simply going to get smaller.

I got analytical about this. From what I know, fat is stored mainly in adipose tissue and these are distributed according to sex. Women store them in the buttocks (check), thighs (check) and hips (check). At this point I wanted to learn more so I went wiki. Now this fascinating page gives you lots of information on fat and from it I have concluded that belly fat is visceral fat and it might be an indicator of cardiovascular disease. I have always believed that I will die of a heart attack - my body it seems, is working to put this together.

The mysore pak was too sweet suddenly. Anyway, I didn't dwell on this information too long because later in the afternoon, to make up for all the stress of learning about fat, I ate a puff. Now, before you shake your head and tut-tut me reader, I also went for a run yesterday.

KBR park is a hop, skip away from Office so at 5pm I donned the garb and went for a run. I ended up walking for much of the time though, because my body and I differed significantly in spirit. The weird part is: the whole time I was out, all I could think of was the physical exersion. Have to get into the zone; that's what will enable me to forget about the pain and panting. The whole circuit was about 3.5 miles.

Tomorrow is a re-run.

Growing up and out

2011-06-20T21:45:00.005+05:30

About two weeks apart, two different women have asked If I was pregnant. Well, not as bluntly as that. They did try to be cautious - "Is it good news?" and "So, are you planning a baby?" Now, as it happens. No. I am not pregnant. But what I do have is an unflattering paunch.

I was having myself measured at the Tailors' today, watching him scribbling in tiny letters my dimensions so as to remind himself of the pattern and the bulges. And at this point I was forced to confront the situation that I has been weighing on me for a while.

Some uncomfortable truths:

My waistline which was a petite 26 has climbed to 29.
My hips have grown from their heydays of being 35 to 37.5.
My weight has gone up from 50 to 55kgs

The pounds have not rushed in but merely sauntered, found places with a view and settled comfortably in my tissue. I used to think the fats were renting; turns out they purchased the entire condo and the parking lot. Most women struggle with weight. My battles are limited: From ages 0 to 15 I was chubby; then something happened (romantics would call it a blossoming; realists would call it hormones) and I lost the flab. The paunch though, remained. It was just less visible. That status quo remained till I was 29 when I started my job in India.

What changed? Well, I went from sitting only for lunch and tea to sitting forever. The current job has all the trappings of a luxury life - two computer screens, a housekeeper who makes coffee better than the italians and an office where meals are an all-you-can-eat buffet, everyday. I tried to interject some exercise, but the lazy genes got activated and before I could say "freeze" I had ballooned.

Do I want to change? Well, having grown up being a chubby tubby for some junior years, the fatness per se doesn't bother; what annoys is the places in which it is sequestered. The real estate map of my body is all wrong. Why dont' fat like ankles? Consequently, I bulge in awkward places. N was very sweet about this body image issue - he says I should just wear loose clothes so no one can tell how many tyre manufacturers I have hidden away on my abdomen. I still haven't answered the question, right? Well, yes I do. Not in the size-zero way though. Because, most importantly, I can't diet. Just thinking about dieting makes me hungry. I get cranky and like a young child with cooties when I am hungry. This foray would not work for me professionally. Imagine starving and PMS-ing together? Cataclysmic. Not so much for me, but for all those brave people who work with me.

Right, so something has to give. Exercise. N got us a stationery bike which I used to ride for a bit after new years (make the connection?) but I got bored of sitting again. Walking and running are alternatives but the heat did it in for me. Now though, the monsoons are in, so I suppose that's not an excuse. Well, I want to lose some flab. But I am determined not to do two things:

a) weigh myself
b) diet

(a) is a potential issue because it would not be so easy to tell if the weight loss program is working. But I think what I am going to do instead is measure the waist line and hip. (b) is a no-brainer. For world peace, I have to make this sacrifice. So in the coming weeks, I am going to use you, dear blog, to map out my progress. To the exercise bike, and beyond.

tereBin - taking responsibility for our litter!

2011-06-19T14:37:00.009+05:30

I got the nicest email from theuglyindian a few days ago. Own a dustbin on MG Road- Brigade Road and thereabouts. The rates were - 1000 (for purchase and maintenance for 100 days); 1500 (for purchase and maintenance for 1 year). The bins are a sight - painted in white, green and blue, designed by a creative soul. I wish I had a picture of the bin to post; but anyhow, if you wanted to watch the bins in action catch them on youtube.

This is a group that relies on action, not speak and I am so glad that we such initiatives. It's one reason why I am considering joining facebook!

Garden Politics

2011-02-05T12:46:00.006+05:30

Lately there has been much war and strife in my life; and I have created it.

At my last visit to the foreign shores I picked up a packet of seeds for Salad leaves. I was looking for Arugula (Rocket) to grow but didn't find it so I settled for a packet that cheerfully announced itself as "Speedy Salad Mix - Harvest in 25 days". At the back it also talked about how you can impress your dinner guests with this home grown collection of greens. I don't have dinner guests but I figured that maybe the salad was a good way to enlist some and perhaps, impress them?

My gardening skills are, ahem, pathetic. But my brown thumb doesn't stop me from trying to grow just about anything - after all, what will happen? They will wilt and die or not sprout. Having gone through the emotional trauma of losing seedlings, large plants, small plants, once-upon-a-time healthy plants I have become immune to the failure of no-growth. So it was with this faith and optimism that I prepared my garden tub for the speedy salad mix.

The packet advised that one must plant them 6 inches apart and increase the distance once things have sprouted. Well, that doesn't apply in my case because, hey, the survival rate of any plant in my concentration camp is close to 10%. Besides the seeds are so small that planting them singly 6 inches apart calls for neuro-surgical skill levels of teasing and implanting. I simply gathered a third of the seeds in the packet (allowing myself to fail 3 times) and scattered them in half my garden tub.

In parallel I also decided to grow Zucchini. Having seen squash blossom out of my compost even, I was more confident that these seeds would not disappoint thanks to their inherent hardiness. So I plopped two zucchini seeds down in the north sector of the tub.

Lo and behold, there was action on the soil front in almost a week. Little leaves had emerged and I continued to water them, smiling each morning, wondering how long they would really last. Well, the joke was on me. Because 3 weeks later, I had war on an unimaginable scale.

Previous inhabitants of this tub were some mint, lemongrass and a chilly plant. The mint was growing like a weed, a statement that must be eliciting a vigorous nod from my gardening enthusiast readers. So, I tore it up and transplanted to a more contained pot. Of course, a stray root had escaped my barbarism and sprouted mint. The Chilly plant too had received a razor cutting at the time the seeds were planted - to stimulate it to put out more chillies. The Chilly plant was one of my first attempts at growing stuff. I had carried it from home, that distant land, on train and given it the No 1, Garden Street address. In it's 1.5 years with me, for the the first 9 months it put out leaves and flowers - no chilly. Exasperated, I shared my idea with N with de-planting it to make room for something that actually gives a product. But N accused me of discrimination on basis of fertility and defended the right of the plant to live, just because. So the plant stayed and two months later produced its' first chilly, much to N's delight. Since then, it has retained it's princely address on Garden Street. The lemon grass was shifted from its luxury compound to No 4, Pot Enclave where it now shares it's balcony with purple basil and can see italian basils' bedroom from it's kitchen.

What started as a ocean of space and calm though has now become an urban jungle of the Salad Kingdom. I still don't have dinner guests to impress and can only get through so much salad in a week. Even the mint, which is quite good about surviving any invasion has buckled. The Zucchini is inching it's way out by growing out of Garden Street and into Pot enclave. The chilly has held it's ground by sprouting leaves but boycotted the status quo by not making chillies anymore.

That's urban planning for you. Reminds me a bit of Bangalore actually - what it was and what it has become. I will leave you all now to impress myself with a cheese sandwich stuffed with fresh greens.

The "ruling" democracy

2011-01-02T22:02:00.003+05:30

Watching TV is not my favorite pastime, but it does substitute for dinner table conversation at our home sometimes. Recently though, thanks to the scams and countless exciting things that our dear countrymen & women are up to, we have been tuning in to the 9pm news regularly. Sitting agape, as usual, during one such evening we were treated to Chidambaram's masterful oration at the 83rd Congress baithak. He said something like the BJP won't rule the country for the next decade ( one report here). I sat up.

Rule? Wait a minute, aren't we in a democracy? I thought we elected you to govern the country.

Now Mr Chidambaram is one of our most well educated politicians, who I would have thought, would pick his words carefully. What, unfortunately, they do reveal, is the real mind set of our politicians. No one wants to govern and serve the nation. They want to rule us and we, like twits, don't mind that.

This ties into another unpleasant experience that N and I had around that time. Most restaurants in Hyderabad offer valet services. Which means that when you drive up to the entrance, a gentleman in a white suit will offer to park your car in a public parking area, not as you might assume, the parking garage of the restaurant. If you wanted to park yourself... well that option doesn't exist. To avoid the valet service we parked in the side street ourselves, next to yet-another-palatial home at Jubilee Hills. Two champs immediately asked for our car to be moved. The argument - its' the MLA's house, you can't park there. Hmm... we retorted, it's public space, we aren't parked in front of the gate, so that's a pretty unreasonable expectation. What happened next was an explosion of noises, with the MLA's goons threatening to beat up N and me trying to get a chump from inside the house to intercede. We tried to make the argument that actually the road belongs to us, the tax payers and the MLA had no right to the particular stretch in front of his house. The MLA BTW is a chap called Chandrashekar Reddy. Not sure what party he is in; he lives by Road no 36, Jubilee Hills, if that's of any help.

It was an unsettling experience to say the least - basically even a road can belong to someone in power, when in theory, it's we the citizen that these politicians are supposedly working for.

I do feel discouraged by our leadership. If you are in power, you just run with it. Electability has more to do with whom you know and your bank balance, rather than intelligence and humility.

Well, if you can't beat'em, join'em. So this year I am contemplating joining a political party. Stay tuned. And meanwhile, if you have any good ideas for a scam, do let me know. I would like to strengthen my national credentials - you just aren't an Indian till you have been in a scam and fleeced the country.

Happy New Year.

Garbage Evangelism

2010-11-04T11:32:00.008+05:30

In our cities, an overflowing garbage bin by the roadside is a common sight. Not only is the bin filled to the brim, but because of the stink, many do not even bother to empty their waste into the bin but rather around it. This leads to the perfect eyesore. The bins are also magnets for many young adults in the recycling business. Many a times, perched on top or by the side of the bin, is a young man in tatters, rummaging through the garbage, quietly sorting out what would get him money and what won't.

Does it have to be this way? No!

There is certainly money in Garbage. Otherwise, no young man would be going through it without as much as a glove or face mask. Ergo, I have been contemplating a business with my title being Garbage Evangelist. To me what is distasteful is someone having to dig through muck to find their gold. What if we can convince householders to sort the waste themselves? And then have the recyclers pick them up from home? The biggest problem here is convincing people to sort their waste. It requires commitment and space. There in lies the biggest caveat of my business idea. There are so many apartment complexes that I see springing up (even my own for that matter) where if people were to sort their waste, not only would it benefit the environment, but that perfect eyesore may actually get less stinky. It amazes me that no one in this building is bothered that right at the entrance of our complex are two bins exactly as I have been describing above. This is also Banjara Hills, the 90210 of Hyderabad, yet no one considers the garbage bins worth their attention. Apathy I suppose, is a different rant altogether.

My vegetable vendor commented the other day that in the 15 years he has existed in his corner I am the only regular customer to bring a bag! I was quite happy to note that at the Ryathu Bazaar, you have to bring your own bag or buy one (plastic!!) before you enter the market. This was a tangential self complimentary passage.

I am interested in knowing how it would be possible to organize the "recyclers", engage the locality with them and set up a chain of "door to recycling" system. It means integrating newspaper and bottle collection walas, the people who pick through garbage, the household/ industry that generates waste and the people who run the recycling plants. Maybe such a system already exists and those of us who recycle can plug into it? I have been discussing this idea with many people and they all agree that the biggest problem is convincing people to sort their waste. One person suggested providing an incentive to sort - coupons to the local beauty parlour! This was spawned because we assumed that it's women who would do the sorting and making it lucrative for them might be a way to go.

What I am certain of, is that this cannot be an NGO idea. We can't expect people to act from the goodness of their heart; empowerment to the recyclers too can only come through capitalism. I don't have an MBA but what I know of business is that there is going to be profit and loss. I understand that selling the sorted stuff makes money but would that be enough to cover the cost of labour and incentives? Also, I would like this model to provide a mechanism for the recyclers to benefit from the amount of work their put in - more households they convince to sort, the more "clean" garbage they collect, the more their dividends should be.

One thing that really bothers me about my current recycling program is that all I know is that my maid gets money for all the things I set aside. But what happens to them once they are sold? Does it really make it to a recycling plant? It yes, what does each item recycle into?

My thoughts on this post are the like thoughts in my head about this matter: scattered. But I am certain that there is merit in the idea. Anyone know more about what I am talking about?

On a similar issue, a friend pointed it out to a blog to me, a group that actually acts on its rants: http://www.theuglyindian.com/

Tetris Traffic

2010-08-29T10:26:00.005+05:30

There are people in this world, who when you meet, envelope you with their light of compassion, gentleness and calmness. I am not one of those people on a good day and even less so, when behind the wheel in India. Something about driving here brings out the Shaitaan in me.

N got us a car so that we could run our errands and have a life outside of the auto circuit. My world view now can technically expand beyond Road no 12. Yet, each time I take Nandi, our car, out on the streets everything that is wrong in our attitude as Indians hits me in the face.

The traffic light is a stop light purely in the optional sense. Till the light switches to green the entire block of vehicles is involved in a giant game of tetris - nudging, swerving and edging into crevices so that when the light does pop, we are in the most convenient position to skip it. It doesn't matter where you want to be - left or right; after the light,what matters is - have you crossed it?

I started driving at 18; my Dad insistent that this was one skill I should learn as soon as legally possible. I went through a driving school: one of those places where the instructor is a sarcastic man who think women make lousy drivers. Although, in the end it's all for the the good because his chief talent is not teaching, but ensuring that on D Day you pass your driving test. My family of course, did not buy the credentials of the driving school and after I got the license I was put through the back seating driving instructions of all the adults who drove our cars: mum, dad AND grandma. Having all three together, I imagined sometimes, was like being a charioteer in the Mahabharat war.

I drove to college everyday with mother by my side hearing constantly "Don't go beyond third"; the magical gear beyond which our Maruti 800 turned into a Porsche. Other unforgettable advice from mother dearest included: "Drive slowly, you don't know when a child/dog/cow/buffalo might wander on to the road"; which remains solid advice even today. Given this history then I was smugly happy when the parents visited me in the States. Ah-ha, only I can drive here and that too, in MY car. Sweetness. This emotion was short-lived. On a drive from Long Island to New Jersey, my dad chided me for not pulling up the handbrake when I stopped for the light and then later as the car picked up speed, he slept in the back seat, requesting the radio be off. Where he left off, my mother started. She watched the speedometer intently, not pausing to blink even and orally recited the speed every five seconds. I had my very own speed gun and FYI, I have never got a speeding ticket in the States.

Well, I digress from my rant. Driving in India makes me mad and fills me with moral righteousness which is completely unjustified at times. I am in the middle of reading a book by V Raghunathan "We are like that only" where the author makes an attempt to draw analogy of our lousy choice making to game theory. It's an interesting read: the author himself starts out by talking about how he cuts lines in India! However, these intellectual pursuits do not aid whatsoever in a better driving experience in India.

I never enjoyed computer games so I do not possess either cunning or the agility to grasp a quickly changing traffic scene. Consequently, I sit at lights for minutes on end; annoyingly, this city has pathetic choice of FM stations as well. There is only so much Telugu pop one can take! I have to admit then, driving in the States was a much more pleasant experience and I miss the orderliness and NPR.

31 and counting ...

2010-07-16T14:05:00.002+05:30

It's the time of the year again - when the phone doesn't stop ringing and another year has been attached to my age.

I go through ups and downs about my feelings on how to celebrate my birthday. For some years I didn't think that a big deal need be made of it but on others, I would like it to be an event. Some of the best birthdays in fact was while I was in Stony Brook; there was a lab celebration, a home celebration with L & E, celebration with N in New York and then a celebration in NJ. It was a week along affair.

And this birthday I wanted to have some drama so I informed my partner that I expected to be given a present every single day for a week preceding my Birthday. And what did I get: seed packets! Everyday I got a different seed pack, mainly Basils with a lone oregano to break the routine. I was quite impressed with the gifts actually but to give myself credit I had requested these seeds; they just arrived one day at a time.

Otherwise, life is good. As I did last year, I am writing a letter to myself just to keep track of how I am growing. I read the letter I wrote last year and it's interesting that events that I expected to have resolution about have indeed occurred.

Happy Birthday to me.

guessWHO

2010-07-05T22:36:00.004+05:30

I think its a foregone conclusion that Rahul Gandhi is going to one day lead the nation in the position of the biggest cheese aka Prime Minister of the Republic of India.

So as someone who considers (ahem) her tax contributions seriously – I really want to know what the deal is with this gentleman.

Scholar (ahem, ahem) that I am I started at what I consider the backbone of character: Education. I am not much of a detective so I went to wikipedia to look up on these facts. Doon school (snob), Harvard (would he have made it if he was a middle class chokra from vile parle (E)?), then Rollins College (never heard of it) and finally, Cambridge (M Phil in Dev. Studies). At some point it would interesting to read his thesis work for the Masters.

Although he finished studying in 1995 and worked for 3 years after that, he only came back to India in 2002. So what happened in those intervening years? A lot of speculation is possible here so I'll come to a point that is really dear to me:

What exactly are his politics?

What does he think of GM foods? The Bhopal tragedy? The bofors scandal? Homosexuality? Sex education in Schools? RTI & RTE? Ration cards? Free electricity for farmers? The “Maoist” insurgency? Of Indians killing Indians? On Kashmir? On Tibet? On his Grandmother' brilliant idea to declare Emergency?

Which side of the line is he on – left, right, ambivalent or what I fear the most: without the intellect to have an informed opinion.

One thing I constantly hear in the media is that RG is all about young people joining politics. Good show – I agree. But what's the point of signing up – do good for the country? Now if that really was a reason to be in politics then I am St Megha, sign me up. He seems to be able to get the vote out – what is he selling these people – his grandmother's dream of roti, kapada aur makan?

RG seems to be a classic case of a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Pathetically, I too am going to lament his lack of a partner. Simply because that would have been an opportunity to discern his taste.

In the weekend section of The Hindu there is a game (if you figured that the game is called guessWHO then you win a mugful of ready-to-use organic kitchen compost) : A fuzzy image of a well known person is presented and you are supposed to guess the name. I feel Rahul Gandhi is much like that for me right now. And as a young person (Ok, I am going to be 31, so not that young) and as a tax payer, I would like to know why I should be voting him to the hot seat.

An unsuitable comparison

2010-07-04T14:39:00.008+05:30

Its Sunday afternoon and the weather is compelling me to be contemplative. I actually reached back to my time in Seattle and thought about how I spent my time on weekends there vs here. When I moved to Seattle it was the first time that I was living by myself in a new city, much like right now. So, there is one element of similarity between the two periods : Alone-ness. I thought about that word because I wasn't and am not lonely; I wasn't and am not single. I was just by myself. I read somewhere that the ability to be by yourself is a strength, not a weakness. Certainly in Seattle if I wanted company I had to seek; not so much here in India because someone's always ringing the bell. Without more ramble let me recount a Saturday here vs what I did in Seattle.

Seattle: July 2006

6:00 AM catch bus to Green Lake. Run around with the Miles for Smiles gang - the Asha Seattle Marathon training unit.

9:00 AM Back home. Tea and a large eggy breakfast.

10:00 AM scrub Bathroom, kitchen. Write checks to cover utility and other bills. New Jersey Family catch up on Phone.

12:00 AM Walk down to neighbourhood cafe for a cappucino. Hurrah! I have had 10 stamps and this is the 11th so its free. Make list of things I need from grocery store.

1:00 AM make plans to watch Football with friends.

1:30 AM Very frustrated, as have no car and getting to Friend's place involves two buses. Wish had bike at least. Meanwhile, match is ticking away...

2:15 PM Reach Eastlake. Watch some of the match; eat lunch.

4:00PM Post match and hang out. While here best to finish grocery shopping; step into store but do not like shopping in grocery store where I don't know layout: this means taking more to get the things I want due to lack of orientation.

5:00 PM done with shopping. Bags heavy but must go to a hippie spice shop that makes best garam masala in town.

7:00 PM finally home. Hamstrings sore from running. Organize dinner from left overs; heat things up and open a book I got from the Library.

8:00 PM Dessert, fruits and a cup of tea. Talk to mom, dad and sister as it is suitable time in India for chat.

10:00 PM Bed

Hyderabad: July 2010

7:00 AM Milkman. He had forgotten that I had asked him not to give me milk for 2 days as I have been unable to get through the week's supply and my fridge was resembling a storage unit at a dairy plant.

Back to bed.

9:00 AM Remove dosa batter from fridge. Organize Coffee.

10:00 AM Bell rings. Its A, my maid. We gossip over Dosa and Coffee. She chides me for not eating well - she knows from the type and number of dishes in the sink whether my meal from last night was appropriate. Talk to Mom

10:10 AM Am out of gas. Frantic phone call to gas agency. I will get a delivery today. Hurrah! Continue phone talk with mom.

12:30 PM after countless chase phonecalls, many in my poor Telugu, the gas man arrives. Talk to sister.

1:00 PM Put water out to heat because the water supply to my water heater runs out after 10 AM and if I want hot water for a bath I have to do it the old-fashioned way: Boil water on the stove!

1:30 PM Exit Buckingham Block. Negotiate Auto ride. Off to Crossword to pick up Steig Larsson's Millennium II.

2:00 PM Arrive at Ruchi and Doni, upscale grocery store and Bistro with book in hand. Settle down to a read and supplied self with delicious pasta, banana crepe and Arabian Tea.

4:00 PM Head home. Continue reading. Nap a bit. Drool all over couch pillow.

6:30 PM walk to the market: veggies, fruits and other sundry items. Berate fruit chap about poor quality of mangoes I purchased last time. Quizzed him about Mango situation in country. He gave me the stink eye for refusing to put mangoes in plastic bag and instead ,in my cloth bag. We settled on compromise. I will place mangoes on top and not dump any more things in to the bag. Luckily I had two bags. Up the road is Veggie chap; chides me for dumping all veggies into one bag. I retort that everything goes into the same stomach.

7:30 PM settle to watch FIFA football Match. Eat Khichdi. Talk to Dad. Talk to sister.

10:00 PM fighting to keep eyes open; have to finish book. Did not; instead sleep on top of book.

Summary

Life is good. It was good even back then. The differences in lifestyle are obvious and so are the similar threads of routine. However, did you notice how in India I talk a lot more? I used to find this community business quite overrated but after having experienced the western concept of space and the Indian concept of distance, I personally prefer the latter. There is a lot of energy we exchange when engage in conversation and I see myself benefiting from that enormously. May not work for all, but does wonders for me.

Hope you are having a good weekend.

India knows I'm here!

2010-06-14T22:23:00.005+05:30

A delightful slip of a girl came in the morning and counted me as part of the census. I'm in the system! The only question that really bothered me was they wanted to know if I was married or not. hrrump. Happily single was not one my options. Also, it was a bit discouraging when she asked me my place of birth and I gleefully replied, "Jaipur, Rajasthan" and she goes, "Country?" Surely our kids deserve a better education.

The chick was obviously more comfortable in Telegu but she bravely noted everything in English, with me interjecting and supplying spellings at every step. I also like that they asked my Dad and Mom's name; usually its all about Father/ Husband name, and I rebel and only write my Mom's name. And in the evening, stuck to my door was a long receipt in Telegu which I think is my receipt for being counted. There were no digits or numbers on the receipt so I am assuming it's not a bill and just an acknowledgment that Deepa (she signed her name in English!) stopped in today to count me.

Recycling in India

2010-06-13T22:14:00.005+05:30

Compost, at last! It has taken me 10 months but finally, I have organic compost from my kitchen waste. This good stuff went into my garden today and I am planning to give the rest of it away to other gardeners in the building.

I have been meaning to write about recycling for a long time now but I wanted to make it a well researched article rather than a ramble but my attempts to talk to the rag pickers in my broken telugu have come to naught so I am just writing up what I do. May be you are doing something that I too can co-opt?

Compost: All my kitchen waste and pigeon poop goes into my compost bin. You can look at picture of my Khamba here. To get one, visit www.dailydump.org; If you think that living in Bangalore is a prerequisite to owning this beauty, then let me shatter that notion - Just call Daily Dump and they will give you the contact number for the city you live in. I recently did that to source a compost for my brother in law in Delhi, so I know it works. Doing the compost is a little bit of commitment. For example, all the kitchen stuff has to be finely chopped up and you have to stir the mix around every couple of days. My compost has also turned into a friendly hang out place for lizards and it was freaky to have them in there. But, live and let live eh?

Plastic: You would be surprised at the number of plastic things that are recyclable. Milk bags, shopping bags, even the plastic that your sugar or dal or rice comes packed in. I basically collect all this plastic, rinse if wet and dry. I put this away in one paper bag along with empty plastic bottles (Shampoo, Harpic, Lotion etc). When the bag bursts its seam, I just tie up all the loose plastic stuff and put the bag out right next to our local garbage can. Ok, so I have indirect proof that this stuff is useful - 1) The bag always disappears - I did peak into the stinky bin once to make sure it didn't get tossed in there. 2) A, my maid, now takes it to the raddiwala and gets money for it.

Paper: Most people recycle newspaper. But what about cardboard boxes (like the one your cereal came in) or milk boxes (the tetra packs are recyclable!)? My principle is simple: if its made of paper and is not soiled, then it can be recycled. Similar to the plastic bag, I have a separate paper bag in which I now throw away receipts from stores I know I don't need and all the silly notes I write lists on. A manages to sell all the content of this bag as well.

I still have garbage - plastic bags with oily stuff in them, lint, pigeon feathers (they compost very very slowly) etc, but on an average I take out my garbage once a week. My bin is not large BTW, it can only hold about 15 L of water. Also, my bin never smells.

Inspired to recycle now?

Paragliding

2010-06-13T21:05:00.009+05:30

There comes a time in life where you wish you could jump off a cliff - well, I did and live to tell the tale. Ahem... I do, of course, grossly over-exaggerate for dramatic effect, but I did jump of a cliff with a glider strapped to my back.

A couple of months ago GHAC organized a trip to go paragliding. Frankly, I had it mixed up with para-jumping and was looking forward to jumping off a plane in tandem with an experienced chump who would pull the chord so that we landed gently on the ground. Anyhow, the person who wrote it up on GHAC was nice enough to insert a picture of a paraglider so I was all cleared up on what to expect. Turns out that picture is only true if you have been gliding, like, forever...

The one cool fact I learned while on the trip was that Kamshet (about an hour's ride on the train from Pune), the launch point of our training, is one of the best places in the world for paragliding. The geography of the hills allows you to glide here for at least 10 months of the year. Ergo, we can have a 3 day course and actually fly a bit. Apparently, in other places that are not so conducive to this sport it might takes weeks for the conditions to be right for your 3 day course to complete. Mera bharat mahan right?

Our training school was called Indus and it was a Fri, Sat, Sun deal. They prefer if you do a 5 day course for the total experience, but since we are the blackberry-totting-instant-oatmeal-kinda-club, the 3 day training was negotiated. May is hot month anywhere in India. So we arrived sweaty and dusty at the local train station to be met by our trainers who curtly informed us that we were late, and to swallow our lunch because training starts in the afternoon, right away. The package, BTW includes food, acco, the glider and not to forget, the instructions.

Day 1 involves getting whipped in the face with a tight rope, that is if you are standing. Its technical term is ground handling - you are shown various parts of the glider and the theory of how it works (which your brain understands but muscles remain deaf to). The whole thing fits in a backpack (heavy) and you trudge it to where ever you have to practice from. Everyone was informed to bring a full sleeved shirt and full pants, but of course, the fashion people didn't and they had the best bruises to display that evening. Once you reach the spot, you open the package, wear the helmet and gloves, hold the two riders and run right into the wind. Now if you were really listening to the instructor, whose voice booms from a radio strapped to your chest, you may actually use the wind to fly. Instead, if like me your muscle coordination is non existent, you will fall flat on your face over, over and over again. One of things I am thankful for is that I didn't break any teeth.

Day 2 involves trekking through the plains to reach the base of mountain. The idea is to put your ground handling to test by launching yourself off about 20 ft. I have to report one bourgeois aspect of Indian adventure sports here - if you are really lame, you can employ a tiny tot from the village to carry your glider from the van to the base of the mountain. A weird economy has developed in Kamshet - the local kids know when and where to show up, and as soon as you land they storm the parking lot, willing you to use their services. I am not sure what carrying such items is doing to their backs - a 12 yr old should not be carrying a 20lb bag! But, like all other things about cheap labour - why carry your bag when someone will do it for a pittance?

Day 3 you jump of a cliff and its ironic how difficult Day 1 and 2 are as compared to the relatively low intensity strength required for the actual paragliding. You basically run to the edge of the cliff, hope your glider has inflated and get picked up by the wind. The backpack which was a ruddy pain to carry around till this point, automatically turns into a bucket seat and you can fly about in a very comfortable position. You use the riders to glide left or right and the brake riders to descend. The only foolish thing you can do is not listen to your instructor!

When I recalled this adventure to friends their reaction was geared towards my fearlessness rather than the thrill of flying. Funnily enough, it never once struck me that something may go wrong. It was remarkably calm and the instructors do a wonderful job of ensuring your safety by reminding you again and again, that the only reason you will injure yourself is if you listen to your dotty mind rather than the instructions - I'll vouch for the truth in that. In any case they do make you sign a legal document that should you die, they aren't to blame.

I would recommend paragliding to anyone who is looking for an active holiday. Being up in the air really makes it worth it. The season in Kamshet runs from Sep to May; I am definitely going back.

Three favorite things to do in Hyderabad

2010-05-15T09:03:00.003+05:30

Its 45oC outside and has been for several weeks. I was getting a bit low just sitting around at home on the weekend, with the curtains drawn and the fans on full blast. Mind you, even with all these preventive measures I was sweating a bucket each minute; the type where after 5 minutes on a chair your undy starts sticking to you.

The weather in Hyderabad sucks. But like everything in life there is always a silver positive lining that you have to think about. So, I am writing about the three things about Hyderabad that I enjoy, in spite of the weather.

1. Daram : My wardrobe has significantly improved ever since I started visiting this store. Daram is an arm of DAMA, an Andhra Mahila club that supports the rural handloom industry. DAMA markets the textiles and Daram is the retail branch that sells ready made garments. If you like Fab India, you will like Daram. I am inclined to believe that both Daram and Fab India have similar philosophies: to empower traditional workers by preserving their art, yet providing them a market to ensure their financial well being, although I have not really examined their business models in great depth to make this an academic claim. However, I can confidently say two things for Daram: firstly, all their stuff is handmade locally (AP), from fabric to stitching and secondly, their cotton is very comfortable. Besides they have local groups from different parts of the country coming over to sell things like lumbini work from north Karnataka, chanderi silk work from Rajasthan etc. I always find things at the store from different parts of the country. The prices at Daram are reasonable. There are no home furnishings here unless a group specifically selling those is visiting. I have been to a couple of DAMA sales and the whole cloth is available there if you fancy making curtains out of their cloth. The store never has a sale since they think selling something below price would disrespect the people who worked for creating the product you are wearing. Timbuktu Collective, which grows organic produce in Anantapur district also sell their products here - I am a big fan of the cold pressed groundnut oil and fox tail millet from the collective.

2. GHAC - Greater Hyderabad Adventure Club. A few months ago I was moaning to a friend about the lack of activities to do in and around Hyderabad and my inability to meet new people. My friend suggested meetup.com and it's there that I found GHAC. I couldn't have been more wrong about things to do around Hyderabad. You join the group for free and there are different events organized: from trekking at the outskirts of the city, overnight camping and adventure sports. I recently went on a 3 day paragliding trip with people from the club. It's a great group to do something active and meet new people. I was worried at first about not having my own transport to get to places but the group is quite friendly, so there are always people willing to make accommodations. Just RSVP and enjoy.

3. Share autos: I have blogged about this before and continue to maintain, this is the most amazing eco-friendly and commuter friendly mode of transport for short distance. Although, you have to completely ignore western concepts of safety to enjoy the ride. At a recent chat I discovered that this concept exists in several cities but Hyderabad and Panchkula (by accident) are where I have taken it. My last ride was quite memorable. My other companions were 5 summer camp going girls: giggly 10 yr olds with plastic bags stuffed with tiffin dubbas, crayons and chart paper. For some reason they couldn't get over my presence and giggled the entire way of the ride. What was really amazing was that they weren't being chaperoned by anyone so I think the auto driver was a regular to them. Once the giggling started, I couldn't stop smiling either so we all were a giggling for the next 3 minutes. I thought this was simply swell - everyone giggling for no reason.

And... cut to March 2010

2010-03-15T21:40:00.002+05:30

I was tied up. With something as silly as work. There really is no time for all the nothing I want to do.

I would like to chronicle an adventure I had a few weeks ago on my beautiful street. Nor was I wearing orange, neither was in a mini skirt but still the following incident occurred. It was a quiet day as a local holiday was in effect. The chai shop at the corner of the street was missing and so were his auto driver clientele. It was enchanting in a way; once you crossed the overflowing giant open garbage cans on the side of the road. I stood at the usual spot for the share auto service and was enjoying a cool breeze when a white car sided up to me. The man looked fishy; my pervert-sensor was on high alert but having listened to parts of a Gita commentary the previous day, I was willing to set my sensor on vibrate and proceeded to lend this man my ear. The man mouthed something which I didn't understand so I moved a bit closer to the vehicle only to notice that up-down movement which all men should suitably execute only in the privacy of their own home, with the curtains drawn. The jerk was jerking off. For a minute I was fascinated: how does one drive a stick shift, place a hand on the wheel and have another free for the biological stick? This thought was swiftly swept away by the taste of bile that had started to collect in my throat. The man caught my expression and moved off. When such things happen, and women who are reading this blog will understand, you always wonder if what happened was real? Maybe you mistook the gesture? This fool though comes back for another round. And this time I was taking no nonsense. One bitten, twice fomenting. I informed him that if he asked me one more question I would call the police and began to pull out my mobile phone. I noted his license number; stupidly, only in my head.

I have the Banjara Hills police station on my speed dial. Ladies, as much as this stinks, let me tell you that the power of having a number on the phone itself was quite empowering. I informed the person who picked up what happened (no, I couldn't describe the scene in Hindi):

Hello? Banjara Hills police station? Haan, a man just came up to me and said dirty- dirty things; he was doing dirty things too. He is in a car.

Madam, we can't do anything till you make an official complaint.

Ahem, I am on my way to the office so I can't come right now but I can see that guy in the car and I don't want him to tease other women.

Madam, unless you come to the police station we can't do anything. You can come a few days later as well.

OK. That I could do. So the next weekend, I followed his directions and arrived at the police station. As soon as I walked in, a seat was cleared up for me in front of the information desk. At all points during my conversation there were at least 4 other people speaking in 3 different languages. A suspect too was being interrogated: retail chap accused of stealing. The policeman was attentive, took down my complaint and pronounced that nothing can be done because I didn't get the whole license plate number. I only clearly remembered the last 4 digits. Anyhow, he had a solution for me. He took my mobile, dialed a number from it and spoke to the beat cop, introducing my mobile number to the man. Next time I have an incident I have to just dial this mobile number and the beat cop will be there in 5 - 6 minutes (the cop's guesstimate) and I can have the pervert booked on the spot. So, in addition to the police station number, I now have the beat cop's number on speed dial as well.

How is that for service? Glad I pay my taxes!

Road romeos and the colour Orange - a vigorous case study

2009-11-16T18:58:00.007+05:30

Something interesting has been happening to me over the last couple of months. Every time I wear an orange outfit or have some form of orange in my dress the men on Road no 12 go mad.

Most women reading this post will identify with Road Romeos (RR) - that brand of dedicated, emotionally stunted immature men, boys even, who like to acknowledge the female form by ogling, hooting, lewd commenting and when occasion presents itself, grabbing. Growing up, you recognize this species by their body language and try to either engage in a war of words, which you are sure to lose or devise a route that would avoid them no matter how convenient or inconvenient it was to change your path. You can sense this species, regardless of the direction it was coming from, trying to strip you of human dignity even as your eyes were saying, "Not even in your dreams you twisted freak..."

My first experience on Road no 12 from an RR: a jolly "Hello Sweetie" followed by a few flying kisses. The content itself was quite routine but what was odd was that this lout was on a bike and had to cross over traffic to make himself available within audible distance to me, also slowing down to make sure his flying kisses didn't get misdirected to the fruit seller by the side of the road. My first reaction of course was to give him the finger; a lousy, impotent gesture of rage and then, I wondered if I shouldn't have instead, kicked him off his bike , thereby getting indicted for manslaughter in the cause of discouraging RRs everywhere. Luckily the pace at which my muscles react is far slower than the pace at which my brain invents physical events so I am unable to execute most of my physical threats.

Now this routine of RRs on bike has repeated itself several times over, at different points of the day and at different points along Road no 12. Some RRs are even kind enough to offer a lift once they have conveyed their appreciation of my star-like good looks. But I started to notice a trend : the number of incidents seemed to increase exponentially when I was wearing the colour orange. For a while I thought it was wearing a kurta and pants, but when it started to happen even when I was dressed in a salwar suit I started to converge on the idea that it was a colour that was setting off this deeply ingrained neurological reaction. Even if I wear an orange duppatta its' enough for a reaction. Now, you are thinking: a) what's your sample size and b) where are the controls?

First let me address the issue of controls. I have used both positive and negative controls. For the positive controls I used an outfit made of knee length skirts and short tops. I tried them in various shades and they all elicited a full range of responses. Although, for ethical reasons, I must disclose that one time I was waiting in a flare skirt that was part of a figure hugging business suit, complete with 4 inch heels and looking quite chic, if I say so myself and I got nothing. I was waiting for a full 15 minutes trying to pick up a share auto and was so out of the ordinary that they weren't even willing to stop for me, so I had to get the office folks to pick me up. The most robust positive control, of course, would be the I would get in an orange skirt but alas, don't have one. For my negative controls I wore kurtas (non orange) with pants, and the same salwar suit but with a blue duppata (if your mind is boggling on how I can use an orange and blue duppata over the same salwar kurta, well, the salwar is black and the kurta is beige so I can wear just about any shade of dupatta with it) or red, pink dupattas and let me tell you, nothing.

Now, sample size. I wear something orange about once a week - I like orange!; so I got to test this theory out for almost 3 months now. Roughly, 12 times now and each time I get noticed about 0 - 3 times. Now, by noticed I mean someone coming over to coo in my ear as opposed to all those louts who simply stare open mouthed. On the rest of the days however I get a total of 0 - 2 incidents. So if you do some fun maths, on an average for the orange days my "notice rate" is about 1.5; where as on non-orange days its like 0.25. So about a 6-fold increase in attention on an orange day.

Ergo, I rest my case. Why, I do not know, but proved, I have, of this mind boggling correlation between me wearing Orange and getting "noticed". Oh, and yes, all this has done wonders for my self esteem. I suppose if the RR action escalated to grabbing I wouldn't be so pleased with the situation but so far, only coos and flying kisses.

Now to expand this study: do you have a colour in which you attract more imbeciles?

Mushroom Barley Soup

2009-11-10T20:55:00.005+05:30

I'm almost through my barley packet so this might *possibly* be my last post on barley for a short while. I am replacing my barley love with some millet that I got over the weekend. But till that breaks into my recipe imagination here is the soup...

Ingredients:
1 cup Barley (cooked as previously blogged)
1/3 cup finely chopped carrot
2 cups roughly sliced mushrooms ( I had botton; chopped in thirds)
3 tb sp finely chopped scallions
1 tb sp finely chopped dill
2 tsp chopped garlic
1 tsp vinegar
1/2 tsp soya sauce
1 tb sp Olive oil
Method:
1. While the barley was pressure cooking I chopped up the garlic, scallions, carrot, mushrooms and dill.
2. Heat the oil, add garlic, let it release its pungent odour, then add the carrot and mushrooms. Saute on medium heat. I purposely tossed the carrots with the mushroom as I wanted them crunchy to bite in the final soup. If you like mush, then go ahead and pressure cook them along with the barley. Although if I were to do that I would chop the carrot into one inch long thick sticks.
3. When mushrooms looks like they are changing colour, add the vinegar and soya sauce. Add scallions, toss and let it cook for another minute or so. Take it off the heat and cover it with a lid. The idea behind this was to steam the scallions rather than have them sauteed.
4. When the barley was ready, I added the above mixture and the dill. I again, purposely did not boil the whole concoction because I didn't want the dill to cook. Add salt and freshly cracked pepper to taste.
How was it? Excellent, if I say so myself. Notice that there is no spice in this dish besides the pepper so it was mild. Although I find the barley itself so tasty that it more than makes up for the lack of spice in the dish. But if you like some kick, then go ahead and modify. I think it could do with more soya sauce too.
I have been reading about soups online since it's winter but the temperature here is in the chilly mid-twenties...umm... degree Celsius so I would hardly call this my "winter" recipe. Now for the fox tail millet and beyond.

Righteous Rage - killing it with a smile

2009-11-09T20:42:00.002+05:30

I tried something differently this weekend and I must say it's been working like a charm.

Welcome to my my pedestrian and cycling world. So, when I have to go places where the bus service is not frequent I hop into an Auto. I also take an auto to work sometimes but that's a share auto: prices are fixed for various distances and there is no haggling. If your elbow or knee doesn't get sawed off while you ride spilling out of the auto with only a few feet of nothing between you and the asphalt, you know you have had a good ride. Compare this to an auto you have hired: all the room in the world but one mean negotiation before you and he agree on the best price. In my experience Chennai autos are the worst; a quick assessment of your dress and accent would nicely inform of them of your non-tamilness and from that point on you can only hope that you got the most honest of the rascals. Bangalore autos are attitude: they never want to go anywhere you want to go. "Too much traffic ma"; "Ayyo, can't come, it's one way"; "It will be too busy this time of the day" eventually leading you to ask "Swami, where are you going? May be I can get a drop if it's on your way?"

I like my Hyderabad autos for the most part. They are courteous and normally take me where I want to go without excuses and on the meter. But there are some silly twerps who think I just landed from US of A today morning. Matters are not helped by my living in one of the fanciest pin codes in town. For those autos who have traded the meter for x-ray vision goggles to count the money in my purse, once they have agreed to the destination they normally quote a price exactly double of what it would cost on the meter. Usually, I just increase the volume on my rant and then take off in a huff to find my next victim. This weekend I didn't feel up to the yelling so when I stopped Auto # 1 I sweetly inquired if he wanted to go to Begumpet. There were two others in the auto, so he first asked if it was OK if he dropped them to the end of the road; which was fine since I am quite gung-ho about auto pooling anyhow. Then I got in, at which point I realized there was no meter and a voice said 80 rupees. I suppose he arrived at this number by using his x-ray money goggles. It costs only 40 rupees so I immediately asked him to stop, smiled broadly like I was in a Colgate commercial and said (in hindi), "Sorry, but that's too much". 60 Rupees. Smiling even more generously I said "No, it costs only 40 rupees and I think if you are looking for that much you need to find another customer. Thanks anyway". 50 Rupees. No, said my swinging head and I started to walk. Auto followed and he persists, 50 rupees. I'm laughing as I tell him, again, that I will not ride for so much. He sighs, 40 rupees, get in. I tried pretty much the same sequence on Sunday as well and it worked like a charm. The key is two fold: patience and a huge smile. When the smile is without malice, innocent and loving in all its might, that energy reflects on any person you interact with. I have blogged about this before and continue to re-discover the positive effects of smiling.

I tried it this evening too, on a motorcyclist riding the wrong way on Road no 1 and almost knocking me over. I tapped on his shoulder and asked nicely if he thought what he was doing was right. He looked a bit shocked because I'm sure no one has caught him out like this. I repeated my question, smiled and waited. He was starting to form an explanation when I said, politely, that I was sorry to cut in but I asked a simple question - Yes or No. He said Yes and I just walked off. The sum impact of my little intervention: probably zero; but the quality of zen I felt: priceless. I get quite annoyed with anyone who doesn't respect pedestrian, ending up ranting a lot more and quite suddenly, I find that there's another way to get my message across and be non-violent about it.

Ho hum, let's see how long it lasts. But I do swear by the smiling technique; try it next time with an Auto and let me know if it works.

Project Why

2009-10-09T09:23:00.001+05:30

I visited the project in August. The site visit report is underway, but today I chanced upon a blog post from Anou summarizing the various activities on any given day in project why. If you have ever donated at my behest to Asha for Education - here is what your money is accomplishing. Enjoy!

http://projectwhy.blogspot.com/2009/09/peek-into-project-why.html

Veggie Barley Stir Fry

2009-10-07T22:05:00.009+05:30

Another vegan dish, by accident

Ingredients (serves 1 - 2)

1/2 cup barley
2 cups sliced mushrooms ( I used white)
2 cups sliced cabbage
1/2 small onion, sliced
2 tbsp finely chopped green onions/ scallions
2 medium cloves chopped garlic
1 green chilly (add this to taste)
2 tsp Olive oil
Freshly grounded pepper (essential)
salt to taste
1/ 4 cup roughly chopped Walnuts (optional)
1 tbsp finely chopped cilantro (optional)

Cook the barley your favourite way. Ensure that water is drained away completely. If, like me, you are doing this without planning, then fret not. You don't have to soak the barley in water to have it cooked fast. Just take out that pressure cooker mom packed for you when you were ready to set up your own kitchen. For 1/ 2 cup barley, I added 4 equal volumes of water. It was a bit much and I think 3 would have been fine. Let the cooker give you its sweet whistle six times. Allow the pressure to return to normal naturally and viola: cooked barley. If there is excess water, drain it away
While all the cooker action was underway I cleaned and chopped the veggies. I also took time out to read the Hindu.
When ready for stir fry action, take out your biggest size wok, add oil, let it heat up a little, throw in garlic, chilly and onions. With impressive wrist-work you can try to work the wok to stir things around; I used a wooden spoon.
When onions are translucent, add mushrooms. Just as they are about to loose their firmness, toss in the cabbage and green onions. Stir and allow to cook to your desired texture. Add barley, salt and freshly grounded pepper ( I can't emphasize what a big difference this made to the dish). Toss, toss, toss.
If you want, garnish with cilantro and walnuts. Chomp, chomp, chomp.

Re-thinking Gandhi Jayanti

2009-10-04T21:16:00.002+05:30

A non-Indian friend L asked me what we did on Gandhi Jayanti. Beyond singing along to raghupati raghav that would stream on the radio, I could think of nothing else that we as a country or as citizens do. We were discussing this over lunch and one of my colleagues recalled that in her village they would celebrate the entire week by working on projects - civic activities like cleaning the neighbourhood were undertaken and communal meals were cooked at school (this is pre mid-day) with ingredients supplied by the parents. I remember doing squat in school. Sure, we enjoyed the holiday and used the extra time to create mischief at home but in memory of the father of the nation we remembered nothing. Isn't it ironic?

This was enforced further by this lovely article by Madhu Kishwar in India Together.
She bluntly states what L, with her simple question, brought home: we celebrate Gandhi Jayanti in the worst possible way. We indulge in sloth, watch movies in Malls and let urban wonders sweep us away in activities that neither add value to our soul or enrich the lives of others. Surely, there must be a better way to remember Bapu? Ms Kishwar suggests that Govt officials should use this day to clean their offices and dust their files. She herself keeps her office open, in defiance of the enforced holiday; a rule she thinks would be something Gandhiji himself would have satyagraha-ed over.

The government seems to have celebrated by changing the name of NREGA to MGREGA. I wonder how much stationery we, the tax payer, are going to foot in this foolhardiness. I can almost see how this must have happened: a few old political strategists sitting around on white bedsheets, flaunting their Gandhi caps and rotund bellies, scratching theirs heads wondering what to do to commemorate his birthday. Getting the NREGA to work was obviously too long term and a publicity poor plan so instead a nice headline catching attempt to pay their respects to Gandhiji surfaced. The hypocrisy is nauseating.

And me: how did I celebrate? Not to well, I think. I woke up late, fixed my bicycle so I could run my errands faster than on foot and finished a long overdue Asha site visit report. Lame, I admit; but to be honest, I'm not sure how I could have celebrated better? Next year, if nothing else, I will follow Ms Kishwar's example and at least get some office work done!

From Giraffes to Peacocks

2009-10-03T10:19:00.003+05:30

I finally climbed out of the no-exercise rut. It's been 5 months since I ran last, on a slow muggy day in Regents Park; more of a goodbye, than a run really.

In the last three months I have managed to recreate my life in Hyderabad, to a very large extent exactly as I had been living in London: I can commute to work by foot, there is an excellent produce shop just near my apartment and almost everything is available to me by foot or easily accessible public transport or share auto. But the one exception was that there was no Regents' park equivalent within walking distance and I missed my giraffes, Annie and Frank. There was an option though - KBR park, which is about 3 km from my home. Although getting there is a pain since I would have to run/walk on Road no 12 which is neither safe nor exciting.

So, I had Father dearest ship Chameli over from Bangalore. Yesterday morning, I unwrapped and serviced her. After a short test ride, I was convinced that my plan was possible: I would bike up to the park, run the 5K being organized by the Hyderabad runners group and bike home. Ta da!

Today morning though, the first hill on Road no 12 left me winded. I had anticipated the hills but I didn't really know that my thighs would burn or I would be huffing and puffing the entire time. Although I'm glad I didn't have any expectations because the unexpected made the ride more enjoyable. The weather helped immensely as well. Its been raining heavily here for the past week and today morning too, it was overcast. There was no rain but a heavenly misty spray brushed my face as I rode up the road. KBR park was delightful; the running trail is all mud, with speed bumps for some strange reason (bikes are not allowed on the track) and with trees on either side. We saw a couple of peacocks; none with the open display of feathers however, something I hoped to see since its raining. I only did 3.9 Km which was the length of one loop, stretched and on my way home, stopped over at Sri Sai Ram Tiffin Centre to grab a pesarittu.

My bum is a bit sore from the riding and my hamstrings are tight; nothing beats these delights of successful exercise!

The argumentative pedestrian

2009-08-18T21:24:00.004+05:30

Allow me a rant.

I walk everywhere. Work, grocery store, tailor, frame shop, fruit seller, vada pav... everywhere. And the one unifying theme of this experience is the utter disrespect and disregard for the pedestrian by vehicles of all types. Like a torrent of angry gushing water they stop for nothing, least of all the traffic light. The best way to deal with most things in urban India is a deep breath and an unshakable faith in Karma, but today, I had a reluctant break down. While crossing a wide road with oncoming traffic I was dazzled by headlights and assaulted by horns in spite of a fierce green light proclaiming that pedestrians have right of way. So, I let loose a string of strong litany on the first available two wheeler. Here is the not so pleasant part; I was abused in return.

What to do?

The simple middle class alternative is to push my discomfort to a corner and buy a car. But I'm not ready for that. Why should I be? I have fairly strong legs that carry me wherever I go and can easily finish my entire range of shopping in one big loop. What really bothers me most is that there is nothing we can do to change this. The people I normally cross the road with are workers or drivers, sent by their memsahibs to hop across the road while her Innova blocks the road. They don't have time for a dharna and certainly don't want to engage with the traffic cop. The traffic cop himself looks quite pained - wouldn't you be if you inhaled particulate matter while on your feet all day long and had to listen to incessant honks while at work?

One option, which I am fond of, is building over-bridges. The downside is that people with disabilities cannot use it. But it would help the pedestrians cross easily and at their own pace.
Drivers might also benefit. Most people behind the wheel complain that pedestrians step out from nowhere and prevent the flow of smooth traffic. I try my best to cross at Zebra crossings but there are certainly some places where there is no provision for one, in which case I do hop across as soon as possible at the narrowest point or when no traffic is going fast enough to hit me.

The situation is bad: for the drivers and pedestrians, yet I see no action plan to make things better. I could write a letter to the newspaper, the most impotent action for an activist or make a huge placard and do a sit down but no one will accompany me. What an amazing bummer!

Barley Cutlets

2009-08-16T21:18:00.011+05:30

For my friends S and E, who took care of me and served me delicious food, always. Everything in London was special because of your love. Thank you.

A vegan (unintentionally) recipe. Adapted from S's recipe for Barley Cutlets.

1 cup barley
2 tbsp finely chopped dill
2 tbsp finely chopped spring onion shoots
1 tbsp finely chopped green chillies (more if you like it hot)
2 medium sized potatoes
salt
oil to shallow fry

1. Soak the barley in water for 10 - 12 hours. About 1:1 volume water: barley.

2. Pressure cook barley and unpeeled potatoes for 3 whistles. This might be mysterious if you don't have an Indian style pressure cooker. Essentially, you are cooking the barley till it's crunchy yet edible and potatoes are soft.

3. Empty into container and shove into the fridge, uncovered. I did this rather on the fly because my barley was ready late at night and I didn't want to make the cutlets right away. But this act was fortuitous as my fridge is a good dessicator and by the next morning I had a easily workable goo. If you have water left over in the barley after cooking or have cooked it on the stove it would be best to discard as much water before putting it in the fridge.

4. Bring mixture to room temperature. Add green onions, chillies, dill and salt to taste. Mash together. Check for taste. The mixture is ready to eat at this point but it's not in the most appetizing form!

5. Heat oil in a pan ( I started with 2 tbsp for 6 cutlets; once the pan was ready though I only put as little as half a tsp for subsequent rounds).

6. The tricky part is making the cutlets. You could use egg as a binder but because the mixture felt easy to use I went without it. Take a portion in your palm (size of roma tomato), squish to make cutlet shape and plonk on to the pan. This is messy and it will stick to your hands. Use your ingenuity for getting it on the pan. If you have made thalipet or akkeroti you'll find this similar in texture. It looks something like this on the pan:

7. For the first round I make chunky cutlets, like thick salmon cakes (see above), but later on it became clear that smaller sizes were the winner. So, you are aiming for a final size of Marie biscuits; those are Astro's favorite, I might add.

8. Wait patiently for one side to be crisp and brown. This is essential. If you try to turn too quickly it will start to break and resemble barley crumble instead of a cutlet. Turn over gently and brown the other side evenly before serving.

Tada! The inside will be a bit soft but the outside should be crunchy. We ate ours with Maggi hot n sweet, but pudhina chutney would have been a tastier accompaniment. Also, a dash of crushed peanuts would have made the cutlets even better.

Lastly, I dearly wish Amma (my grandmother) were here to taste this. She's the true foodie in my family.

Packing and Unpacking

2009-08-06T19:11:00.002+05:30

I have finally got about 95% of my things from various homes into the one at Hyderabad. When I was packing the things I didn't know where they would end up and so, it was hard to decide what I wanted to keep and what went to my auction or to Salvation Army. Now, after a year of living without much of my stuff I can say that I missed none of it. As we grow up we feel that there are some things that define us so well and belong to our personality; without these things we would feel incomplete. But the truth is that if you have the money you could re-create everything over and over again in different destinations. So, I don't think it's the money issue that prompts us to hang on to most things, well not the primary reason anyway.

I belong to that brand of people who are possessive about their books and keep them in immaculate condition, devoting as much to thinking about how to organize my home library as world peace. Yet, for all practical purposes my silly books are not rare editions or out of print books. They are run of the mill and can be purchased from any decent bookshop. So, the conclusion is that we hang on to things out of sentimentality. Sentimental. That feeling also deserves closer inspection. What is sentimental if not an attempt to hang on to a memory that we think deserves special mention? Yet, even without that material possession in your hands it's possible to recreate that memory. The synapses just have to make a special connection in your head.

As I grow older I am certainly adopting a very simple approach to memories. For me, it's got to be written and that's the only form I really need. The rest - pictures, music, fancy serving bowls and a first class chopping board can be recreated. I'm curious to find out if that will change if I have a family. Because that's the only sentimental relationship I am yet to experience and wonder if a clinical application of my new found material-free life would be possible.

Well, that was my procrastinating post; I am yet to unpack most things and I feel like the only decor I have at home is one of card board boxes. The only message I wanted to get across is that if you have lost something valuable or can't decide what to pack during your next move just remember that everything can be recreated. Travel light!

P.S. I think I may miss my chopping board just a wee bit more than what I would like to admit! :)

Right to Education

2009-08-04T21:35:00.001+05:30

this should technically be a tweet. But,

The Right to Education bill has been passed in the Lok Sabha. A more in depth look into what that means in practical terms in the next post.

Composting my kitchen waste

2009-07-26T17:25:00.005+05:30

Devoid of actual experiments to perform I have actively sought a lifestyle where small random trials of qualitative nature have had to satiate my curiosity to learn. The latest addition to this repertoire of experiments is my long term trial of composting.

If you lived in Seattle and weren't 'green' you were considered an abnormality. So it's rather ironic that I am only able to get around to composting on my return to India. Right, so I did a bit of googling to understand what it means and decided what would be best. Basically you can do the worms bit, vermicomposting or you can do it the natural way i.e., aerobic decomposition. Since I live in an apartment I didn't want creepy worms to suddenly break free and have no where to go; besides if they were to inexplicably die, I wouldn't survive the shock. The first time I had a summer planting season I managed to kill my entire collection due to water abuse and I am yet to fully recover from that massacre. So decomposition it was. Luckily, I found an ad in the newspaper about a composting demo at a store called daram. Do check out the blog; I particularly enjoyed this short film on weaving. Definitely, going back to shop there; they have plenty of lovely local cotton woven into the apparel.

Anyhow, the set up is quite simple. Its a 3 tier terracota Khamba (see picture). The protocol is 1-2-3 oh, and 4-5:

1. Dump waste in top most pot. Put 1:1 (volume) of dry and wet waste. Most of the kitchen waste is wet so you can add dried leaves and newspaper to make up the dry portion.
2. Stir daily or minimally, once a week.
3. When 3/4 th full dump into middle pot. Continue to fill up top pot.
4. When top pot is full the second time, shift middle stuff to bottom pot and move top stuff into middle pot. Essentially you are moving down through the pots as each gets full.
5. Patiently wait while nature and microbes do their job.

Simple, right? I dumped in my waste today with extreme satisfaction and have opened the lid at least 5 times since the morning to check if anything has happened. Neither strangely nor surprisingly nothing much has happened in the last 12 hours. This is going to be one long experiment. But I am quite excited to be composting. I have been warned that there will be maggots at some point but not to worry about them. If they are annoying, I could give them a kiss goodbye by sprinkling red chilli powder into the mix.

The most delirious piece of news about the composting pile is that I can dump the generous quantity of pigeon poop my balcony accumulates. Finally, there is some benefit of leasing, umm... I mean, forcibly sharing my balcony with the pigeon mafia.

If you are in Bangalore the set up is available at Daily Dump. For Hyderabad, I have the contact info. Please leave me a message with your email and I'll get the info to you. There are tonnes more instructions and the Daily Dump website above covers it all. And if you have composted before please let me know what I shouldn't learn the hard way!

A Smile and a Name

2009-07-22T19:36:00.003+05:30

A few minutes ago I had the gas man, H Bhai, come and set up my connection. Sans a bribe one can't get a government gas agency to even talk to you much less register for a connection. So, I went in for a private player in the market and so far, it's been great. But this post is not about the gas man. It's about what happened when I met him.

My usual style in any conversation with a service person is to enquire after their name and then provide mine. Most people give their name but are genuinely shocked when I remember it later. My father had told me this trick years ago about how remembering a person's name and spelling it correctly will open their hearts to me - once again, he is right. I'm quite rotten at remembering names actually and many times start the sentence with 'What's-her-name?' so, I cheat. I write it down on a slip of paper and shove it into my handbag. Admittedly shoving anything into my handbag is like tossing something into a 6 ft hole but I do manage to find stuff in it, occasionally even without emptying the entire content on the table. Anyhoo, the gas man came and was pleasantly surprised when I called him by name. To conclude I offered him a seat and some water. Then I topped off the visit with a Thank you, but in Hindi. Oh boy, he was impressed. I got a very nice Khuda Aafizz at the end!

This is just one of my interactions. Then there is my office housekeeper, the ironwallah, my maid, the gazillion watchmen in the building... urban India is one giant service industry and I make it point to do two things - Call them by name followed by an appropriate designation (Didi, Akka, Anna etc) and I smile. Either the people of Hyderabad are really nice or this strategy is working great. Everyone I meet has been so pleasant and nice. I'm going to be immodest and suggest, not everyone does this. For some reason, we tend to save our smiles for those we know or care about and, certainly not for those who are providing us a service. And I believe, this small gesture makes a big difference to almost every interaction I have had. In this daily world of violence and harsh sounds it's so soothing to have interactions lubricated by smiling that I can't imagine why more people don't do it. Besides, smiling uses less energy and muscles than frowning. There you see, some fantastic qualitative social analysis backed up by credible scientific fact. So smile often and jot names down. That's probably the only strategy you'll even need on how to win friends and influence people!

Share Auto Update

2009-07-20T21:22:00.003+05:30

Just wanted to share some more things I have learned about my wonderful public transport - share autos.

The sexes segregating - Well, not really. If there are only 3 people sharing, then all 3 share the passenger seat irrespective of sex. Women sit at the back in all cases.
If you are a man with a large bum surface area you get stuck in the back because you crowd out the driver in the front.
When you reach the end of your share auto destination don't be surprised if there is another share auto waiting to take you to the next popular destination. I do wonder how far the share auto will take me in the city?
The maximum number of adults I witnessed being accommodated today was 8 (excluding the driver). Don't puzzle your brain about how they fit - a few people were sitting atop each other.

Mamma Mia : the Hyderabad version

2009-07-20T07:21:00.004+05:30

Last night was a Hyderabad experience. My friend L wanted to treat me for my birthday and that is how we ended up at the Shilpakalavedika auditorium in Hitech City. The event was the staging of 'Mamma Mia' by an Indian dance company, the Hot Shoe production. Albeit I had not gone with much expectation of being amazed at the performance I certainly expected a standard to be met since the cheapest tickets were Rs 500 and for a whopping Rs 2,500 you could sit right up in the front. And finally, I enjoy ABBA so if nothing else a sing-a-long was what I figured would happen.

L and I arrived early so we were seated 10 minutes in advance of the opening time, 7pm. Imagine our incredulity when the show hadn't started till 7:30 and on approaching the event management staff who were more clueless than a walrus in Kenya, I was informed that it was delayed because of the security arrangements. The organizers had overlooked the fact that a single metal detector was placed at the entrance to a hall that was about to be house full to about a 1,000 plus people. Add the Indian norm to show up late for any event and you had a heady mix of things running awry. The show didn't start till 8, a full hour later, when for an appetizing start we were subjected to a poor film on the Hot Shoe company and, the event's producer and choreographer. A wonderful tribute to both these was paid even before the show started. Honestly, I thought an encore came after the show, not before. After a poorly resolved screening we then had to watch a film on Micheal Jackson because this show was dedicated to him! Even the hundreds of tributes on youtube were much better than this slapdash effort. After this we were treated to a re-run on the production company. Finally, the actual show started replete with screaming young women and a dance troupe that looked like a poor copy cat of the Shiamak Davar group.

The show was poorly managed and performance second rate. But the voices were beautiful. All the songs were executed on cue and in perfect pitch, almost making me doubt if they were pre-recorded. Let me give them the benefit of the doubt. Oh, I also liked the cheesy part where the dancers wore suits that glowed in the dark. Yes, I am a sucker for glow in the dark stuff!

Sigh! I don't want to go on. All I can say is that the show is being staged in Bangalore next weekend and you would be a fool to buy tickets. Better to just play the ABBA songs on your ipod and be Nina, pretty ballerina at your own home.

I'm 30!

2009-07-16T06:49:00.003+05:30

I can't exactly say that I have been waiting for this day but I am happy to be getting older. Actually what I think would be perfect is if I could speed through the next 30yrs in 8x speed and arrive at 60. Being older and distinguished sounds far more appealing than being younger and idiotic.

Anyway, the day is here. As compared to my last birthday I feel lighter, happier and far more content than I have ever been. It is rather strange; but life is all about comparison right? You never know how good you have it till you have experienced how bad it really can get!

Today, I have decided to start a new tradition. I'm going to write a letter to myself. A letter describing the status quo, as my father would normally say, to indicate my personal affairs. I am also going to write about my fears and ambitions. This letter is going to be tucked away safe only to be opened next year on the 31st birthday as a reminder to the legacies that I have built so far and the legacies I need to be building. As it struck me during my Edinburgh run, many times we are so focused on looking forward (which is the way to be most times) that we forget how far we have come. So, I want to use my letter to remind myself how far or how little I have come.

Overall though, here's looking forward to another year of experiences and memories which are inspiring but not painful, joyful but not boring and lastly, bloggable!

Share Autos

2009-07-14T18:40:00.003+05:30

To all of you who car-pool,bus, bike or walk to work here is an innovation that verily can claim "It happens only in India-ji".

I live on on popular road in Banjara hills. Although my office is walking distance the 25 mins it takes for me to get there is an uphill climb and arriving with grime on my face is not how I usually like to present myself. There were two alternative - walk 250m down the road to catch a bus or take an auto. Cautiously, I took an auto the first few days. Each trip is a negotiation nightmare and one evening, I decided to forgo the usual haggling and, started to walk homewards when an auto crept up beside me. The auto driver, a young looking hero-wannabe, complete with a red scarf around his neck, motioned his head to indicate I should jump in. I turned around to find two other women in the back seat. The driver thought I appeared a bit clueless and mumbled "mumble mumble office" which made no sense to me. I then asked if he was going on Road no 12 and he nodded, once again furiously indicating with his head that I should jump in. I did. We then stopped several times along the way and each time the driver would crane his head and mumble something about an office. I found it utterly enchanting. Two more men soon got into the auto and you must wonder, where did they fit? With the driver of course; one on either side, sharing the driver's seat. This journey lasted about 5 minutes and I was promptly dropped off after a meagre Rs 5 payout.

In the last week I have been able to figure out the system. There are autos which just travel Road no 12 and model themselves as Share autos. They pack about 5 (excluding the driver) and more, if there are kids. They simply travel up and down the road from the "Pension office" to the "Check post" and back again. So when I have to travel up the road I catch an auto driver who keeps chanting the words "Post" till his auto is filled. Then we climb up the hill, sometimes getting off when the poor engine is unable to navigate steep sections with all of us piled in.

I find the system brilliant. For 10 bucks I have a service that is anytime, provides seating and drops me home. For other points along road no 12 also I can use this service; the charges vary. What is rather neat is how the sexes neatly segregate themselves, so in an auto with men and women, the girls get the cushy back seat while the men sit in front. Also, the system is egalitarian. I have shared the auto with software chicks and day laborers. We are one big happy family traveling up or down the road.

After living for so many years in a society where random body contact between strangers is eschewed (to the extent that in a theatre people leave a seat between two parties) its warm and reassuring to use a system that relies on the ability of people to pack together in order to save money and time. I have missed this type of daily contact. Welcome home, I suppose?

The standard auto

Picture downloaded from: http://photos.igougo.com/images/p242056-Indore_India-Auto_rickshaw_in_Indore.jpg

Last run at Regents Park

2009-06-28T16:24:00.004+05:30

This is a quick post. I'm packing up and its going to be a busy day of doing the last minute things in London so pardon the spelling and grammar in this post - I don't have time to re-check!

I got up early by Sunday standards today so that I could run in Regents Park before the zoo crowd got there. I wore my pink short shorts, a sleeveless flimsy excuse for a shirt, slapped on SPF 45, donned the RayBan's and shot out of the apartment. Its probably going to be a while before I can run in shorts and not feel super conscious so I wanted to take this opportunity to 'dress down' for my run. The plan was brilliant considering that its a hot and muggy day. Regents' Park had the usual runners, birds and crazy dogs. Luckily the fountain was on so I could pour cold water down my back and head to cool myself. It felt like the summer runs in Central park when you should aim to be done with your run by 7. Sweat was soon pouring into my eyes, the glasses were slipping thanks to the gooey mess my sunscreen and sweat had created on my nose ridge, and there were white salt lines on my calves. It was worth every minute.

The earth smelt sweet and welcoming. We had some dark rains last evening and earth was soft to run on. The grass was being mowed and, the fragrance of fresh dog poop and green grass permeated the run. I took a detour walking break around the inner circle where all the rose bushes are in full bloom. The smell of roses was intoxicating. So many colours, shapes and sizes were out in bunches everywhere. The roses are of different varieties and labeled, and ironically the only label that caught my eye was "only for you"! Yes, indeed, only for me existed this beautiful garden of flowers with the morning dew still to slip away. All along the brook that runs through the park were birds engaged in various activities. The park was silent except for chirping birds and the occasional whine of a dog who wanted his owner to quit hogging the ball and throw it.

What a beautiful memory.

"It's dodgy, yeah?"

2009-06-27T12:00:00.001+05:30

Of all the things I have enjoyed in London the one thing I will take back imprinted in my head is the language. Although I have not experienced cockney or other difficult dialects I have picked the language of the masses (of central London) - well, at least the language that buy me some beer (a half; the pint is too large) and chips ( that's fries for the American). And what you want with that sarnie is a packet of crisps not wafers. The fantastic in America was always awesome while here a 'brilliant' covers it all. I don't live in an apartment, I live in a flat. And I don't take the subway I ride the tube. The list is endless but perhaps my favourite word so far: dodgy. This five letter word is a ubiquitous replacement adjective to anything that appears unpalatable, flimsy, scary, shocking, diffuse, shady, questionable... I'm sure you are getting the drift.

I'm sure you all experience moments of absolutely painful pauses when your brain goes through the Rolodex of adjectives and can't find one that suitable? It's also possible that like me you live in a society that doesn't understand the art of Howooda. So, what do you do? You switch the sentence around so that you can call something dodgy. I am proudly taking this back - since it's not in much use in India I'm pretty sure its pronouncement would mean some rounds of explanation which would give me enough time to deflect from what I was trying to say in the first place. Perfect plan to not answer questions. Time to be dodgy, yeah?

A right to childhood?

2009-06-13T15:13:00.002+05:30

My usual browsing of the BBC news website landed me here. A collection of pictures showing children working, for long hours and with little pay. The most heartbreaking child in the pictures is one who is smiling, while holding her tokri of bidis to sell, in the manner of a beautiful dancer. This is a painful topic for me. I don't have a high tolerance for seeing others, particularly children, suffer; my ever ready tear glands swing into action quickly. But the irony is that when in India, I see such images often and I feel entirely powerless. What use are the tears?

During my stay in Bangalore, in the last half of 2008, I was in a meeting with a group of people in Lal Bagh when a child in rags intruded into the meeting and asked for money to buy medication. The story is recorded here. This story still rankles me and exposes my beliefs acutely to scrutiny.

When I first heard of Asha for Education it was when another friend was running a marathon for them. I put it down as another organization which collects money that ends up in a black hole. But while conversing with a volunteer I was forced to admit my hypocrisy: Yes, I complained about the lack of change in India, especially in children's education but No, I wouldn't even contribute my time let alone my money to see what I could do. Many times when you start with a broad idealist viewpoint you are quickly overwhelmed by the logistics required to achieve that vision. Sometimes, it is fear that prevents us from taking the necessary steps and sometimes, it is lethargy or a deadly combination of the two. Yet, it's little drops of water that make the ocean. So I ploughed in to Asha for Education, cautiously, first as a marathon runner/ fundraiser then as a volunteer who led their marathon program. It was only two years after my 'induction' into the Asha world that I started to feel something about stewarding a project. Now, I see a lot of children who deserve a better life and to whom, I am only able to offer a smile and at best, some candy. In a way it seems backwards; disliking watching children suffer and now, actively seeking it out. But, there was a consequence of this action I had not anticipated and doesn't make it so backward: the inspiration that these children provide me with.

I don't think this journey will ever end and nor will children all over India get a better life in my lifetime. I will have to continue watching their suffering knowing that my efforts make a very small iota of difference and possibly, mean more to my sense of self-gratification rather than to them. But I have also decided that something like this shouldn't stop me from trying my best, in the circumstances that are present and with the resources I have. This lesson was a consequence of a conversation I had a few weeks after incident in Lal Bagh. Over a lazy cold-coffee shake I was confessing my guilt, to my good friend B, about spending money on a shopping spree to get office going clothes when it could have gone to that young boy. In his characteristic blunt and effective manner, he asked me to put the brakes on my guilt and advised that I could offset it by setting aside a certain sum of money a year to causes I felt passionately about. His gyan was simple: stop whining and do what you can within your limits. Smart man, this B. Anyway, I have taken his advice and am implementing it.

I think I will keep re-visiting this topic as it something I feel passionately about and don't think am getting too far with. Nevertheless, one of the greatest joys moving back to India (besides eating golgappas everyday) would be an opportunity to meet more children and to teach them as well as learn from them.

ipod-ing during a run

2009-06-10T01:46:00.003+05:30

I changed into gym clothes today and was trying to think what routine I would like to do. Running on the treadmill is something I don't enjoy and lately, I have been trying all the other machines - cycling, rowing, funny exercises on a ball etc. I wasn't particularly enthused but saw no reason to not go so I stepped into the gym bracing for a divine intervention. As soon as I walked in my ears were assaulted with loud thumping music. On most days I can easily tune the music out but today I hightailed it out. Then I thought of a way to make my run outside interesting - I'll put on my own music!

I am not a big fan of listening to music on earphones mostly because growing up all the earphones I tried were too big to fit my head properly (I still have to stuff an old hand towel in my helmet back home for scooter riding so it fits snug) and required all manner of adjustment with hairbands etc to increase the width of my head for a proper listening experience. Since it required so much effort the whole walkman, mp3, ipod phase has had no impact on my life. A while back, actually a year ago, a sweet uncle presented my sister and I with an ipod each. In a cruel test of getting what I didn't want I accepted my gift and shoved it in my bag thinking this was a sign to get into the ipod thing and lo, behold, the earphones, they fit my ears. Not too big or too loud - finally a music experience I could enjoy. Well, it took me another year and my friend A to finally get some music on there that I liked. Its not that I don't like figuring out how technology works, just that I don't see any point using my brain for something I don't need. For a similar reason I did quite lousy on my GRE exams - couldn't be bothered to figure out the analytical section. Why did I care how things worked out and figure out a, b, c or d? Have to thank my then bf to actually get to me do any practice tests. Now if there was a problem with the fluorimeter or an annoying system error while I was collecting data, that, was a situation that called for the grey matter. That life though is past - I only use my massive intellect to format documents these days. Another post on that later.

Right, so I have the ipod and I have music I like. I am in running attire. I plug the ear phones in and start. It's weird to run without hearing your foot falling on the cement or the ground. I never tried running with music because I enjoy watching people: listening to snippets of conversations; sharing the happiness of two lovebirds in the park; also, like listening to birds singing and avoiding dog poo. And if this wasn't enough sensory overload I also have a tendency to slip into a world of daydreams. So, this experience was interesting. Suddenly, no foot falls but a music to go with all my observations. The traffic noice was quite annoying and I had to turn up the volume to listen to my music. I have a bit of music training and one thing I can't bear to hear is apaswara, out of tune music and traffic was creating the wrong harmony. In the park though, things were different. I ended up alternating between my day dreams and listening to the music. I was also running faster than normal (knees are protesting painfully now) and didn't need as many walk breaks. The strangest part was a stretch where due to construction they had laid down plastic pallets on the running path and I didn't realize how loud my foot fall was till a gentleman turned around to stare me down.

So, do I like running with music on? The thing is, I already knew the answer to this but I figured there was no point in not trying it; just to see how this experience was. It didn't cost me a dime and besides having to remember to charge the ipod there was little to do on the logistics side. I am happy I could run faster but in endurance running I wouldn't want to mess with my pace. Next, I am going to download some podcasts on here to see if listening to geeky science stuff (the magazine Cell has a podcast and is on youtube!) changes matters any bit. No more music though, me thinks. Hopefully figuring out how to get a podcast on to this metallic wonder will be easy!

A Voice

2009-06-02T02:27:00.003+05:30

A mellifluous voice, singing a Sanskrit sloka, filtered through with the morning sunshine as Ravi was shaving. It was a full voice, in shruti lent to a lyrics with devotional love; an alluring voice. Who was she? He had never risen this early in his new apartment before and may be that's why he hadn't heard her before.

But Ravi had no time to investigate this further; he had a plane to catch. As he touched down in Mumbai, the humidity first assaulted his senses and then his shirt. He was soaked even before his meeting and his body odour was not going to win first place in a perfumery contest. In a gleaming back and yellow cab he worked his way through the morning traffic to Nariman point, the heart of India's financial business. South Delhi to South Mumbai: that was his life's journey. Born into a wealthy family that had all the right connections, Ravi was afforded the best education and as a consequence, a job he liked, or so he thought! The salary also offered him an opportunity to set himself up independently, much to the chagrin of his mother who thought her dearest should stay home clasped to her bosom till of course, she found a suitable replacement for it. Ravi had other ideas, always.

Before his meeting he changed quickly into the ironed extra shirt he always carried with him and sprayed on some more cologne. At the meeting he was supposed to negotiate a deal between the two companies to discuss on merger details. The road transport business was booming and if the two companies came together, they could monopolize the northern India market. He was young to have been sent out for this important deal but Mr Khanna, his boss, felt he has the right mix of education and class to pull it off. Once again, the family he was born into had landed him places. During the talks Ravi could hold his ground and arrived successfully at a framework for sharing the business, without huge compromises to either side. Mr Khanna would be pleased. Ravi just smiled; he could still smell his cologne in the lift that brought him back to the street.

The excitement of his office was still palpable in his private space that night. Mr Khanna has organized a small meeting of the top executives and congratulated Ravi on a job well done. He couldn't have asked for a better place to be. The phone rang intrusively into this introspection.

"Mama here" the voice bellowed, " Why didn't you call yesterday? Daddy was upset that you forgot his birthday."

Ravi scrambled for words, his mother always had him tongue tied on family matters. He mumbled on the phone, " Busy... forgot...you know I care for you..." His mother was pacified as usual and he tended his pranams to Daddy followed by belated birthday wishes. Ah, everything set just right, he felt. After a few more pleasant but routine exchanges he heard a satisfied click on the other end.

Next morning, he heard the singing again. This time the voice was plaintive, emotional and filled with sadness. Today, he was determined to locate the singer. After all, if he could hear it without amplification she couldn't be far away. He had already started picturing this girl: beautiful, slightly plump, puffy red lips, eyes like black coal, long hair held in a plait and a graceful gait. He reasoned that she must live in one of the adjoining apartments and so, he stood out on the balcony, scanning his surroundings. There didn't seem to be anyone in plain sight. This beauty must be singing inside her house, he thought; that required advanced investigation techniques. He fetched his binoculars. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, he did think he might look like a pervert, standing as he was: in stripped boxer shorts, bare chested and with binoculars trained into his neighbours' homes. Nevertheless, he scanned, willing for the nymph to show herself. Alas, the search came to nothing and the singing had stopped.

Ravi had an idea: he would advertise in his building that he was looking for a singer. That should smoke her out. It would also give him a reason to randomly quiz his neighbours about any singers they might have in their apartments. Mr Sharma from the flat below met him while he was putting up the sign and spotting a good occasion to collect gossip, asked with casual curiosity, 'Beta, are you looking for a singer to teach you singing?" Oh, blast! This was not something he had thought about. Who would offer a young woman as a teacher for him? He politely smiled, his teeth perfected by years of visiting the best dentist in town, " Oh, Sharma-ji, it's for my niece" He hoped Sharma-ji would not remember he was an only child. Sharma-ji simply bobbed his head and said, "Very good, very good. I'll keep my eyes open".

A whole week passed. He heard the singing every morning now, waking to catch it before it began and staying with it till the end. The songs were in Sanskirt or Hindi or a dialect there off. They were stories, morals or prayers. They lived in his head all day long. Still there was no sign he would ever find this woman as no one had answered his advertisement. Exasperated, irritated and completely mesmerized Ravi decided that he needed an accomplice. He begged Hema, his best friend for years, to help him. Hema was ready to help but with a deep sigh, she tried to tell her best friend that he can't ascribe a shape and form to the singer because if those expectations would not be met, he would be upset. Ravi didn't listen. He asked her help to find the woman, not rationalize his obsession.

The stayed up the night and as dawn broke they heard the singing. It was a relief to Ravi because Hema was beginning to think that he needed a professional mental help. But they both heard the music: fresh, light like dew falling off a leaf on to the wet earth. They set off to trace it. Hema seemed to have better luck in locating the set of apartments the music came from. They trained the binoculars. Nothing. The music continued so the singer had not spotted them. Besides knocking on each apartment door they had no other way to find out. Hema had an idea - why not organize a singing competition for the neighbourhood? Sure, they would have to listen to the cacophony of aunties, young girls and uncles but, this way they'll hear the girl and see her. Ravi had to admit the idea was good but the logistics were daunting. But, he was desperate and Hema volunteered to help.

So they set about trying to involve the Building Society. It felt like a business campaign which was right up Ravi's alley. The only inexplicable matter to the Society was Ravi's interest - why did a young wealthy brat want to be active in the community? But they acquiesced to his wishes because they all had or knew off, unmarried daughters who could meet Ravi as a result of this. Young Ravi therefore had Hema and a bevy of young lasses ready to cater to his wishes. His mother moaned that if he was so interested in finding a spouse: why didn't he just talk to her? Suddenly, the singing competition was affecting everyone!

On the morning of the competition He heard the singer in the morning and thought, tonight my darling, we will meet. The whole building was excited; a shamiyana was erected on the terrace of the apartment and a sound system hired. Everyone appeared to have dressed in their wedding best. Three older and loved members of the complex were selected as judges. The competition began. Ravi focused with an intensity Hema didn't think he had. After all, it was their generation which had enabled the clinical diagnosis of Attention Deficit Disorder. One by one the women came, bedecked and dazzling, with voices like sandpaper, or at least, that's what Ravi felt. His Voice was no where. The competition concluded, prizes were distributed and a jolly time had by all. The young girls discussed whom Ravi may have liked more and what he was looking for in a wife. No one saw Ravi withdraw into a spiraling depression. Hema lent him a shoulder and suggested they take a walk.

In the quiet of the night they walked in solemn togetherness. Ravi with a heavy heart and Hema mitigating his sadness. Neither spoke. The streetlights glowed softly. And then as though their really was God, they heard the voice. Softly, yet clearly. It was coming from the park. It was an unusual time and place to hear it. They treaded softly, lest they scare it away. Under the streetlight sat the girl, singing with her eyes closed, oblivious to the world around her. She wore a simple salwar kurta. Her nose was pierced, her hair short. Her skin was like brown clay and her clothes were too big for her slender figure. Hema approached her when she stopped singing and spoke in English. She shyly replied in haltering Hindi. Her name was Lata. She was a house help and stayed with her employers. She took care of the children, cooked meals and today, she had the night off because the family had gone to attend a building function. She hoped her singing had not bothered Hema, those songs were the only memories she has been able to bring back from her village and then, with a cursory nod she melted into the night. Ravi had been in love with an uncommon maid.

My comment: There is something funny about the tense in the story. I don't think I got it right and that, distracts from the narration. Please let me know if you can spot it.

The seduction of cooking

2009-05-31T02:16:00.002+05:30

I was chopping onions for the Mushroom Biryani and crying buckets. My tear glands are always on red alert, ready to spill into a gushing torrent however small the stimuli. At the end though I was fortunate to have yet another meal where I had the satisfaction of eating something delicious, simple and savory. But for me the cooking itself is not quite so much exciting as the chopping of the ingredients.

Let's start with the onions. You can't really chop onions the same way for all dishes. Sometimes I like slices (like for my Biryani), finely chopped when I am making salsa, in giant blocks for barbeques, or rings for salads. I like the process of methodically peeling and chopping them the right size for every dish. And I extend this curtsey to all my ingredients. For upma, I like my ginger finely chopped, for masala chai its grated and for paneer jal frazee it's in julienne. One afternoon I was chopping a rather unwieldy cabbage for my grandmother who was horrified that I was not cutting it to one-tenth of a mm of the size that she had requested. So, this OCD runs in the family. Phew, relief!

I also like arranging my chopped vegetables into distinct piles. It's rather ironic that I take care to keep their personalities in tact when on my plate everything usually gets blended into a soggy mess; whose complete sensory enjoyment lies in eating with my fingers.

My lone partner in this activity is a Global 9 inch chef knife recommended by the quixotic Anthony Bourdain in his book Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly. I love this beauty. The slim handle and the light blade make chopping vegetables a seductive experience. Keeping the knife in shape is a tough task though. One of my sweetest moments packing up in Seattle was discovering the receipt for the knife that allowed me a free sharpening. It was like finding 5 dollars in your pocket!

I can't wait to be back in my own kitchen with a knife I adore and working with ingredients that I grow. Umm... delicious! I can already smell the mint.

"No man is an island"

2009-05-25T15:21:00.002+05:30

A ramble.

This oft repeated phrase came to mind this week as we were given news of our extension to stay in London for a couple of weeks more. My parents also used this phrase frequently when they wanted to convey (to me) the importance of getting married which is rather ironic because my career and life are slowly moving towards community-centric activities. But, I digress.

We are a small team out here to learn how the parent corp works and a motley crew we are of moms, wives, husbands and dog-lovers. Perhaps the hardest thing for the team has been to give up their social life. Its been a difficult journey and today for some reason I finally felt their pain and loneliness. Being away from your stable life is hard enough but to not know when you'll return to that stability or how you will manage the vagaries of next few weeks while still being away is hard.

It is my observation, not original by any stretch, that as Humans we feed off the energy of the people and environment around us. So when we are are surrounded by people or climate that are cheerful we reflect that emotion in our hearts. When the world we inhabit, or in our workplace is filled with longing, depression and frustrations, we imbibe those emotions and carry it on ourselves. The default setting seems to be to mirror the world around us in emotional footprints. But if you have the self power and will; as the Vedantic philosophy suggests, you detach yourself from the world and do not allow the world to distract your inner Self so you can ride in an ocean of calmness while a violent storm rages outside.

For me this is a contradiction. I feel an energy and connection to all people and animals. I live off that energy especially on those relationships that give me positive 'love' energy and cannot imagine not feeling that connection. Detaching from that energy just doesn't make sense; I don't even know how I would go about doing it. This energy I feed off isn't a one way road either. There is give and take. I share in some one's joy and like a nuclear reaction that happiness is broken into smaller particles that moves along the human chain that I encounter for the next few days. I feel some one's sadness and my "happiness" battery begins to discharge as I hope that by feeling their sadness I can help them fill up with a bit of my saved happiness.

Megha's theory of living? I don't think so. It's a WIP: Work in Progress! Its just that in recent times I have become more cognizant of my mirror work and can now sense when I am truly sad vs just reflecting some one's else discomfort. I feel much more intensely but sometimes I can take charge of the emotions. But as blogpost "Evils of living in my head" indicates I am quite far off in controlling those emotions that bubble and froth inside me. That's when the whole feeding off really helps. I need to touch base with a person or thing that gladdens my heart: sitting by a beautiful river with an arching weeping willow, a run or meeting a friend who doesn't need words to convey empathy.

Life is strange. What I would thought would be a circumstances that would propel me towards being a closed person has made me a lot more open and honest. I hope I don't forget these lessons!

ARGs : a new fundraising tool

2009-05-19T22:08:00.002+05:30

I had the privilege recently of opening my email to the message "ARGs - what do they mean to you?" My funny bone immediately spotted that if I were to add an H after the G it would pretty nicely sum up my day so far. Argh! Quite early in the email ARG was expanded to mean Alternate Reality Game and I was intrigued. Not so much because I participate in computer games that simulate alternate realities but more because it was in the lunch hour and I had nothing better to do. Quite possibly the very reason you are reading this blog!

What are ARGs? Alternate reality games are ahem., not games. Well, they are games but they involve the participation of a community of gamers using lots of different technologies like mobile, internet, media and various platforms supported on those technologies like blogs, twitter, facebook, youtube etc. They can be used for marketing, awareness, education and fundraising or whatever you fancy you wanted to use it for.

How? One of the first ARGs was 'The Beast' designed to drum up interest for Steven Spielberg's movie, Artificial Intelligence. To read more about it visit this wikipedia page. Briefly, it was a 12 week plot spun around three entry points (rabbit holes in ARG-speak) in order to solve a mystery. Clues were spread across websites, blogs, phone numbers and puzzles. Once you were pumped up about the mystery, the marketers bet you would like to see the movie. I can't comment on what happened next because I didn't play the beast and I slept through AI.

I work for a biomedical charity and volunteer for education- centric charity so my ears perked up when one of the possible uses for ARGs was in charities and universities. Indiana University used an ARG called Skeleton Chase last year ( nice review here ) to introduce freshmen to healthy habits that they hoped, would last a lifetime. The mystery was tied into students performing physical activities and as the weeks wore on, it encouraged group activities. I suppose it's a bit early to know if these students did indeed make some lifetime healthy habits but you are beginning to get the drift?

There are two charities that have used ARGs. For awareness, the British Red Cross launched Traces of Hope. The plot revolved around an Ugandan teenager searching for his mother in a civil war. The idea was to increase awareness about the tragedies civilians face in the midst of strife and displacement due to civil wars that they had no hand in. For fundraising, Cancer Research UK, had an ARG called Operation: Sleeper Cell. Basically, you had to solve a puzzle in a grid and in order to release more people from the grid to help you solve the puzzle you had to donate money. They were able to raise £3,500 this way. I saw the number and started to do the math.

Marathon running is one of the fundraising events that I have directly participated in and trained others to do. It requires dedication and time, plus the occasional physical strength. Overall, it works wonders with the runners self esteem but running 26.2 miles to not every one's cup of tea. In contrast ARGs require usage of technology that is in hand ,to collectively solve a problem, all of which you could do from your couch. It has the potential also to encourage youngsters to donate: who may not necessarily think much about putting 20 bucks on a game as compared to a similar donation for some one's marathon endeavour. But ARGs require time and dedication. For e.g., the creators of Operation: Sleeper Cell were a pack of 20 volunteers who spend 8 months of their spare time to create the game. So the execution of this concept is still in its infancy. Nevertheless, I am pumped. Its like a treasure hunt on a global scale with the additional perks of raising awareness and fundraising. Sounds a bit too cool to be true, yeah?

Its a bit early to comment how successful this technology would eventually be or even in which area it would have the biggest impact. But, looking at the way people lap up wiis and Nintendo, I think it's a promising technology and if the amount of time and effort to make one could be reduced i.e., it became more practical, it would be handy for any charity to use as a fundraiser and awareness tool.

The Economist has a nice summary on ARGs.
Here's a link to a Q and A at a recent conference where one of the creators of Operation: Sleeper Cell was quizzed.

The evils of living in your head

2009-05-10T21:51:00.005+05:30

I have been having a lot of me time recently. Some of it has been pleasantly meditative, a lot of it has been doing laundry and some of it has been spent wallowing in self pity. I am, as a general rule quite positive and optimistic, but, that machine breaks down sometimes.

Take this weekend for example. I spent a lot of time talking to my family, had a wonderful breakfast thanks to S who has simply been the most superb friend for the last few months -- an ode to her in a later post--then, we sauntered about in Covent Garden indulging in some window shopping therapy and I ended the day with drinks with a buddy from work. Quite busy you might think but I went to bed all cross about the way life has treated me and got up in the morning half dreaming of a violent physical act on another person. I am not a big fan of violence ; the extent of my bad wishes for people who piss me off oscillates between wishing them a cold water shower and a flat tire. So, this rather disturbing image was a nightmare to get up into. I have been getting some help for all the trauma of previous year and one of things my healer suggested was to treat myself with empathy. But, I'm thinking, how can I empathize with this homicidal thought?! yikes.

Exercise, I thought, would help dispel this image which got more graphic and disturbing as the morning progressed. So I set out on a long walk. For a while my mind got distracted with the thought - what if someone else is thinking about me this way, right at this time? Gosh, I hope I have never hurt someone so bad that they wish I was dead. Self pity then came back online and I was once again obsessing about how unfairly I have been treated and I didn't deserve what I got. Clearly, walking was not going to help. So I climbed into a train to treat myself to some Indian food and packed myself a magazine to keep my overactive brain in order. A few articles about displaced Sri Lankans, Pakistanis, Burmese and pictures of suffering people restored my rational mind a bit: in comparison to these people my problems were indeed idiotic and trivial. So much suffering in the world...

I got off the train and was walking with this thought in my head when I noticed a couple walking ahead, hand in hand, clearly enjoying the day and buzzing along in cozy togetherness. The self pity thoughts came back faster than a bullet train. Why me? Arrgh? I wish I has been smarter about my choices. How screwed up am I to have deserved such a relationship? so on and on... this was a losing battle.

There isn't a story or Astro inspired rule of life in this ramble. All I know is that after some food and some more walking the images subsided and I am only left with anger. Self pity has gone on a long hike, I hope and now I am tapping the anger out of my system. Its been a good journey , nay recovery, since the first post and yet, it seems that on some days...yuck!

India's Report Card - ASER 2008 II

2009-05-02T15:53:00.010+05:30

Disclaimer: None of the information reported here is original, except for the ranking table which I compiled for my amusement and some musings under point 4.

**MUST READ** If you are short on time I would recommend reading pages 13 - 28 for comments from the people who designed, executed and analyzed ASER 2008. Also handy are pages 50-53 for a summary of findings and page 61 for India stats. Note - these numbers are based on the pdf page number rather than what is written in the Table of Contents in the report.

Findings I found interesting:

Overall enrollment is up to 95.7% i.e., this percentage of 6-14yr olds are in some form of elementary school. That means that the number of kids registered to attend school has increased but it's fairly obvious that just getting a child to school is not enough; we need to be able to keep her there and educate her. Still, there is some consolation in the fact that schools are more accessible than they were in the past. A primary school is located within 1 Km radius of habitation for 92.5% villages. 67.1% villages have a government middle school while 33.8% have a government secondary school.
Overall, the learning levels in India are either stagnating or declining (page 61). This varies considerably over states but if one were to consider that SSA was rolled out by the central government as a plan to fix primary school education all over the country, it would appear that the scheme has delivered (enrollment is up; schools are accessible) but not accomplished (learning is down) its stated aim. For example the percentage of children in between standards 1-8 who read a story was 43.6% in 2005 and 41% in 2008. Similarly in Maths, the percentage of children who were able to do long number division was 30.9% in 2005 vs 27.9% in 2008.
Children are increasingly attending private schools - 16.4% in 2005 vs 22.5% in 2008. This trend varies significantly between states with Himachal Pradesh and Kerala having the highest numbers. Interestingly, overall enrollment in private school doesn't correlate that well with increased learning levels for states like Chattisgarh and Madhya Pradesh (MP). In fact, MP has the same level of private school enrollment as Tamil Nadu (15%) and yet they are on either side of the spectra as far as learning outcomes are observed (Table 1).
Madhya Pradesh and Chattisgarh are states with the most significant improvements in learning outcomes. From Table 1 it would appear that MP has beat Kerala as the most 'well read' state. What was shocking to me was the poor learning levels in Tamil Nadu, the first state to introduce midday meal schemes and with high educational inputs. Surprisingly, of the BiMaROU (Bihar, Madhya Pradesh, Rajasthan, Orissa and Uttar Pradesh) states only UP is doing worse than Karnataka and just based on my perhaps skewed perception of economic development I would consider Karnataka more developed than them. In the same league is Gujrat, another state praised for its rapid economic development under the Modi government yet, their learning indicators are dismal. All this would suggest that since educational strength doesn't match up with a State's economic development we are going to see huge migrations as more educated youth move to where the industry and jobs are.

Table 1 - Ranking order of Indian States based on 2008 values for reading and maths.

India's Report Card: ASER 2008 - I

2009-05-02T15:20:00.006+05:30

Summary of effort and methodology.

Since 2005, Pratham, an NGO in India has been facilitating the publication of Annual Status of Education Report (ASER, असर in hindi). This independent survey tries to capture the current status of education of India's rural children. The sheer size of their enterprise is impressive. This year alone 16,198 villages were covered with a total sampling of about 700,000 children between the ages of 3 - 16 all across the country. A complete provisional report can be found here. It's 208 pages long and crammed with information that every education and policy statistician would love to analyze.

The parameters looked at are very simple - can our children read and do math? An overly simplified gist of the testing procedure is this: for reading they progress from alphabets, to 2 letter words, sentences and finally comprehension; for math, it starts with identification of digits, higher numbers and then performing mathematical functions such as subtraction, multiplication and division of progressively larger numbers.

Standardized tests have been created for each state so that children are evaluated in the language they are taught. For a flow chart on the testing procedure please go to page 41 of the report. Sample tests and volunteer sheets have been included in the Appendix. From what I can gather the ASER report mobilizes a large number of volunteers who are provided with a 4 day training and one day refresher before they are sent out to the field. From their acknowledgment it is clear that this mobilization has been across various sectors of the society which in itself is something to be proud of, I think. For the sheer scale of this effort, a standardized effort is key for data generation and, this year they have gone back to re-check 2-4 villages in each district to make sure the data was captured correctly.

ASER has consistently followed the same questioning methodology for the past 3 reports so it's interesting to compare the trends across states and districts. Although, they do caution against reading trends across the years in a single district due to their sampling methodology. Each year they also include a new parameter that can further give insight into the lives of our rural children. In ASER 2007 there was a section on testing children's English language skills while in ASER 2008 they have looked at infrastructure available in the village and household of the child such as TV, phone, electricity, PDS, Post Office etc. It adds an invaluable economic layer on top of the education metrics they present.

ASER 2008 has covered 564 districts out of the total 583. In each district 600 households ( 20 households in 30 villages) were randomly selected. They predict this yields more than 1,000 children per district. The villages themselves are randomly selected: 10 have been retained from 06, 10 from 07 and 10 new have been added. Children are tested on Sunday, when they are expected to be at home. Their survey methodology is quite interesting and a more detailed explanation can be found in the report itself.

To view a break up of numbers statewise and look at prettily colored pictures of India based on educational metrics please visit the ASER centre. In my next post I will present a data table with combined rankings for the results in 2008.

Please note that this effort is my own humble initiative to understand the state of our education and is not a rigorous academic discussion on either the methodology or outcome. I do not have the right training to pontificate on either; but, I do have the curiousity to find out how our children are doing!

Legacy consultant: A thinly veiled advert

2009-04-25T19:33:00.005+05:30

Are you wealthy? Do you want to leave a legacy that will be cherished and appreciated for countless generations? If yes, you may need my services.

Let's face it: you aren't immortal. Sure, if you believe in reincarnation you might think that you will live forever but say you were reborn as an Alligator, the only reason people would remember your name is if you were in a zoo and ate the keeper. Otherwise, you would in essence, just be another Alligator destined to become an anonymous yet wealthy handbag. My point is that no matter what your beliefs, if you want to be remembered, you need to leave a legacy.

The simplest way I for see for any human being to leave a legacy is to be a parent. You leave your legacy genetically and culturally. The caveat is that this legacy is not permanent. Over a period of time the genetic legacy gets diluted as your children reproduce. Culturally also your legacy only survives till your children's generation. Unless, that is, you spawn a huge family business empire and leave millions to your family. But let's be honest, how many of us can become Rockefeller?

Right ho, so if you are realistic you would have to agree that given your resources and interests, besides having children you may have to consider other ways of leaving a legacy. Which is why I think there is a big market for legacy consultancy. As my client you have to let me know the amount you want to set aside for creating you legacy and, it will be my job to find you the best avenue to create and sustain that legacy. Ideally the legacy consultant should be a key member of your wealth management team but first, let's talk about your legacy - How long do you want to be remembered for? Do you want the legacy to be self-sustainable? Then importantly - Whom would you want to remember you? Dogs, Salamanders or pithy humans? if humans - what type and age group? Do you want to make it a one-time adventure or slowly build it over time? See how the questions add up?

That is why, you need to hire me. I will provide responsible and impartial assessment of what type of legacy you can leave and advise on how best to execute that vision. It doesn't matter what your background or how much you want to set aside. What matters is realizing that your legacy doesn't build itself and it needs constant work. Let me help you with this journey and contribute my razor sharp engines of grey matter to realizing your dreams. Anyone can leave a legacy, so shouldn't you? Hire a legacy consultant today*.

* realizing of dreams not guaranteed. Must be over 18 to hire me. Smokers please excuse.

Wish I was home

2009-04-24T01:41:00.003+05:30

Today, I wish I was back in India so that I could vote. After all those annoying trips to government offices and tracking down various election officials, I was finally on the electroral list so it feels a bit impotent to just watch the action from afar. Well, I have another life goal: to cast my vote.

The ride home

2009-04-19T14:37:00.005+05:30

Manjula exited office with an unspoken sigh. It was Tuesday, a day of little consequence work wise but one that suggested a much longer time to go before she could forget the incessant air conditioning buzz of her office. As she approached her scooter she began to tie her hair behind her back. By the time she got to her scooter she had draped her dupatta tightly around her head and was ready for her helmet. The last act was to wear her protective gloves and socks; in the dusty route between her house and the office this garb was her insurance against getting dust in her hair and an uneven tan on her hands and feet.

As she turned into the main road her mind went into automatic and she followed the route she had been taking for the past four years without checking either mirror or traffic lights, stopping only when others did or, an angry honk propelled her to swear and weave out into a crater sized pothole. Today, her mind was on automatic but not bereft of thoughts. Time was short; she had to commit by tonight or else. "Or else..." she thought softly. Amma would be waiting for her with a cup of coffee and some evening snacks. She wasn't accustomed to these gourmet welcomes but they had increased in frequency as the deadline approached and she remained noncommittal.

Appa had asked her two weeks ago, exactly to this day, to take out a loan. She was the elder child, he said and was the only one practically able to pay back such a sum. He was willing to put up his plot in the village as collateral but it was she who had to sign the papers and liable to pay back the amount if Bopanna defaulted. The conversation has taken place after dinner, while she was reading the newspaper and enjoying a cool evening out on the portico, surrounded by jasmine flowers. She didn't want to be disturbed but her father didn’t notice and prattled from start to end without waiting for her response. Bopanna wanted to go abroad, England actually, to pursue higher studies in accounting. He had identified the college and was ready to apply. He only needed a loan to pay for the tuition; Appa had enough for travel and lodging. They had spoken to the bank manager and Appa could not take out the loan because he was retired. They needed a salaried person. She said she would think about it.

That was the start of a domino. Appa never expected her to register any opinion other than meekly agreeing. He didn't know how to respond and neither did Bopanna, who was quietly listening to the conversation from inside the house. Manjula had overheard this phrase several times in office while she marketed time share holidays and today, she felt she had earned the right to use it. The first emotion to hit her was despair. Why did she have to shoulder this responsibility? And then, after she uttered the fateful words, she was stunned.

Manjula and Bopanna were four years apart. They went to the same school but after 10th standard their lives were acutely different. She worked hard to get into a good college, held a part time job to pay tuition and walked several kilometers to save on bus fare. She lived a life of denial convinced that once she graduated and got a job, she could enjoy a life of choice. Bopanna on the other hand, meandered through college, begging Amma for pocket money which she doled out from the house budget and with some effort cleared the B.Com final exam. She wasn't actively discriminated as the girl child but there was always a subtle expectation that she wouldn't be demanding. It was her salary that gave them a respectable lifestyle after Appa retired and an administrative glitch lost him his pension.

Manjula was stunned not because such an expectation was made off her but because, this time, she didn't want to yield. Her own brazenness shocked her. He was her younger brother, family, after all, and yet, she wasn't convinced that this was a good decision. After the conversation, an eerie silence descended in the house. The next day everything moved in routine but the air became heavy and communication, monosyllabic. Amma didn't talk about the 'conversation'; she went about her housework but conveyed her emotions by looking at Manjula from the corner of her eye. She didn't chastise or scold; she merely looked, a visual communication far more powerful in unsettling Manjula than verbal aggression. Bopanna avoided her.

Each evening after that day, Appa spoke to Manjula - sometimes softly, sometimes angrily, occasionally abusive but always pleadingly. He wanted this for Bopanna. A chance to send a family member abroad for higher education. A chance for their family to climb out of the lower middle class bracket. Why didn't she see how it would alter all their lives? Why couldn't she be generous? After all, it was only a signature and Bopanna would pay the loan when he got a job. Manjula just nodded through these tirades, benumbed and sad. Why didn't Bopanna talk to her about this himself? Why use Appa? and Why did they do all the groundwork without consulting her?

Today she had to deliver an answer. Yes meant a loan taken out to educate her brother at the cost of losing her choices. No meant a stifling home environment bereft of joy and togetherness. Devil and the deep blue sea? She prefers the sea; at least she could swim. As she rode home, the duppatta flying like a flag behind her, she knew this situation had to be resolved today, right after dinner. As the traffic light turned green and the traffic pulled out, she made the right turn to her home. Her selfishness may cost her sanity and there didn't seem any way out of it. She would have to say yes.

She opened the gate and parked her scooter. Amma came out and requested her to get some milk from the store around the corner. She obliged, her mind made up but her heart very heavy. The shopkeeper caught her eye and she mouthed, "Milk." The store was busy so she let her eyes wander over the neighborhood adverts: day care, Lakshmi temple fund, summer camp for children, paying guest accommodation, an endless display of a world that she never sampled. She collected her milk and headed home. Dinner was laid and consumed. She walked into the portico as was her habit with the newspaper tucked under her arm. Appa followed.

"Manjula, are you going to sign the papers?" No preamble to the discussion tonight, it would seem.

Manjula sat on the floor, opened the newspaper and laid it out.

"Appa, we shouldn't rush into this decision." She would buy time; that was her strategy before she ultimately relented. She averted her gaze back to the newspaper and continued reading from the back, as she normally would. "Maybe Bopanna should work for a year or two before moving abroad-- get some experience. I have heard that helps to get a better job." This line of argument appeared as she scanned the advert section.

Appa snorted and with a heavy breath unleashed a tirade of such magnitude that Manjula thought her newspaper would fly away in the gale force of such a speech. Ungrateful, selfish, modern, uncultured were some of the adjectives he liberally sprinkled his harangue with. Manjula just sat and read. An ocean of calm. Her brain already shut out Appa as white noise and she was busy listening to the symphony of her inner child, delighting in the comic strip and enjoying the printed word. Then the words jumped out at her, again: paying guest accommodation. No, she thought, what would her family think? But it seemed so simple. She could continue to support them but move away. A bold gesture: girls in her family were expected to stick around till they got married. But, if she did move, she wouldn't have to listen to this speech every night. Running away always seems like such a bright idea when it first occurs!

She looked up. Appa was done. She stood up, newspaper in hand and walked inside. Appa followed. Bopanna approached her " Akka, please." Amma implored her and upbraided her; all in the same look. Manjula was tired now, really tired but radiant. She handed the newspaper to Bopanna, " You should look for a job." Appa knew he was defeated. The eerie heaviness lifted in her heart and she felt free. Tomorrow she would seek out the paying guest accommodation.

Footnote - I conceived of this story while on one of my long runs. When I first thought of the story it didn't have an ending but my friend E encouraged me to write it without one and while I typed it out the end wrote itself. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I liked writing it. Comments and criticism on writing style welcome.

Edinburgh Half Marathon

2009-04-13T21:11:00.004+05:30

Another medal. This one for the half marathon I ran past weekend in the old and beautiful city of Edinburgh.

I have missed writing the last few weeks and its mainly been because I have a job that involves wilting under the glare of computer screens all day long (they are not even macs; the horror!) and so, I have had no appetite at the end of the day to sit and type. In order to give my cyber life a buzz, I bought a new laptop and hope the excitement of learning all about it will force me to sit under its halo at least a few extra evenings more than what I have been accomplishing.

Back to the race, if I may call it that because at the pace I run I definitely do not race, instead merely doing somewhere between a fast amble and a trot. It was a beautiful sunny day in Edinburgh and the course was all along the coast. The picture uploaded was taken right before we descended next to the water and basically the course hugged the coastline as you see it. I was worried about it being hilly but it was pleasantly flat. What was annoying was the wind which gusted with such ferocity from the North sea that it made me thankful for having donned everything short of my skiing jacket for the run. I enjoyed the regular things about such races: grabbing drinks from people's hand, littering the streets with half finished drinks and exchanging high fives with children dotting the route. For my efforts I was rewarded with a mars bar, a banana and a shirt which was two sizes too big for me.

Although memorable as most experiences of such nature are, what I will remember from this race is an epiphany I had at about mile 10. Because the course was designed in such a way that you could see along the coast right back to the point you started I looked up from mile 10 and couldn't believe how far I had come. Translate that to a mushy life sentiment and I realized that I am so busy planning the future: is there going to be food at mile 6? What type of energy drink do they have? Should I take the orange or the lemon version? and so on, that I forget all that I have done in the past. At mile 10 I'm not congratulating myself on getting to the double digit or having successfully claimed an orange energy drink but instead plotting what run:walk ratio I should maintain for a under 2:30 finish. And that works in life as well. I have never sat down and congratulated myself on the the good decisions I have made and the meandering routes I have taken to get where I am emotionally and professionally. How often do you really stop to think about how far you have come rather than how far you need to go? It's probably an innate human tendency, hard wired into the way our synapses connect, that we devote little energy to remembering battles that we fought and won, as compared to the ones we lost. So, give yourself a pat on the back sometimes, you deserve it and when the journey seems too long, just look back and see how far you have already come; then, pick up your feet and start running!

Wrecks

2009-03-15T00:21:00.002+05:30

Finally, I watched a play by Neil LaBute. I heard about this playwright about 3 years ago when his play, "Fat PIg" was doing the rounds in New York City. Since then, its been a long fight to get access to one of his plays, a movie based on his play or books on his plays; somehow all of these were either booked or checked out with a mile long list of people wanting to subscribe to it. But this week, I got my wish and watched his play at the Bush Theater.

The theater itself is quite special with a narrow staircase leading to a small room with an U- shaped seating arrangement. There were only 3 rows of seating and not more than 50 seats, making it an intimate performance. This play was a monologue, with smoking on stage! Now this was something I wasn't prepared for. Sure the ticket specified this as did the usher, but it was still unsettling when 5 minutes into the play the actor lit up. Nerd that I am I actually counted the number of smokes: he ran through 5 cigarettes in a 70 minute performance.

I dislike smoking and smokers, which is why I have spent better part of a afternoon understanding the smoking ban imposed by the Indian Government. So it was quite difficult weighing the decision to watch this play. I couldn't pass up the offer cause I didn't think Neil LaBute's racy plays would ever premiere in India so I had to take the chance. Surprisingly, the smoke didn't bother me at all. I had opted for a 3rd row seat to be as far away from the smoke but I think the actor must have used a brand that didn't permeate the room. It did get me thinking though - What if this actor didn't smoke, but had to, just to play a part? and this got me thinking about acting in general. As an actor you have to play parts and take on personalities that are far away from your personal beliefs so it must be a hard job. I also wonder if it is easier to play roles that are perceived to be socially or morally superior, like playing Gandhi or King of Siam vs doing roles of Gestapo agents or slave traders. Brr... I am just very happy that I have job where my personal beliefs are very well aligned to the work I do!

Coming back to the play. Wrecks was a story told by a very talented actor (Robert Glenister). It was played beautifully, the story told in conversation style with a very fine smoke ring thrown in to charm the audience. This was Labute play though, so I knew something bizarre was about to happen and it wasn't till the end of the play, as we clapped for an encore did it finally hit me. I don't want to reveal the spoiler but all I can say is that it was scripted so subtly and played so well that a big whopping aspect of the play didn't hit home till I left. This was a powerful new experience - a feeling of disbelief long after the moment has passed making you wonder if you really did hear it right. Luckily I went with a friend so I could confirm what I heard. In most plays the audience reacts: laughter for the comedy bits, sighs for the sad moments and strong gasps for the shocking bits. We had the laughter and the sighs but no gasps and it was particularly ironic since what was revealed wasn't acceptable by any moral standard.

What more can I say? Can't wait to see another LaBute production and would recommend the playwright to anyone who enjoys intense theater.

Annie and Frank

2009-03-14T23:48:00.004+05:30

Actually I am quite sure that is not what their real names are; nevertheless, they are the highlight of my running expeditions around Regents' Park.

Each weekend I do my long runs at Regents' Park: the glorious garden which caters to many runners, cyclists and walkers in central London. As I round up the outer path I first encounter the Keeper's quarters of the London Zoo before hitting the ticket box. Depending on how late I get there the narrow path is either deserted or filled with prams, children running wild and exasperated parents as they wait for the ticket office to open. After delightfully dodging this crowd my heart sing a high note as I peek across the road to the Giraffe enclosure. There they are: Annie and Frank. The first few times I ran around the park I was too early to catch them but lately my timing has been perfect. Their keeper usually opens their stalls and Annie saunters outside. Frank is a bit wary so he sticks his head out of the stall munching on morning oats or whatever it is that they eat. Most often I find Annie out and about enjoying the morning sunshine or cloudiness (this is London after all) while Frank watches her having a good time.

I have decided to run the half marathon in Edinburgh on Apr 5th. This is the first time I have trained alone, without the joy of sharing the blisters and adrenalin with a team; it's been challenging to be running 5 days a week by myself. One way I get through my long runs is by keeping exciting things along the way to look forward to - an art I perfected during my Washington DC full marathon where my dearest friends L and E as well as family alternated at various mile markers to keep me going. At Regents' Park I use Annie and Frank, a milkshake shop and fields of daffodils to keep me going. Spring is here so my running is accompanied by the glorious tweeting of birds; the males are shining their coats and practicing their arias for the mating season. It truly inspires poetry but luckily for you, my reader, I cannot compose a ditty to save my life! Here's a picture of daffodils that may instead, inspire you to go out there and run.

The auntie process

2009-03-08T22:52:00.002+05:30

I have recently become an auntie to two girls. Although I am not an auntie genetically I certainly feel a level of emotion that I have never felt upon hearing about a baby's birth. This is my first time of potentially having a role in the upbringing of the next generation - of baby sitting, of day out with kids, of bedtime story telling etc. I have to cautiously say potentially because the babies born are very far away from me right now and I don't know when I will see them but see them I will.

Becoming an auntie by phone has presented a couple of things for me to mull over. The first was - what do I want to be called? I had thought of this before and settled on mausi : the north-indian term for auntie, specifically, the mother's sister. Both my nieces though are through my connection with the father so technically this couldn't be applied yet I felt the most comfortable with it. One thing I was most certain of was that I don't want to be "Megha Aunty" because it makes me feel like I am off to a kitty party and will only stop by to pull on the cheeks on my nieces with the compliment "Cho Cheweet". Also I am in the process of discovering my culture and indianizing my language abilities so I thought settling for an Indian version of Aunty was the way to go. The choice therefore was either Chachi, Atai, Mausi, Mami or Chikkamma. I went for Mausi because I am a sucker for alliterations. Mami was eliminated because it's Aunty in Hindi but grandma in tamil. So, Megha Mausi I have become.

The next vista that this new relationship has created is one that relates to gifts. Now I have to make my foray into knitting afgans, looking for sales in Baby Gap and figuring out what size goes on what baby age group. This is vastly challenging because I hate shopping; it is very rare that I remember my size when I visit a store so stocking baby information is going to very tough. I might have to create a little black book of info or outsource my gift buying. Making the booties isn't too hard if I didn't worry about what colors the moms like for their babies. Now I have to watch out for the baby and the parent's interest.

Looking forward to a whole new world of experiences with babies!

Zealous Reformers, Deadly Laws

2009-02-08T23:57:00.002+05:30

I have finally finished a most remarkable book by Madhu Purnima Kishwar. I met Madhu in Seattle and had the opportunity of interacting with her personally for a few hours. So, while reading the book I felt I had a face and personality talking to me, which added a richness to my experience.

The book has some fantastic reviews (The Hindu is one) out there and I won't expand on it, instead as usual, I'll give you my personal take on the book. The reason I picked up the book was because it was about women's laws in India. My knowledge on this issue is scant and I was curious to understand her opinions. In this book she covers laws on a number of women's issues like dowry, sati, harassment and inheritance. She illustrates the strengths and weaknesses of these laws combined with a powerful analysis of its usefulness in the real world. Each law is dealt as a separate essay and was penned during her tenure with Manushi, her journal, so it's not current news. Although, it is highly possible that these laws have changed little in the past decade so you can't entirely be dismissive of her perspectives.

The book is intellectually heavy and stimulating. It is also supremely informative, coherent and darkly humourous. I did indeed learn about most issues pertaining to women's laws. Perhaps, the most startling feature is Madhu's honesty - she clearly admits that the strategy her organization initially had to protest dowry harassment (public outcry outside the husband's home) did not help. It created a stir but still left the wife estranged and helpless. That is a laudable feat: the ability to say that something didn't work and re-focus your effort on the bottom line viz., how do you ensure women are not harassed for dowry? She now feels that changing inheritance laws and encouraging parents to take married daughters back into their house coupled with better education for girls, might work better. We Indians love belonging in a society and she rightly identifies that strengthening the society safety net for married daughters while providing them asset-generating dowries (FDs in her name, property etc) empowers them more, instead of asking for more stringent anti-dowry laws that create strife and are easily abused (by women and men). I have elaborated on just one of her essay topics. But all essays are similar in vein: they provide rich detail on the situation and then she provides what she thinks are better solutions.

I found her informative on inheritance laws as well; I didn't realize how poorly we women come out in the laws for inheriting ancestral or self-acquired parental property. She also has a zinger on Deepa Mehta's Fire, which caused a major social upheaval in India. She trashes the movie not for the concept, but for its execution and the film directors' lack of not presenting a more real situation. I honestly didn't like the movie, just as a movie and never really felt strongly enough to debate about its merits or demerits, so this was a highly amusing piece for me to read.

Overall, the book has provided me a wonderful framework to understand women's laws in India and help me contextualize any recent blurb I read about it in the news. I highly recommend it to anyone interested in women's issues in India.

Why I run

2009-02-08T23:13:00.008+05:30

Yesterday, I stepped out into the London morning and began my run. A few minutes later I entered Regents Park. After half a mile, my breathing settled down into a routine and my legs started following their own rhythm, leaving me feeling absolutely in bliss. Recently, I have also started a meditation practise but it pales in comparison to the feeling I have when I am running. It's the only time I feel I am living in the moment - there exits no past, no pain and no future. Truly peaceful. The only other time I have felt this "oneness" is while I am dancing and I am wondering if its something about a physical activity that makes me feel 'in the zone'. Adrenalin, perhaps? Hard to say, but any analysis is quite academic because I feel good doing this and am going to continue unless that status quo changes.

Running a marathon was not on my list of things to do but it became an idea when I cheered on the thousands at the NYC marathon. Then an opportunity called Asha presented itself and I just resisted. Everything felt like a bigger priority - PhD, the logistics of training, the fear of injury and the overwhelming anxiety of being unable to finish. So that year I balked and told myself that when my life settles (what a useless term, I now think) I will train. The next year the marathon coordinator called again and I was impressed that they followed up. I caved and went for my first run to central park. I woke up at 5, drove into manhattan, was late, had to park in an horrendously expensive parking garage and worried my outfit/ shoes weren't right. I was greeted by a smiling coach and 20-odd runners of various capacities. We started running and I haven't looked back since. The whole training has transformed the way I look at myself physically and emotionally. In fact, its been so transfomative that I would recommend running a marathon to anyone with self -esteem issues. Of course there were other incentives - I ran for a cause which made motivation easier, had a fabulous support team (friends who reserved parking for me in mid town and had meals ready later! etc) and a generous donor base.

Running has helped me in several ways. It has given me the confidence to accomplish anything; all I need is a good plan and dedication. It gives me something to do and talk about. It allows me to enjoy parks, running trails and water fountains like never before. I have had several "flashing lightbulb" ideas while running and its changed the way I think about packing such as, "how many shorts should I take?" Lastly, its helped me become more spiritual, strange as that may sound.

It has also taught me that I had a lot of prejudices and ideas about an activity without even trying it, which is not always the best way to enjoy life. Our mind is a powerful organ and if it has the will, you will feel like a Kenyan even though you might be running like a tortoise. So go out there and experience things for yourself. If you would like to get started with a marathon training program, please do consider running for Asha.

(P.S. the team asha webpage is looking funny on my computer right now, but the individual links are working fine)

What is education for?

2009-01-24T23:28:00.002+05:30

A friend sent this interesting link out - What is education for? By, David Orr

This article echoes many of things I have been feeling after my various visits to schools and interactions with children. A recent conversation made this more poignant. The lady in the conversation was a journalism graduate making her first foray into tv journalism. She was asked to cover an increase in rice prices and report how they were reducing sales in the local ration shops. I was curious and wanted to know more about her methodology. I was naive enough to assume that the normal process would be to get a large sample size of ration shops and return with the news. She shrugged, "No, that's not how it works. I called a few shops and reported the data from the shop that showed a (maximum) drop in sales." n = 1; that was her final sample size and this went on national news. If this kid wasn't getting ethical training while she was still in school I can hardly expect her to pick it up on the job? In my humble opinion her education has definitely failed. The article elaborates on the steps the author proposes to change the way we get educated because when you are done with school if you can't operate ethically, with a strong moral conscience that is well integrated with nature and the world around you, you have failed.

Looking back I have to admit that my education wasn't so fantastic on these counts. My world views now, are a synthesis of my experiences and differ greatly from the values I was taught. I am not as successful as my educators desired and definitely no where close to happiness as defined by the society I tend to orbit in. Yet I feel successful and happy.

Bringing this post back to to the article, I was trying to imagine how we can execute the principles suggested by the author into the schools I visited. On one hand, I do think it's important to inculcate these babies with a sense of responsibility to their environment and values that cherish contentment over material acquisition. But, on the other hand, they weren't born like me, with a silver spoon in my mouth and a roomful of books. It feels a bit hypocritical actually, to keep advocating a value based life over upward mobility, having got the opportunities I have had. After all, I did not spend my childhood working as a dishwasher or wondering if there would be food at the table that night. I wrestle with this type of dilemma often.

In another instance I was working with a project partner to support the education of children from the slums. We are supporting only a few kids from different families so it's a thorny issue for me that these kids have siblings who are not getting a similar opportunity. Life's lottery is one way to look at it. Anyway, I felt at least the parents shouldn't bring anymore siblings into the picture if these kids are getting a good education. Basically, I was asking that the parents practice birth control. Now, I really don't think I have a right to dictate these type of terms to anyone because ideally you want to help kids just because and I dislike a "strings attached" approach to these type of human projects. Yet, it didn't seem fair that the parents go ahead and have more babies when they weren't doing a good enough job with the babies they had already. Do you get the dilemma? I still don't know if I did the "right" thing by requesting the project partner to have the birth control talk with the parents. It haunts me.

This post started somewhere and ended somewhere else... but it helped get my thoughts out. I suppose I should have warned you to read at your own peril. :)

Value based arranged marriage

2009-01-20T02:34:00.004+05:30

For all of you following my bathroom story, you would be happy to know that I have also managed to figure out how the washing machine works, without the instruction manual (Eureka!). The intellect is very drained so its startling when this thought about arranged marriage hit me.

Yes, I am in the band of people who are Indian, unmarried and way over expiry date. Ergo, I am the major worry of my parents because, although I'm educated, they don't get to be peaceful till I have a tax-saving, legally binding alter ego in human form. Well, having been through the relationship drill few times and being ditched for being, ahem, myself, I am a bit scarred and scared to get into the whole process again. I mean, it's great and all to come home to a dirty house, laundry for two and warm toes in bed, but I would much rather go without that than go through the whole spiel of promising togetherness and having the chap run out on me because my insecurities didn't conform to their idea of what an ideal wife should feel.

But this type of rationale hardly holds water with the darling parents. I have been asked to draw up a list of things I would like in my next future partner. I was thinking about this list last night and I had an epiphany. You see, I think I have been approaching the partner finding jazz all wrong. Typically I make a list based on physical characteristics (I am human! with hormones!) and usual no smoking, liberal-minded, well educated, must like dogs kinda list. But then these are traits, not values and that's the difference I have overlooked. Because, finally, what to do with traits if the values are messed up? So I am re-thinking the list and its funny how hard it is when you are trying to make a value-based list. So far I only have honesty and generosity (in love, cash and kind) down. Working on the rest but happily working on that list because for a weird reason this list is not so much about another person as it is about my values and unless I get that house in order its going to be impossible for me to invite someone over.

Re: floods, fears and bathrooms

2009-01-16T14:25:00.005+05:30

The most intimidating process for me, in a new country, is to figure out how the bathroom works. Mostly, I make the mistake of undressing and then trying to work the taps, instead of waiting for a tutorial from the master of the shower. Having traveled about a bit in the last few years I have lost a bit of the fear, but none of the overwhelming stupidity that seems to grip my brain when I try to get a handle on bathroom things for the first time.

I'm in London now and my bathroom looks straight out of an Ikea catalogue. White chip-less tub, a dozen tubings that spout water at full force, stainless steel taps possibly designed for the international space station, glass door shower curtain etc. As usual I went forth with trepidation towards the bathtub. First, the tap. No hot water. May be if I let the water run a bit? 20 minutes later and guilt beginning to creep in about my errant urban water wasting ways... it's only tepid. Oh wait, there's a toggle of some sort with 0 C markings on it. Some fool has set it to 37. So after changing the settings to beyond 50 (yes, I like really hot showers; the type that turn my fingers into pink raisins) and letting another gallon of water flow out, it starts turning really hot. hurrah, step # 1, identify hot and cold taps accomplished. Next, the shower. My glitzy bathroom comes with a head shower and an hand shower. I figured the toggle on the top of the tap system controls if the water comes out of the tap or the showers. In this case, if you fiddled with it just right the water came out of the hand shower only. I should have, in hindsight, checked the direction that the hand shower was pointing at because at this point of my investigation I had managed to turn the toggle while the water slapped me in the face and landed in big drops on the bathroom floor. You must be wondering how in the presence of a curtain was it possible to flood the bathroom? Well, that's what happens when it's a fancy glass shower wall that only extends half way across the tub like an apostrophe. After turning off Niagara falls I was left with a wet towel and bathroom. Hrrumph.

So on Day 1 I just managed with the hand shower. On Day 2 I aimed to used the overhead shower only to discover that while it was on, the bath tap continued to run and, since I was still overwrought about all the water I had wasted on Day 1 I quickly abandoned this plan and resorted to the hand shower. Although by this time I had figured out that in order to prevent the bathroom from flooding due to the half screen, which is a lame excuse for a shower curtain, I had to stand with my back against the wall with the hand shower hitting me hard. Somehow I had trapped myself in my own bathroom. Today, on Day 3, I finally located the head shower knob which operated quite independently of the rest of the taps and toggles. Go figure! I am sleeping well tonight, safe in the knowledge that I will be clean and the bathroom floor dry after tomorrow's shower. Another accomplishment for my massive intellect.

Doing as Astro does VI

2009-01-11T08:52:00.003+05:30

Lesson # 6 Have a fixed tantrum process

So once in a while our hero Astro, gets very sensitive and decides that the only way to get some attention is to throw a hissy fit. I have previously spoken about his saintly qualities but these are the few things he does, that make him a mere mortal. A harsh word; an harangue on why he has been sleeping on our bed; a yelling on having torn bushes in my mother's garden like a pair of schizophrenic shears; all these can be precursors to a tantrum.

First his ears droop, like the stream of accusations is literally melting them and wilting away his life force. The head falls and he stands with a countenance that suggests to Mother Earth, "Why don't you swallow me now?" After the heated words (a one sided screaming session is quite exhausting actually) he gives a sad, pained look and then saunters up the stairs. Sometimes, to be more dramatic he saunters up step by step as each sentence is repeated: "Who slept on the bed?". Climb 3 steps. Sit. "Which bad doggie slept on the bed?. Climb 3 more and sit. "Are you allowed to sleep on the bed?" Climb 3 more, reach the landing and lie down. Then he looks down upon us from his stately position, willing us to consider amnesia on said events or simply deal with it. Once on the landing though he has a strict negotiation protocol: only a biscuit or bread or maybe both, accompanied by the right combination of sweet nothings can induce him to return to the bode of us homely folks. If we decide to ignore his tantrum then he sits there till he is molly coddled. The system runs like a well oiled machine so much that whenever he's sitting on the stairs its a sure sign that some tiff, with him being the injured party has taken place.

So what does this mean for us? Well, maybe taking this process literally might not work given that stairs in most office environments are located behind closed 'Exit' signed doors and you are likely to be assumed to be doing a snort of cocaine rather than sulking if you resorted to this method in the dingy, cold and dark environs of the staircase. No, what this emphasizes is that firstly, it's OK to be pissed. I'm currently in that state about a project that's simmering and now come to a boil so I can certainly relate to the state. But once pissed you have to weigh in the options. Without truly letting the other party know how you are feeling you can't expect remonstrations so the second point is, once pissed, register your anguish. The beauty of Astro's manner is that it is politically correct. None of the sarcastic, satirical rejoinders; just complete silence and distancing. If you can throw in the body language of a grievously injured party that's a bonus. Third, decide on your price for reconciliation and stick to it. Based on his perception of injury Astro feels the price is fixed for X amount of pleading, Y amount of biscuits and Z amount of bread slices. But once he receives this quota he's back to being a goody goody dog. Fourth, let the other party approach you and, have the patience and trust to know that the people with whom you have an altercation, like you enough to come back to the table for a chat. This is the hardest for me because honestly I dislike myself quite often so what's stopping others from doing the same thing? Anyway, back to Astro.

Over the years Astro has fine tuned the tantrum so that all parties involved know that a resolution is imminent and once a settlement is reached, all will be well again. No grudges, know what I mean? Unclaimed baggage is the heaviest thing we carry around besides guilt, of course. So it's important to off load your emotions on the issue after it is resolved instead of hoping that if this has gone right, then why can't other things my life go all right as well. No sense in getting greedy yeah?

Here's His royal highness in tantrum mode.

If this is the first time you have stopped by for some life lessons from Astro please do also check out the following. Just click on the 'Astro' tag to access these pearls.

Lesson # 1 Have a routine
Lesson # 2 Practice togetherness
Lesson # 3 Don't be afraid to ask for love
Lesson # 4 Bear misfortune with fortitude.
Lesson # 5 Get some sun

A fundamental right or a bureaucratic nightmare?

2009-01-09T17:41:00.004+05:30

I have become a rabid, fomenting, voter ID advocate in the last few months, especially to people in my age group. The idea is quite simple: Stop complaining, start voting. If we, the urban educated masses, don't go out in droves to exercise our fundamental right then we have no right to complain about the government. The system of democracy might ensure that our favoured party, assuming there is a party or candidate you like, might not win. But unless we make our presence felt, through the numbers, we can't speak of change or even of being active citizens.

While growing up my exposure to governments and civil society was entirely text bookish. I learnt the way our government is organized or the chief justice is elected but I didn't learn about how laws are proposed or about my options if I don't want to pay a bribe. Civics was a subjected to be rote learnt and regurgitated for the exams. My schooling followed a typical pattern: board exams, graduation, post graduation and then the flight across the Atlantic. There was no time to be socially conscious and neither were we encouraged to be that way. I would bet that most urban Indians from my background had a similar experience. Therefore, we are a population already imbued with apathy for the system and that extends to voting as well. All this is not a justification for the apathy but a comment on how our schooling necessarily doesn't prepare us to become citizens. With this type of background it's also not surprising when people give me the following excuses when I enquire about their voter ID status.

"What's the point? We are outnumbered by the slum dwellers anyway so our voice doesn't count."

"The rural population determines our election outcomes so why should I waste my precious time in a process where I know I won't be counted?"

These merge in with other excuses ...

" I don't have the time to go through the hassle."

" I have a voter ID card but it's in my native place and I don't want to change it."

" I am waiting for my ration card to be made." (This was easy to settle; you can use various proofs for registering on the electoral list).

For those individuals who have the inclination and are provided the information, the bureaucracy is daunting. There is no one source of information. Sure Jagoore.com is a good resource (I have used it several times and it doesn't work always) but what if you are not in a city they are operating in? Also, the website is a great source of information but it doesn't take away from the fact that finally you have to visit an office and submit you paperwork after which, it will take weeks for you to know if you made it on the list. Now, if you have a voter ID already you would think that shifting it over to a new constituency would be easy, right? Wrong! Apparently your voter ID is not a valid representation of your citizenship nationally so you have to first delete your name in your previous electoral list and then apply freshly to the local ERO. You would think that the first verification would be rock solid, so why should you have to go through the process again? As a citizen you should be able to execute a change in address by the click of a button. We have a tonne of software geeks around so why not get them to create a national voter ID database where such things can be managed?

The rationale behind thinking that your vote doesn't count isn't entirely incorrect. Per sq km the density of humans in a slum or low income neighbourhood is higher than we who occupy single bunglows. Most people in the slums may be bought over but who is to say this person actually votes for the group that paid him? Also, it's we who use the roads, flush our toilet mess into the sewer and want to pay our taxes online. So unless we take up these issues with our local political set up our concerns aren't going to magically appear. The sad truth still remains that caste, religion and locality determines the winner in most cases but these are harder to use in heterogenous urban populations. My argument in such cases is simple - if you and your posse of friends are not voting, then you are never going to win the numbers argument because you are already letting the numbers make you apathetic.

Voter apathy is not a new phenomenon but the random and paper-intensive approach to voter registration doesn't make it easy either. I can't think of any way to get all my friends on the electoral list besides hounding them to do the paperwork and submitting it. In fact, in spite of my fact finding missions, I myself ended up submitting my paperwork at the wrong office and the information never got forwarded to me or to the right office. So, ultimately, who is the loser? Me! But I think these deterrents are not insurmountable. There is a system; it's very flawed; yet billions go to vote so surely, something must work. Right now it has become my onus as a citizen to ensure my voting rights are granted but hopefully that would change. Meanwhile, if you are reading this blog and are not registered to vote, shoot me an email and let' s work on it. Even if you are overseas you might as well get a voter ID because you never know when there might be elections kyunki darling, yeh hai India.

Cane Fresh

2009-01-05T19:59:00.004+05:30

When I was six, I managed to get jaundice and as part of the diet I had to stop drinking sugarcane juice for one year. Somehow it ensued that I only had sugarcane juice rarely after that and when I came on vacation to India it was the one water-based drink I was absolutely forbidden to indulge in. Truly, a very big cost to being an NRI.

Thus it was with great elation that I found this store in Jeevanbhimanagar called Cane fresh. All they do is sell sugarcane juice. Its neat, non messy and brightly colored. The wall is painted in hues of green and yellow with a section detailing the chains' policy as well as nutritional information about their product. If you are diabetic, this store is definitely not for you; the glass of sugarcane juice we consumed was 17% sucrose! Besides a few spelling mistakes (Magnesium not Megnesium, Chloride not Cholrise) the whole thing was nicely written up. At the bottom of the piece is how they clean their glasses so none of the plastic crap. They seem to have a pretty effective supply chain because sugarcane cannot be stored for long. Also the spent cane is not merely tossed in the garbage but recycled to a paper company.

So at the end of the day you have a product which is fresh, served in a clean manner and still affordable (Rs 10 a glass). In the indian street food melee the biggest doubt with consumption is the source of water and this chain store ensures its franchise follows a hygienic set up to ensure a good and healthy quality. Ok, I'm not a big plan of franchise operations but there is something about this as a product that goes beyond selling an item. I would recommend that you check it out if in Bangalore, sorry, other metros have not had the honor of having a store.

Update: I had a link to Cane Fresh - www.canefresh.com; this is not the same org that runs the store that I have blogged about. I wrote an email to the retailer to report the spellings and they corrected me on this. I am unable to find a web presence of the store that I blogged about.

Teachers day

2009-01-05T17:40:00.003+05:30

Yes, I do know it's on 5th Sept., but this article is not about the day in particular, it's about the teachers in my school.

During my last visit to the school I finally managed to procure all the things the teachers had asked for. These included items like flash cards (for teaching English) and science models. I think you can make some pretty nice flash cards that are culturally relevant (no kid in my class can relate to 'S is for Strawberry' or 'K is for Kiwi fruit') and fun to do with kids but, because of time I decided to outsource it. A book exhibition brought me closer to a wholesaler who had a library of educational aids. It was like visiting a very expensive candy shop because although the stuff was quite tasty it was hardly affordable on a large scale. There are some items that the whole class can use like flashcards, but English writing workbooks need to be given to each child and can therefore, lead to cost issues. Nevertheless I got one workbook and the teacher thinks she can just photocopy the relevant sections for the kids.

I don't want to blog about the stuff I bought. If my readers want to know more, just message me. What was really fun was watching the teachers unwrap, unravel and play with the stuff. I didn't realize how happy this would make them and emphasized another aspect of education that isn't always in my radar - teacher satisfaction. I didn't really buy expensive products but what made the difference was (I think!) that I sought their opinion and sourced the same. Somehow this made them feel like they mattered. Sure, under SSA each teacher gets about Rs 500 a year to buy things for her class, but that's assuming she was given the whole amount and, allowed to spend it exactly as she wished. In the school I visit, all financial matters are in the hands of the Headmaster and her ethic barometer normally defines what can and cannot be purchased.

So what can we do for the teachers which would act to incentivize them? The first and most obvious, is to increase teacher pay so that you get a pool of talented and committed teachers whom you are able to retain. But is pay the only incentive that can make this job lucrative? Based on my limited interactions I sincerely doubt that because the happiest teachers I have met are those whose students shine, not just academically but as individuals. In fact the biggest regret most teachers have is that there are just too many children and they are unable to do justice to the class because they have to service so many. The pay isn't usually the top complaint (I am basing this comment exclusively on salaried government school teachers). The second is to provide them with unlimited resources to teach. The teacher-student interaction is after all a relationship and which relationship survives just on love and fresh air? If teachers can spend as much as they need on their wards then they will be happy and this feedback loop will make the teachers happy. Third, we don't have a reward system for good teachers. Yes, there are felicitations on teacher's day with awards and such but those are for the chosen few. There has to be some system where we can reward the teachers not just for making the kids shine but for all the small things they do that go unrecognized, like walking the last 2 kms to the school when no bus operates or making a trip on the weekend at their expense to buy stuff for the classroom. Lastly, we have to create the feedback system for them so that they can participate in policy making with regard to syllabus and teaching methods. A greater stake at the local level for the teacher will go longer in producing better educated children rather than forcing a uniform school syllabus.

I am ending my 5 month stint in India and preparing to re-join mainstream mundane of a job and a home of my own. The biggest lesson I have learnt in the whole education set up is that changing no one parameter will effect a sea change in the way our children come out of school. Its the onus of the community (you and me), the parents, teachers and school system to feel like partners in a system. Even if you are not a parent today investing in a child's education in any way is discharging your responsibility and ensuring a better future for yourself as well as the child. Everything is a loop. :)

All in a day's train ride

2008-12-24T15:03:00.003+05:30

This story begins quietly, in the soft light of the morning. I was in Chennai catching a bit of the glamour at the music and dance festival as well as catching up with delightful friends. I caught the Brindavan express to return to Bangalore, which leaves Chennai at 7:15 in the morning, IRT (Indian railways time). We had been up talking and drinking the night before so I wasn't feeling bright eyed and bushy tailed as I made my way to the train compartment. Thanks to tatkal I managed to get tickets in the second class compartment and settled myself into the 10 inches of bum space my co-passengers had generously left for me. Luckily I had the aisle seat so I could spill over anytime I wanted to.

The first half of the train journey was quite boring mostly because I was trying to sleep and my neck kept wanting attention. Every time I propped it up straight I had to realign my spine and reclaim the 2 inches that were stolen while I had dropped off into dream state. At some point I think the person next to me was asking me questions and I stared back blankly so he gave up on the conversation. About midway I ran out of drool so I had to get up. I fortified the system with a bit of tea (it is one of those train journeys where the food and drinks never stop coming around) and sized up my fellow passengers. We were 6 of us in a coupe with each person being allocated roughly 20 inches. Next to me were two gentlemen, one who gave me a dirty look so I shot back my best NRI disdain. Opposite us were seated one youngish champ who looked like he ate a lot of bajjis and considered his morning walk to be the one he makes to the bathroom. Next to him were a sweet mother and daughter pair. We were a peaceful coupe.

Towards the end of the journey the compartment which up to this point was 100% reserved and carrying about 40% extra riff raff suddenly turned into the Dadar local. There were people everywhere and in between suddenly, was the shrill cry of "Carrots". Let's call her the carrot lady. She had a basket full of veggies wrapped quite nicely in plastic (department store ishtyle) and was selling them at a flat price of Rs 20. In the opposite direction was another veggie seller, screaming his head off about his Aurekal (they look like fava beans; very distinctively local fare) which too were nicely packed in bags and selling for Rs 20. Like two intersecting lines the twain met, right next to my coupe. Now if you remember I was planted in the aisle seat so I had front side tickets to the show that followed. In order to get around the carrot lady who was busy with a sale, the beans guy asked her to move aside and went around her. Ok, so there was no excuse me and polite waiting but considering the train was packed it's possible that there was no space for such manners. Anyway, the carrot lady took major affront.

How dare the beans guy ask her to move aside? I mean, does he own the train or what? So in her best voice she proceeded to rain comments on the beans guy who actually had stepped away quite aways. Finding that her object of derision was walking away the carrot lady stepped up her ranting. Now she included the mother and father of the beans guy in her insults. So of course, the beans guys does an about face and asks her if she was Ok in the head. All this screaming is happening in Tamil so I'm in a great drama at this point, with no subtitles. I could only pick up vague words that overlap with Kannada. The argument was quite heated and was going to reduce to fisticuffs when the audience demanded the volume be toned down. Oh boy, that went down even worse with the main characters. More screaming ensued when finally a smart passenger asked for some carrots. The sale circumstances changed everything and they dispersed into the crowds.

All in all, spectacular time pass. I have mentioned about my strange romance with the Indian railways and this time too, it didn't fail to amuse.

Spot checks

2008-12-23T13:59:00.005+05:30

For the last few months I have been staying with my parents. Its been a fabulous experience. I have not had to worry about food, laundry, rent, bills or cleaning. But this luxury has come at a price I call "spot checks". My parents give me all the love in the world, in the healthiest of doses, which is why they subject my room to spot checks frequently. Recently, my father came thundering down from his office demanding to know why there were two towels in my bathroom. In his honest opinion there should just be one towel. Even one bath towel and one hand towel are acceptable but not two bath towels. He would brook no explanation and just wanted to know which one I wanted to toss in the wash. My attempts to explain my toweling system were in vain because even after going into detail about body towels and hair towels my dad refused to accept two towels in the bathroom. Besides my bathroom, my dad is also particular about the way I maintain my shoes. I have a pair that were black once upon a time but dust and nonchalance had given them a healthy coating of brown. Given his military background, this status quo was unacceptable and, he wanted me to go forth and polish my shoes. This took me back about 15 years when every school night we were punished to polish our shoes. Anyway, Bangalore is such a dusty city that I really see no point in wasting my precious lazy minutes polishing shoes but naturally, such frank explanations have no weight. Ultimately my dad got fed up of my deaf adder routine and just polished my shoes himself!

Then a few days back while I was sipping my morning cuppa and drinking in the Hindu my mother shoved a half empty dustbin under my nose with the loud question, "What is this?" I wasn't sure if she wanted to know why it was half full or if she wanted me to explain the contents of the dustbin but either way she was in red alert and I could not mess with it. So, I batted my eyelids a few times and resorted to the baffled "Howooda." Meanwhile my mother had already launched into a full scale lecture series on public health and the importance of being clean. The whole thing ended with her lamenting that the cleaning lady had already collected the day's garbage so I missed my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to have an empty dustbin. All through this monologue my grandma was shaking her head and tut-tutting despondently, "You used to be such a neat girl...tsk tsk"

Occasionally I come back home to find that contents of my room have been neatly stacked into completely unorganized bunches. Basically the size of the object determined its place in the decorative aesthetics. Then I open my wardrobe, the only place where I have a strict filling system for items, to find that my night clothes are all mixed in with casual pants. Turns out that on such days instead of giving me a look and a stern invitation to clean up, my mother just decided to take things into her own hands. This prolonged visit also ends up with her re-making my bed because I don't have the sheet tucked in just right.

If all this tension weren't enough, Astro stops by sometimes when he wants to sleep on my bed. He first examines the room to make sure there aren't any undies or socks or other light weight clothing items that he shouldn't just grab and scram. After a through sniff to make sure I am not eating biscuits in private he whines till I give him a heave-ho to climb the bed. Once on top he normally stands and checks out the terrain before plonking himself on exactly the spot I was sleeping on. Then, he proceeds to gather the sheets about him all the while lightly drooling. And my mother wonders why my sheets are not properly tucked in...

My parents also feel that I have a particularly bad sense of dressing. My dad thinks I dress like a bhangi (indian hippi?) and my mom thinks I deliberately wear mismatching outfits. So every time we have to go out as a family there are endless conversations on what I should wear. I thought I solved the problem by just throwing open my cupboard and asking them to pick the outfit, but to no avail. They pull the you-are-29-you-should-know-how-to-dress card and soon enough I am pulling my hair out trying to get the right combination for tonight's evening number. The tragedy of this story of course, is that no matter what I wear, it's below par.

These are but the few instances of insanity I have to live out in the name of luxury. It's not a bad deal really, but once in a while, I wish I could determine how many towels I should have in my bathroom!

P.S. This is an update. I have now discovered that on the garbage incident day my mother also threw out the paper bag I was collecting all my recycling waste in. Great! How long can one live with such atrocities? sniff.

Indian Institute of Food

2008-12-19T18:57:00.003+05:30

As we enter the age of instant food and general migration within the country the one area we are sure to loose a lot of information is our age old food culture. I am specifically talking about recipes and regional cuisine. We live in a country where language, food and customs change every 300 kms (approximately, based on my general perception). The only way to sustain this diversity is if we conserve it. Therefore I propose to invest my millions (which I might make or borrow) in the Indian Institute of food (IIF).

The mandate of this institute would be three fold:

It will archive and store recipes within a given geographical perimeter. All ingredients (vegetables and spices) of recipes to also be archived.
It will make all the information it collects available free of cost.
It will hold cooking classes, not only in the cuisine it specializes in but also import the know how on other cuisines being investigated by other IIFs.

Each IIF will be a local institution but networked into a much larger chain of IIFs. Its board would be constituted of neighbourhood grannies, popular restaurant chefs (this includes pavement golgappawallas), food bloggers and anyone who gets about 200 people to certify that he can make certain dishes very well. The one flaw I already foresee is that the ego of aforementioned personnel would make it difficult to come to a consensus on the recipe for any one item. Therefore I also propose that multiple entries be archived. The initial investment would only be that of infrastructure - building, cooking toys and computational power. The community would have to sustain the costs of the institute by providing catering services and cooking classes.

I haven't overlooked the wonderful work food bloggers are doing archiving their family recipes. In fact the only reason I know about food blogging is through the wonderful effort of N at One Hot Stove. But these efforts still do not encompass the whole breadth of Indian cooking knowledge because they are distilled efforts based on the food bloggers' interest. My idea will hopefully act as a bridge effort between their interests and all other traditional food.

This school would eventually also address such questions of major scientific importance like - When was the first dosa made? How did the British change Indian cuisine? Hey, who decided that there should be onions in my upma? etc.

If any of my readers would like to help me make or lend me the millions for this initiative my lines are open.

Why not to dream big

2008-12-18T09:37:00.003+05:30

During the past few months I have interacted with children of various age groups from disadvantaged backgrounds. Some are first generation learners, some are the first to complete Class X and some have only seen a computer for the first time in the last six months. These kids have heterogeneous backgrounds - north vs south, urban vs rural, slum vs village etc. but ALL of them have aspirations and these are by no means duller than what the kid at the local private school near my house has. They aspire to be doctors, engineers, policewomen, teachers and lawyers. Sadly no one wants to become a scientist. I attribute this to our poor brand management.

Well, the trouble does not lie is having these aspirations but fulfilling them. For e.g., in my days if one wanted to get into a decent engineering college you had to go to tuition, subscribe to brilliant tutorials and generally spend your best years in front of book not gaining knowledge but memorizing information or sharpening your skills with pattern recognition. That status quo hasn't changed much. So for my kid in the village who has to finish school and then till the land or take the cows out to graze where is the time for all this extra study? How is she going to compete with all the other kids out there. A very simple retort to this would be that the kids come from backgrounds where reservation ensures them a better playing field to get admitted. This in my opinion is just gobbledygook. There are two aspects which are inter-related here that I want to discuss. The first is about fulfilling these aspirations and the second is about having realistic aspirations.

In order to fulfill aspirations the kids need access to higher education (high school), information (what to study for a particular entrance exam or professional degree) and financial assistance. Access to higher education is a big problem right now. Thanks to SSA there is a huge thrust in primary education but once the kid is done with Class VII the next school might be too far away. On one of my site visits a gang of high schools kids were playing cricket on the primary school playground. I was curious about this and enquired. Turns out they weren't in school because the only morning bus that brings them to their school broke down, the next service was only in the afternoon and so they had the day off; for technical reasons. The next issue is one of information. Most kids are aware of state level exams for technical courses but they are clueless about what type of marks they need to get and how to prepare for the exams. Lastly, more higher education courses require a significant investment of time that families cannot afford for their child to be involved in simply because they need that earning member of the family. Even if all these issues are taken care of there still a problem with these aspirations i.e., are they realistic?

Why cant becoming an engineer be a realistic aspiration? I am hurting as I write these words... for the simple reason that we don't have enough infrastructure or universities to cater to our population. This is abundantly clear if you were to read the report put out by the National Knowledge Commission on higher education. The other disturbing fact is that all these kids aspire to become something not wholly related to their environment i.e., no kid wants to become a farmer (even though that might be the ultimate profession they end up in) or a forest officer or water conservationist. They aspire for professions they see in TV or read about in newspapers that bring to them an ocean of financial security and upward mobility.

This issue has been vexing me a lot recently so at a recent book launch of "Imagining India", I put forth this as a question to Nandan Nilekani; that we are building aspirations but not laying the foundation to fulfill them, to which he succinctly replied "Well, they'll experience a expectation backlash. Next question?" Now this bothers me a lot. Are we supporting our children through various projects, sowing seeds for a better future only so they can experience an "expectation backlash"? I'm at a dead end with regards to a solution. For most issues that I feel strongly about, I look inwards for solutions because I want to be the instrument of change myself. But this time I am floored. Do we continue encouraging the kids and hope that the few who make it across the threshold of higher learning would eventually lead the entire society forward? Or do we revise our course curriculum and encourage the children to embrace professions more suited to their local environment and needs? What type of system can we build where your circumstances don't dictate your professional ambitions - this means a kid from urban school should aspire to be a snake charmer while a rural child aspires to become a orthopaedist. Any thoughts out there?

Doing as Astro does V

2008-12-15T12:36:00.004+05:30

Here is the latest advice from Shri Sree Sri Shree Astro ji.

Lesson # 5 Get some sun.

As you will notice from the pictures Astro is diversifying his nap time locations by shifting himself into the sun. Normally at this time he is to be found curled up on his bed or my grandmother's (depending on domestic vigilance and mood of occupants at home on that day). I remember a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strip where Hobbes wishes that he had a big sunny field to lie in and, this is the same with Astro. Only he loves his mental security too much to trust sleeping in an open field so one finds him safely sunning himself in our driveway. This advice from Astro needs no more explanation and is pretty easy to execute. So slap on that sunscreen and get some sun.

"Me, a scientist?" Ha!

2008-12-11T08:00:00.002+05:30

For the last week I have been visiting an Asha project in Kanakapura and evaluating them. I spent a lot of time talking to children, teachers and project staff. Here I would like to record one of my incidents with the children.

My usual game plan is to enter a class (I wish I could let out a dozen white doves upon entry) and greet the children with an effusive "Hi". Yeah, it's a bit lame, I wish I had the foresight to say something far more zippy. Preliminaries concluded the game of sizing up begins. As soon as I say a few sweet words in Kannada its clear to the kids that I am some sort of urban delite with bad language skills. While speaking to a Kannada audience I tend to get my grammar, vocabulary and tense quite nicely mixed up and so, not only do the kids have to answer my questions but they also have to understand what exactly I meant. There are lots of pauses along the way and I finally stumble (with prompting on the sidelines by the mentor and teacher) on the right set of words to convey my idea. Usually this was a math question that I was unable to articulate correctly and at the end everyone is happy because in the time it took me to figure out the words the kids solve the question. After a few back and forth rounds of math challenges and banter about what the kids want to do in their future I throw the floor open to them. I figure since I have simply waltzed into their lives asking questions they should be allowed to do the same. In some classes, they take this challenge seriously so after the mere formalities - name? father's and mother's name? native place? etc., they move on to profession. "Scientist" I announce, looking furtively at my prompters for the Kannada translation when a kid says, "vigjnanika".

The buck doesn't stop there, now they want to know what kind - did I help send chandrayaan to the moon? No. I help solve mysteries in biology (jaivik shastra). "What mysteries?" scream the kids. Hmm... this was not on my anticipated list of answers. I have worked in the field of membrane biology and infectious disease. The world of lipid rafts, the subject I did my thesis in, continues to remain a hotly debated subj and one I certainly could not find the words to explain in two-line English let alone Kannada. Even though lipids are far far more dear to my heart with cowardice, I decided to talk about my work in infectious diseases. Now Salmonella pathogenesis isn't the type of subject to populate my Kannada vocabulary so I started to scratch my head on how to explain it.

First, had the kids heard of Bacteria? Yes. What do they do? Give us Disease, cause us to fall ill. Right ho, we were on the same page. Had they heard of a cell? The unit of functionality in our bodies? Yes. There was a chart in the room with a mammalian cell so that solved another point. As I wanted to make it proactive I told the kids to think of a bacteria as a robber, trying to break into a house (cell). How many ways can a robber enter a home? Door, window, break lock, roof, tunnel (this needed a bit of convincing because tunnels are only dug by jailbirds according to the kids!). Then I asked them similarly to guess how a bacteria might enter a cell. A stunned silence broken by a few giggles. Ok, I thought, maybe I'll prod them along. So I drew a big fuzzy cell and a tiny bug next to it. Visualize this my champs and you can figure it out, I thought. The bacteria breaks the lock of the cell shouts one child. Yes, and it uses a needle to do that (for the geeks: Type III secretion ). We played around this way and came up with some more ways for the bug to enter the cell. An absolutely delightful time.

While traveling on the bus after this incident I was thinking about the situation. I believe that as a scientist I should be able to successfully communicate my work to any type of audience. It seems my major drawback is that I can only do so in English (or so I think!) and in either Hindi or Kannada I find this an uphill task. I really feel bad that I couldn't talk about lipids. But on the other hand, I was patting myself on the back for coming up with the robber analogy and was blown away with how fast the kids picked it up. Now I have set myself a new standard, I should be able to explain to a 6th standard kid what it is that I do and then only, will I really know my job! Oh, also I intend to practice in English, Hindi and Kannada. :)

Angry but not focused

2008-12-04T11:53:00.003+05:30

I just got back from Thippsandra where enough people commit civil sins that you can get all your inherent anger out in a 'justifiable' manner. Well, I thought I wasn't angry. My trip was supposed to give my aching body something else to do and I wanted the cement in my chest, courtesy a bad sore throat, to move about a bit. It certainly was not my intention to talk to anyone because speaking is more taxing than climbing a hill at this point. So it's with dismay that I found myself screaming at an Innova driver who was exiting from a side alley onto the main road and decided not to look left or right while making this merger. The vile remonstrations that came from my lips left me shaken. On the grand scheme of things that happen in Thippsandra this was very small, yet in spite of an inflammed chest, for 5 minutes I got into a one way tirade.

Why was I really angry? Sure, I'm very upset about what happened in Bombay and am feeling the pulse of public reaction via tv and web. I'm certainly internalizing the anger and hurt expressed. But just like the public at large I think I am not using my anger effectively. I am not focused on what is causing this feeling and just want to be rid of it. If I didn't consider myself an ocean of germs right now I would be at Cubbon park joining my fellow citizens to protest. Then again, I'm thinking, to protest what?

I'm a bit tired emotionally and physically but I do know that whatever happened, whatever the feelings we can't simply vent the feelings without an action plan. Here is my suggested action plan for myself.

Vote - I can get myself on the electoral register. I can encourage my friends and family to do the same. In fact I can hound them to do it.

Stay fit - Do people fathom that for the 60 hours our forces were battling the gunmen these folks held out and chased them around in circles? For 60 hours and more (if you count the time they were on their way for the mission) - no naps, no rest and adrenalin. How many of the youth today can survive that? For a strong nation we need a strong population - mentally and physically. So get on that treadmill and start meditating.

Be informed - Who is your local councillor? MP? MLA? SP? Where is the closest police station? How long has that traffic cop at the junction been working? Do we even bother to ask these questions. People of my generation don't necessarily work in the place where they grew up and might continue to move around the nation. Should that stop us from knowing about the people who make laws and govern us? Think and be aware of the world you live in. In your colony, city, village... any place you are living in.

Be proactive - Don't like that garbage piling up? Think a junction needs a cross bridge? Shoot off an email to the editor of your newspaper or walk into your councillor's office. Many times when I talk to people about my projects and causes I find that many want to help. But they hold themselves back because it might not be enough or that their little effort is useless in the big picture. We must give up these perceptions. Try and effect change to the best of your ability. Not everyone can move mountains so do your bit and don't judge yourself for it. Don't judge the type of activity and don't judge the outcome. Just do your bit when something civic annoys you.

As I type this I realize I myself don't know answers to many of the questions I have posed. So as soon as the cement in my chest dissolves and my throat stops being on fire I will have to initiate a fact finding mission.

Commiserating with Mr. Unnikrishnan

2008-12-01T21:12:00.004+05:30

Hoy! Mr. CMs: what's the deal with showing up at people's home and not respecting their privacy? I don't ever recall you having an open door policy for us citizens to merely walk in one afternoon for a cup of tea at your residence. So, how dare you decide that you need to pay respects to a family who didn't want you there? Mr. Unnikrishnan has a right to his rage and privacy so you have no business to expect him to welcome you with open arms. Your comment just shows to go that your fragile ego is no match for the love and bereavement of a father. I wish I could offer Mr. Unnikrishnan a citizen's cordon from dingdongs like you who think that simply winning an electoral mandate makes you popular guest # 1 in any residence.

Mumbai meri jaan II

2008-11-29T12:52:00.004+05:30

I'm feeling sick to the stomach so much that I have managed to come down with flu. Since writing is the only way out for me to feel better I decided to come online.

I'm feeling paralyzed. About a dozen young men decided that their vile methods of killings and terrorizing was the solution to a grievance. Our politicians have spent little time in pointing the finger to our neighbour. What is clear though is they were superbly prepared, well trained and committed to their mission. How does one human being reach such a state of intoxication that killing another person becomes an action as inane as drinking a glass of water? What lies at the root of their hatred? I'm afraid with our finger pointing and dealing with the current situation we continue to ignore the underlying causes for these frustrations that boil over into violent acts. It's important for us to understand how these young men got where they did for I firmly believe that no human being is born with an ideology of hate; this is something that has been taught to them.

The media is doing a fantastic job and I mean that with a complete force of sarcasm. Barkha Dutt, needs a few days in the mountains to learn about compassion and integrity. Her incessant questioning of family members who had kith trapped in the hotels was brazenly insensitive. Sir, what are you feeling right now? Gah! and of course her blabber on how many people are holed up and this obsession with the numbers? I feel compelled to single her out because she symbolizes the extreme selfish end of journalism which asks what can this situation do to my career. I wonder if we can file a PIL to have her removed.

The other news channel are no better. Giving us a blow by blow account of the maneuvers being executed by our forces. The militant who had access to a blackberry would sure have found that useful.

Right now the media is covering the funeral services for the fallen officers. Of course they continue to abuse their cameras by not allowing the families to grieve in peace. Joining the party are politicians who probably can't do a single sit up but are ever ready to have their photos taken with the brave. If I were one of the fallen families I would have to ban all politicians from the prayer service.

Served up next is going to be the political tamasha on this issue. Waiting for this... breathlessly.

Mumbai meri jaan

2008-11-27T21:05:00.002+05:30

A few weeks ago I wrote about how I was a proud Indian. Well, I still am. But I am also feeling like a sad, helpless and angry Indian today.

I have been watching the coverage of the Mumbai attacks since morning and not since 9/11, when I lived 40 miles from NY have I felt this type of urge to stay glued. The images are disturbing: bodies being hauled away by their arms and legs; militants shooting from a police van they abducted. The senselessness of it all is overwhelming.

The media coverage has been largely annoying. By covering it 24/7 they have certainly helped keep the public pressure on our police and political machinery. But their questions are really off putting. For instance: How many of the killed were foreigners? Really, does it matter what was the nationality of this person who died? People are dead. For no reason other than they happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. This obsessiveness on part of the media to keep quantifying the causalities every time they get a mike near an official is exasperating. How about asking instead - Who is in charge of the ops? Who are the leaders spearheading the mission to rescue the hostages? I want a bio on all the cops who were killed because they died in the line of fire and they should be honoured for their commitment. For while we sipped chai and watched in horror, they lived the horror. I also want to know - Why aren't any of the cops and army marines I see wearing anything resembling a walkie talkie? Why aren't film crews respecting privacy of the common citizen who is trying to flee the hotels?

The debates on this incident have just begun. I'm just angry that they are all about the numbers and not about the people.

Learning at school

2008-11-23T14:46:00.004+05:30

Yesterday, I popped over to a government school that Asha-bangalore supports. Visiting the school is perhaps one of the nicest experiences I have had after coming back to India. Along the way there were plenty of signboards that confirmed why I think teaching English is the best service we can give our children. I passed by the "Umemployed youth chicken and egg centre" (If they were selling eggs, how are they unemployed?) and the "Hearbel Beauty Parlor". Evidently, having English signs are a must to glamourize your shop but getting the words edited before making the sign is optional. I'm sure my readers have come across many such signs in India.

The school is a cacophonous joint with children and teachers trying to get in a word edgewise. To be fair I was visiting on a Saturday when the election commission had taken up a classroom to complete their voter registration drive. So they were children, teachers and loony citizens crammed into the small school yard. Some kids were giving a test while the rest who weren't interested in filling in circles were having their notebooks corrected. My grand plan was to play a game with them that would have them interact with me in English. A 'flop show' sums up my efforts.

I divided them up into teams and asked them to pick names. Prompted by the teacher they picked names of flowers - Gulabi (rose), Sampige and tavuur (lotus). Then I asked them to think about movies they have seen and try their best to tell me its story, in English! Boy, that was a tall order. Since no one wanted to say a word in English I tried to introduce new vocabulary in the script as they were narrating the story. One team was prattling on for over 10 minutes so the rest of the crowd lost enthusiasm and soon, they were just talking amongst themselves about the movies. Then I tried to switch tracks and asked them to fill out a sheet with their info on it - team name, team members, their age etc again all in English. The smarty pants that they are, the kids simply took the sheet out to their friend who was fluent in English and had them fill it out.

I'm not bummed about the way things turned out. I just need a better game that uses their energy more creatively and yet is a good way to teach English. Suggestions, anyone?

One chapter ends, another begins

2008-11-19T19:26:00.004+05:30

It's been 3 months since I broke away from my life in Seattle and flew back to India. In that time my sister got married, my possessions are being shipped to me piecemeal, done a part time research project, visited all my Asha projects and started reading like crazy. I have also started a process to heal from the betrayal of someone I trusted and a system I thought I could use when my emotional world was rocked.

Today that system has been legally severed and I am in the position to start over again - personally as well as professionally because as luck has it I have landed a lovely job which couldn't reflect my philosophies of living any better. A journey of relationships that was started with much anticipation ended and I am starting a new journey now.

Each such journey should make me wiser and stronger but all it seems to do is make me thinner and balder. Whenever friends asked for advice on how to deal with tough situations, I would recommend a haircut. In my case I feel like I just need to shave the whole thing off - go bald; because only such a drastic step would justify the craziness of situation that I got myself into. Of course the baldness thing isn't going down well with the family. They thought the buck stopped at a shorter than usual haircut.

Healing is an interesting journey by itself. I can sense my thoughts spiraling out of control when I remember all that happened. Small phrases catapult me straight into the entire saga over and over again. Then I think of all the things I should have said, but didn't. All the poisonous insults build up inside and there is no one to release them on. So the venom spreads deep inside my body, driving my mind to despair and ultimately shaking my faith in my own constitution. Am I weak or was I made weak? Did I make all the choices or were some choices forced on me? How did I get there? Will I get there again? Round and round the mind takes me through anger, guilt and shame. A three part mini series with no commercial breaks or comic relief. Snap. Out. Of. It. So says sunlight, a roomful of smiling children and a pushy bus conductor. Life moves on.

I have a strong family, good friends and health. and I am off to drink to that. Peace.

Swift-kick-in-the-butt clinic

2008-11-14T16:40:00.004+05:30

This idea evolved a few years ago after bar hopping with a couple of people in NYC. The whole experience appears so ridiculous when I think about it today: the dressing up, hoping the bouncer thinks you are hip enough; drinking 20$ drinks in a low lit lounge; loud music; sitting on overcrowded but terrifically comfortable couches; smoking Hookas because of the smoking ban; perhaps, the zenith of my hedonism. This would spill over into early morning perogis, wanderlust in lower manhattan and finally, the magical doors of the LIRR. The hangover was simply awesome. Lolling in bed one afternoon after such a fright I thought, "Wouldn't it be nice if someone had simply given me a swift kick in the butt and reminded me that I'm not particularly suited to such pleasures?"

Then the humanist in me kicked in. Don't we all know someone in our lives who could use a swift kick in the butt? My execution of this idea is pretty simple. All you need are some decent shoes of varying weight. The clinic is a small set up, preferably in the back room of a cosy tea shop and the appointment has to be made by someone who knows you. I would be happy to administer the kick but I think it would more effective if it came from someone you know (they also get to pick the weight of shoes). I would like to nominate my mother to administer all of mine.

Alright, there are some caveats to this idea. Foremost, many people are not aware they need a swift kick in the butt. Denial is one of the more wonderful emotions our brains have adapted to with ease and efficiency. In this situation - let the mountain go to Mohamed; bring the shoes to the butt, as in this case. Then you have actual administration. It has to be quick and painful, well at least a level better than a spank. Since I haven't really had a chance to administer this myself I really don't have answers to this sticky point. Readers are welcome to post suggestions. Lastly, remuneration. This is not a business idea. It's a socialist idea based on the premise that everyone either needs one or will need one. Therefore it's best administered between friends. So you can create one in your own social group. This also has the advantage that what goes around, comes around. All kicks are universal.

Why is my idea better than an intervention? Well, it's quick. No willy nilly talks about life, love and the world. It's to the point. You don't need a group of people. 2 is the minimum, I would recommend 3. It needs no elaborate planning; you simply walk into a tea shop and mysteriously end up at the back room.

I believe in the potential of the swift kick; a jolt to propel you into a state of pain thereby making you forget whatever anguish/depression you may have or delaying any important decision you might have to make. It's a temporary respite designed to put you in touch with your inner feelings, at least those with regard to pain and annoyance. Those brief moments and hot cuppa tea with a dear pal is all one needs in order to receive clarity because the heart always knows, it's the head that actually confuses matters. So get yourself a swift kick today and divert your head while your heart can tell you what to do.