Of all the gastronomical practices prevalent in this muddle of a country of ours, the one which never ceases to make me raise a three-fifth astonished and five-sixth annoyed eyebrow is the unreserved splatter of all available sauces into the soup without even a forethought of if a chicken clear soup indeed merits a marriage to tomato ketchup, with soy sauce & chili sauce spreading themselves far & wide much like expansive men in a wedding party laced with something slightly strong for civil consumption.
Tut, tut, I mean.
Showing posts with label Humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Humour. Show all posts
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Expanding your....ummm...horizons!
So I'm stuck again in a hotel room for the rest of this year. I'd have to say that the weather in Alpharetta, Georgia is not quite inclement this time of the year - in sharp contrast to the bally snowstorms in Minneapolis earlier this year.
Well, it felt like snowstorms anyway. What do you think I am - an eskimo? Or is it an igloo?
So you may be inclined to ruminate about my sharp social encounters in chatty pubs, or me catching up with the stage - of the acting variety, I hasten to emphasize -, or taking trips along the rather beautiful, I suspect, country sides of Southern USA. And you'd be wrong.
I sit here at my desk in the hotel & read the news. I'm tired of making egg noodles oddly flavored with orange capsicums & broccoli. CNN thinks that there is no event even worthy of an occasional mention, whether in the USA or the petty little world outside the States, if it has nothing to do with the Presidential elections.
So as you can tell, I'm expanding my horizons & my waistline. And all this without any aid of any alcoholic beverage. So please be kind & show some approval.
From being a top 20, 000 reviewer (yippie!) in Amazon for over a year, I've slipped. As much of this is due to the fact that I am reading the kind of stuff most people in civil society would not want to associate with, I still want to emphasize that by virtue of being a friend of mine, you do not really consistently qualify as a member of the civil society.
So please, click this link & vote. And make your opinion count.
Well, it felt like snowstorms anyway. What do you think I am - an eskimo? Or is it an igloo?
So you may be inclined to ruminate about my sharp social encounters in chatty pubs, or me catching up with the stage - of the acting variety, I hasten to emphasize -, or taking trips along the rather beautiful, I suspect, country sides of Southern USA. And you'd be wrong.
I sit here at my desk in the hotel & read the news. I'm tired of making egg noodles oddly flavored with orange capsicums & broccoli. CNN thinks that there is no event even worthy of an occasional mention, whether in the USA or the petty little world outside the States, if it has nothing to do with the Presidential elections.
So as you can tell, I'm expanding my horizons & my waistline. And all this without any aid of any alcoholic beverage. So please be kind & show some approval.
From being a top 20, 000 reviewer (yippie!) in Amazon for over a year, I've slipped. As much of this is due to the fact that I am reading the kind of stuff most people in civil society would not want to associate with, I still want to emphasize that by virtue of being a friend of mine, you do not really consistently qualify as a member of the civil society.
So please, click this link & vote. And make your opinion count.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Deep thoughts on food
Usha has tagged me to do a post on questions pertaining to food & the like. While I prefer eating food more than writing about it, I'll do this post regardless, because like Anatole, aunt Dahlia's cook, " I am cool as a few cucumbers." :)
What’s your favourite table?
Ok, I know that I'm not very smart, but is that a trick question? It simply does not matter as long as what is on it is good. I like tables with tableclothes on them, but that is about as much attention as I pay to tables. Furniture...haah!
What would you have for your last supper?
This is why knowing the future is such a bad idea. If I knew this was my last supper, I won't feel a whole lot like eating. So I guess I'll have a jittery Hilsa, a shaky Hefeweizen, & a nerve-wracking Black Forest gateau. Or at least those are the things I could think of in my panic-stricken state.
What’s your poison?
Usha says tea; I'd say the same. Though I'd probably have the second flush Darjeeling with a nonchalant spot of milk, & a few friends with a little conversation for sweetener.
Name your three desert island ingredients.
1. Water
2. Very sudden & strong beginnings of faith in an almighty God.
3. Can I take my wife, or no other animals are allowed?
What would you put in Room 101?
Apologies, but could you ask that question in English again? Apologies again, I was born like this.
Which book gets you cooking?
It is rather hard to get me cooking. But one time I did read a book & got cooking & made, I believe, one of the the better biriyanis that I have had during my short but colourful career as a carnivore. Those of you who do not read my Amazon reviews should go & check out Lizzie Collingham's "Curry: A tale of cooks & conquerors". It has the biriyani recipe right from Akbar's kitchen. What a great king was he, nahin? :)
What’s your dream dinner party line-up?
Lambs, swines, wines, tobacco, dashes of garlic & pepper. Serving sizes, apart from the wine, should be rather frugal. The wine would preferably be heavy, dry, & red. The furniture should be cherry, & the people on the table should be chatty & funny.
What was your childhood teatime treat?
At the risk of losing your society forever - though it is rather pompous to presume that I had that privilege in the first place - I loved drinking raw eggs as a child. I don't know if i had a specific teatime treat.
What was your most memorable meal?
Even for a philistine like me, it is difficult to reduce the evenings I spent at Asha's to just food. They were memorable everything, meals inclusive, & free. :)
What was your biggest food disaster?
Back in Sangam, I made poha that you could hear yourself chewing.
What’s the worst meal you’ve ever had?
In Shanghai, we had an evening out to dine at the day time museum & the night time restaurant - some kind of an office of the erstwhile British empire. They served us certain organs of an octupus, I did not know octopuses had. It wasn't probably the worst meal ever, but certainly the biggest disappointment given the occasion.
Who’s your food hero/food villain?
No food villains, anti-heroes at the most. My wife & my father are among my favorite cooks.
Nigella or Delia?
Err... what?
Vegetarians: genius or madness?
If ever there was a rhetoric question...sigh...
Fast food or fresh food?
You crazy sexist; you had to ask a question showcasing gender-bias. Fast food, of course!
Who would you most like to cook for?
I promised baba that I'll make him the Akbari biriyani I mentioned above. But the emprire would not have been what it is if it kept its promises, right Usha?
What would you cook to impress a date?
I would not cook to impress a date. Success & failure are equally fraught with risks.
Make a wish.
I wish that people would experience their worlds with the same duality of intensity & serenity with which I experience a bratwurst.
What’s your favourite table?
Ok, I know that I'm not very smart, but is that a trick question? It simply does not matter as long as what is on it is good. I like tables with tableclothes on them, but that is about as much attention as I pay to tables. Furniture...haah!
What would you have for your last supper?
This is why knowing the future is such a bad idea. If I knew this was my last supper, I won't feel a whole lot like eating. So I guess I'll have a jittery Hilsa, a shaky Hefeweizen, & a nerve-wracking Black Forest gateau. Or at least those are the things I could think of in my panic-stricken state.
What’s your poison?
Usha says tea; I'd say the same. Though I'd probably have the second flush Darjeeling with a nonchalant spot of milk, & a few friends with a little conversation for sweetener.
Name your three desert island ingredients.
1. Water
2. Very sudden & strong beginnings of faith in an almighty God.
3. Can I take my wife, or no other animals are allowed?
What would you put in Room 101?
Apologies, but could you ask that question in English again? Apologies again, I was born like this.
Which book gets you cooking?
It is rather hard to get me cooking. But one time I did read a book & got cooking & made, I believe, one of the the better biriyanis that I have had during my short but colourful career as a carnivore. Those of you who do not read my Amazon reviews should go & check out Lizzie Collingham's "Curry: A tale of cooks & conquerors". It has the biriyani recipe right from Akbar's kitchen. What a great king was he, nahin? :)
What’s your dream dinner party line-up?
Lambs, swines, wines, tobacco, dashes of garlic & pepper. Serving sizes, apart from the wine, should be rather frugal. The wine would preferably be heavy, dry, & red. The furniture should be cherry, & the people on the table should be chatty & funny.
What was your childhood teatime treat?
At the risk of losing your society forever - though it is rather pompous to presume that I had that privilege in the first place - I loved drinking raw eggs as a child. I don't know if i had a specific teatime treat.
What was your most memorable meal?
Even for a philistine like me, it is difficult to reduce the evenings I spent at Asha's to just food. They were memorable everything, meals inclusive, & free. :)
What was your biggest food disaster?
Back in Sangam, I made poha that you could hear yourself chewing.
What’s the worst meal you’ve ever had?
In Shanghai, we had an evening out to dine at the day time museum & the night time restaurant - some kind of an office of the erstwhile British empire. They served us certain organs of an octupus, I did not know octopuses had. It wasn't probably the worst meal ever, but certainly the biggest disappointment given the occasion.
Who’s your food hero/food villain?
No food villains, anti-heroes at the most. My wife & my father are among my favorite cooks.
Nigella or Delia?
Err... what?
Vegetarians: genius or madness?
If ever there was a rhetoric question...sigh...
Fast food or fresh food?
You crazy sexist; you had to ask a question showcasing gender-bias. Fast food, of course!
Who would you most like to cook for?
I promised baba that I'll make him the Akbari biriyani I mentioned above. But the emprire would not have been what it is if it kept its promises, right Usha?
What would you cook to impress a date?
I would not cook to impress a date. Success & failure are equally fraught with risks.
Make a wish.
I wish that people would experience their worlds with the same duality of intensity & serenity with which I experience a bratwurst.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Swining in Minneapolis - Gasthof
Gasthof zur gemutlichkeit, which roughly means the inn of coziness or comfort, is a Bavarian restaurant on the University Ave NE in Minneapolis. From our many visits to Bavarian restaurants in Munich last year, I noticed a few similarities & dissimilarities
Bavarian food is earthy, chunky, & goes down like knife through butter, in Munich & in Minneapolis. It makes you give up pretenses of any higher purpose in your life. If only Hitler had unleashed chefs on Europe instead of soldiers, he probably would have had more success.
The restaurants, in Munich as in Minneapolis, have chequered tableclothes.The waitresses typically wear the Bavarian peasant dress for women which more or less amounts to an apron over a white blouse; beer is always sold by half or one liter mugs of bonhomie. The Hefeweizen, in Gasthof was served with two cuts of lemon. I can't remember if this was the case in Bavaria or even at Gordon Biersch in Washington DC. Lemon or no lemon, a yellow cloudy wheat beer is always exactly the right thing to be seen with.
In Gasthof, as in Munich, the menu did not have chicken. Perhaps eating fowl is considered bad form. Of course, there is ample beef, pork, fish (the local Minnesota walleye), bratwurst, & even venison available at the Gasthof. The schintzel is the speciality. Of course! And Gasthof also prides itself on a meter-long bratwurst - & if you eat it, you get a certificate!
Strangely, or may be its my abysmal memory, I was give a delectable salad in Gasthof as part of my order. And a chunk of bread & ample butter. The bread resembled a shot-put - only it was fluffy & bready in colour. This humongous bread was served with about 8 sachets of butter of which I ate two - half the shot-put. The bread took a while coming as it was being baked as I ordered, & I think that while I'm drooling & writing odes on German food, I just cannot emphasize how good this bread generally was & the breads generally were in Munich. Hitler could have gotten the Poland etc on bread alone!
The quantity, I'm sorry to say, was enormous. I was typically able to finish my plate in Munich. With half that shot-put & the all the salad inside of me, I could not eat even a quarter of what looked like a portion of the happiest, fattest swine to have ever said whatever pigs say to each other on bright Sunday Minneapolis mornings. That roasted porcine thing was the anti-thesis of any semblance of civilization & moderation, a throw-back to our lives in the woods & farms when the sight of a pig waddling through the marshes would light up our eyes & set our saliva production to overdrive.
In Gasthof, there were a couple of accordion players who sang ballad like songs in English for anybody who'd care to listen. I recognized "Happy Birthday" & the perennial favorite from "The Sound of Music" - Doe, a deer....
And here is the parody of of Doe a deer that they sang as well... (I've put in my own words for the bits I've forgotten)
Doe - a beer, a mexican beer
Ray - the guy standing by the bar
Me - I drink in the name of God
Far - a good long way to the bar
so - so I think I'll have some more beer
la - la, la, la, la, la
tea - no thanks, I'll have some beer
Do.....
Prost!
Bavarian food is earthy, chunky, & goes down like knife through butter, in Munich & in Minneapolis. It makes you give up pretenses of any higher purpose in your life. If only Hitler had unleashed chefs on Europe instead of soldiers, he probably would have had more success.
The restaurants, in Munich as in Minneapolis, have chequered tableclothes.The waitresses typically wear the Bavarian peasant dress for women which more or less amounts to an apron over a white blouse; beer is always sold by half or one liter mugs of bonhomie. The Hefeweizen, in Gasthof was served with two cuts of lemon. I can't remember if this was the case in Bavaria or even at Gordon Biersch in Washington DC. Lemon or no lemon, a yellow cloudy wheat beer is always exactly the right thing to be seen with.
In Gasthof, as in Munich, the menu did not have chicken. Perhaps eating fowl is considered bad form. Of course, there is ample beef, pork, fish (the local Minnesota walleye), bratwurst, & even venison available at the Gasthof. The schintzel is the speciality. Of course! And Gasthof also prides itself on a meter-long bratwurst - & if you eat it, you get a certificate!
Strangely, or may be its my abysmal memory, I was give a delectable salad in Gasthof as part of my order. And a chunk of bread & ample butter. The bread resembled a shot-put - only it was fluffy & bready in colour. This humongous bread was served with about 8 sachets of butter of which I ate two - half the shot-put. The bread took a while coming as it was being baked as I ordered, & I think that while I'm drooling & writing odes on German food, I just cannot emphasize how good this bread generally was & the breads generally were in Munich. Hitler could have gotten the Poland etc on bread alone!
The quantity, I'm sorry to say, was enormous. I was typically able to finish my plate in Munich. With half that shot-put & the all the salad inside of me, I could not eat even a quarter of what looked like a portion of the happiest, fattest swine to have ever said whatever pigs say to each other on bright Sunday Minneapolis mornings. That roasted porcine thing was the anti-thesis of any semblance of civilization & moderation, a throw-back to our lives in the woods & farms when the sight of a pig waddling through the marshes would light up our eyes & set our saliva production to overdrive.
In Gasthof, there were a couple of accordion players who sang ballad like songs in English for anybody who'd care to listen. I recognized "Happy Birthday" & the perennial favorite from "The Sound of Music" - Doe, a deer....
And here is the parody of of Doe a deer that they sang as well... (I've put in my own words for the bits I've forgotten)
Doe - a beer, a mexican beer
Ray - the guy standing by the bar
Me - I drink in the name of God
Far - a good long way to the bar
so - so I think I'll have some more beer
la - la, la, la, la, la
tea - no thanks, I'll have some beer
Do.....
Prost!
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Being Purushottam
As far as I know, Lord Ram had a rather trying training as a child - living in jungles & reading deep, fat books when other children his age were playing cricket. He had the abysmal bad luck of running into Parashuram once as well. And then he gets himself exiled, has to start living in the woods, gets his wife kidnapped by some weirdo, uncool king & manages to befriend a few apes for conversation & tea in the evening.
I mean, that's not so great.
And yet, as far as I know, notwithstanding his treatment of his wife later in the epic, he was a rather nice chap. In his time, there were actually just wars - which he fought & won, & reinstated the right rulers for the kingdom. He ruled his kingdom well & apparently people could go to the nightclubs without locking their houses. He was the original proponent of the 'no-first-strike' policy & there was no collateral damage in the wars he fought. Rather a sophisticated bloke, I am not sure that he ever said even so much as "oh shit!" once.
And we forget all this & forget that the Ram Setu was built on perseverance & strife, that Lord Ram was more about building bridges, forging friendships & getting things done right.
What are you doing about Purushottam's legacy?
Friday, March 07, 2008
Indian food in Minneapolis
Well, this post could also be called "how not to have a life". Yes, it is incredibly cold in Minneapolis & I do not want to know exactly how cold it is for the fear of slipping into depression, & I do not have a whole lot to do - except work - & assorted & repetitive disillusionments on the treadmill.
Minneapolis has a thriving cultural scene including great music, theater & opera. I'll probably go to all of them in time. Right now, the only non-professional reason to get out of my hotel room is the animal desire to eat. Ghastly, right?
And though I like to believe that I belch with equal appreciation be it a Biriyani or a burger with fries, lately I've been stuck to the Taste of India. I've heard from many people here that it is the best Indian restaurant in these parts. That may indeed be so; in fact, the daal is not bad at all, though the mutton & chicken curries are bathed in fats a lot more than I'd like.
You can imagine my lifelessness when I say that I usually pack myself a carry out; however, I like to wait at the restaurant while they prepare my food & never call in advance. What do I have to do with my time anyway (except writing nonsensical posts like this)? In the process, I look at the waiters & the flood of Caucasian & homesick brownies like me at the restaurant. And I read & re-read the menu.
It turns that the menu boasts of 'Kashmiri scallops'. Hullo! Scallops in Kashmir? And Banarasi Biriyani - yes, that may be close to Lukhnow (erstwhile oudh ) but isn't Varanasi more about the Kachauri gali as you listen to the bells in the Vishwanaath temple & the cows burping? What in the world is a Chicken Josh - Rogan Josh made with chicken - as you might have guessed. And Madrasi mutton - if ever there was an oxymoron...While Chennai provides ample delectable & mouth-watering recipes, I have never quite thought that mutton was one of them.
While these sharp & rather parochial differences melt away in spite of the snow in chilly Minneapolis, food-in-general is complete banana oil. No two chutneys are alike, & nobody quite makes khichdi like you do.
S!
Minneapolis has a thriving cultural scene including great music, theater & opera. I'll probably go to all of them in time. Right now, the only non-professional reason to get out of my hotel room is the animal desire to eat. Ghastly, right?
And though I like to believe that I belch with equal appreciation be it a Biriyani or a burger with fries, lately I've been stuck to the Taste of India. I've heard from many people here that it is the best Indian restaurant in these parts. That may indeed be so; in fact, the daal is not bad at all, though the mutton & chicken curries are bathed in fats a lot more than I'd like.
You can imagine my lifelessness when I say that I usually pack myself a carry out; however, I like to wait at the restaurant while they prepare my food & never call in advance. What do I have to do with my time anyway (except writing nonsensical posts like this)? In the process, I look at the waiters & the flood of Caucasian & homesick brownies like me at the restaurant. And I read & re-read the menu.
It turns that the menu boasts of 'Kashmiri scallops'. Hullo! Scallops in Kashmir? And Banarasi Biriyani - yes, that may be close to Lukhnow (erstwhile oudh ) but isn't Varanasi more about the Kachauri gali as you listen to the bells in the Vishwanaath temple & the cows burping? What in the world is a Chicken Josh - Rogan Josh made with chicken - as you might have guessed. And Madrasi mutton - if ever there was an oxymoron...While Chennai provides ample delectable & mouth-watering recipes, I have never quite thought that mutton was one of them.
While these sharp & rather parochial differences melt away in spite of the snow in chilly Minneapolis, food-in-general is complete banana oil. No two chutneys are alike, & nobody quite makes khichdi like you do.
S!
Friday, November 16, 2007
Strangers in a strange land - I: The train to Munich
Certainly, our budget for the Munich Holiday did not account for cloak room charges of 15 Euros per day for 5 days. So Antara, I & our eight pieces of luggage found ourselves with the task of somehow finding our way from the airport via a train ride to the Munich Hauptbahnhof & rolling from there to our hotel. It was not very difficult getting to the airport train station given the trolleys we had, but once we got there, there were no more machines to help us. It was down to strength. And strength had never been my strength. So it took what seemed like an eternity, & we must have gotten some help from the sympathetic people around - for I don't think we got all the bags into the train ourselves - to get everything on the train with me striking a fine balance between trying to stand & lending a helping leg & a helping hand to help two suitcases trying to stand.
So there we were, trying not look anybody in the eye. I finally figured out a way to arrange the suitcases & myself in a less dramatic posture. The group sitting around us consisted of two elderly gentlemen, one young woman, & two college-age boys. One of the elderlies who had been considering our state for sometime decided to break the silence & proceeded to make conversation. Now, my general experience in the US had been that not too many strangers asked very direct specific questions, they ask general questions & you're can fill in whatever details you wanted at your own judgment. This person obviously did not believe in that kind of a thing. He first wanted to know if we were students & proceeded to ask exactly what we did if we did not study, how long had been in the US, how long was our vacation in Munich - you know, stuff which produces simple, direct, truthful answers , not unlike a visa interview. Having established our credentials, he proceeded to share some of his own. He said that they were from MD, USA & are returning from a holiday in Kiev. They had a flight home in the evening & were going to Munich meanwhile.
At this point, he asked me the question I was avoiding to ask myself. He asked how in the world Antara & I proposed to take the luggage from the station to the hotel. I produced maps & directions pointing out that it was about 100 meters from the station & we might take a taxi or one person will do all the moving, say two pieces of luggage at a time, while the other stood at the station. He listened & gave me a the kind of look a headmaster gives a pupil from whom he expected better. He simply said that they'll walk with us with our luggage to our hotel. I tried to protest, but he was not really asking me if we could do what he said, he was telling me exactly what we would do.
The short walk was over soon. I carried the heaviest suitcase, he carried the second heaviest, the young boys carried 3 lighter cases between them & Antara just carried one. They quickly departed as soon as we had checked in, having shaken my hand firmly & not even exchanging names, leaving us to feel warm & grateful on a Sunny Monday Munich morning.
S!
*This is a series on people I've met during my travels. Most of these encounters were short, but left lasting memories.
So there we were, trying not look anybody in the eye. I finally figured out a way to arrange the suitcases & myself in a less dramatic posture. The group sitting around us consisted of two elderly gentlemen, one young woman, & two college-age boys. One of the elderlies who had been considering our state for sometime decided to break the silence & proceeded to make conversation. Now, my general experience in the US had been that not too many strangers asked very direct specific questions, they ask general questions & you're can fill in whatever details you wanted at your own judgment. This person obviously did not believe in that kind of a thing. He first wanted to know if we were students & proceeded to ask exactly what we did if we did not study, how long had been in the US, how long was our vacation in Munich - you know, stuff which produces simple, direct, truthful answers , not unlike a visa interview. Having established our credentials, he proceeded to share some of his own. He said that they were from MD, USA & are returning from a holiday in Kiev. They had a flight home in the evening & were going to Munich meanwhile.
At this point, he asked me the question I was avoiding to ask myself. He asked how in the world Antara & I proposed to take the luggage from the station to the hotel. I produced maps & directions pointing out that it was about 100 meters from the station & we might take a taxi or one person will do all the moving, say two pieces of luggage at a time, while the other stood at the station. He listened & gave me a the kind of look a headmaster gives a pupil from whom he expected better. He simply said that they'll walk with us with our luggage to our hotel. I tried to protest, but he was not really asking me if we could do what he said, he was telling me exactly what we would do.
The short walk was over soon. I carried the heaviest suitcase, he carried the second heaviest, the young boys carried 3 lighter cases between them & Antara just carried one. They quickly departed as soon as we had checked in, having shaken my hand firmly & not even exchanging names, leaving us to feel warm & grateful on a Sunny Monday Munich morning.
S!
*This is a series on people I've met during my travels. Most of these encounters were short, but left lasting memories.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
A Saturday bum
Well, I do not mean bum - the person, I mean bum - the personification. Like the sleeping beauty or the growing lust. Oh wait, that wasn't quite the correct example. Well, what I'm trying to arrive at is that this is as amazing a Saturday as you can hope to see, especially if you're in Ashburn, VA, & you have it all at your whim.
Things started off rather splendidly this morning over an Einstein brother's bagel. Spinach Florentine, for those of you who are sordid sticklers for detail. Wash that down with what seems like a gallon of coffee, & you have just the right amount of fidgety energy to take the longest route back home listening to Car Talk on NPR, as you meander your way through nameless trees turning fancy shades of red & its various hexadecimal variants on what is a spectacularly sunlit day with a light breeze blowing.
NPR, by the way, finished its Fall Campaign yesterday where they aimed at raising a million or so dollars from gullible suckers, though some of them are really rich, like me. Of course, I almost cried at their plea. I definitely sniffed audibly enough & contributed a mammoth sum of 5 dollars - striking a terrible balance between a troubled conscience & an empty pocket. Somehow, I don't think they announced my contribution on air, but I listen to NPR only when I'm in the car, & it is more than likely that I missed the announcement.
Well, it is still a beautiful Saturday. I wish you were here & we could go get some coffee. Or stroll through the rather deserted streets on this idyllic day. I'm feeling inspired today, & may do more in the way of contributing to a conversation than just staring.
Today is Mahanavami - pretty much the pinnacle of the Bengali cultural calendar which they celebrate by visiting more pooja-pandals than the assortment of Gods & Goddesses in Hinduism, in numbers for which we have no definitions. Of course, I'm talking about Calcutta. My wife, her mother, her brother & his wife, & my parents, being in Bangalore, lived it up by visiting about 4 of them & consuming sumptuous portions of "loochi-maangsho" thanking, I'm sure, the Goddess for her immense piety & supplies. Christ, as much as we all may be blessed by him - especially the socially backward castes in India - simply does not inspire the same hearty feeling of a household & hearth that Durga does with her four children & ten hands. My mum often says, without any of my own sacrilegious edge, that she cannot get us all that we want when we want because she is not ten-handed like the Goddess Durga.
Well, now all this blasphemy is in writing because I could not just tell you about it over a coffee or something.
It's all your bloody fault!
Things started off rather splendidly this morning over an Einstein brother's bagel. Spinach Florentine, for those of you who are sordid sticklers for detail. Wash that down with what seems like a gallon of coffee, & you have just the right amount of fidgety energy to take the longest route back home listening to Car Talk on NPR, as you meander your way through nameless trees turning fancy shades of red & its various hexadecimal variants on what is a spectacularly sunlit day with a light breeze blowing.
NPR, by the way, finished its Fall Campaign yesterday where they aimed at raising a million or so dollars from gullible suckers, though some of them are really rich, like me. Of course, I almost cried at their plea. I definitely sniffed audibly enough & contributed a mammoth sum of 5 dollars - striking a terrible balance between a troubled conscience & an empty pocket. Somehow, I don't think they announced my contribution on air, but I listen to NPR only when I'm in the car, & it is more than likely that I missed the announcement.
Well, it is still a beautiful Saturday. I wish you were here & we could go get some coffee. Or stroll through the rather deserted streets on this idyllic day. I'm feeling inspired today, & may do more in the way of contributing to a conversation than just staring.
Today is Mahanavami - pretty much the pinnacle of the Bengali cultural calendar which they celebrate by visiting more pooja-pandals than the assortment of Gods & Goddesses in Hinduism, in numbers for which we have no definitions. Of course, I'm talking about Calcutta. My wife, her mother, her brother & his wife, & my parents, being in Bangalore, lived it up by visiting about 4 of them & consuming sumptuous portions of "loochi-maangsho" thanking, I'm sure, the Goddess for her immense piety & supplies. Christ, as much as we all may be blessed by him - especially the socially backward castes in India - simply does not inspire the same hearty feeling of a household & hearth that Durga does with her four children & ten hands. My mum often says, without any of my own sacrilegious edge, that she cannot get us all that we want when we want because she is not ten-handed like the Goddess Durga.
Well, now all this blasphemy is in writing because I could not just tell you about it over a coffee or something.
It's all your bloody fault!
The motto
Do you remember the motto of your school? Well, you might if you think about it. For some reason, sitting here alone in the office on a gloomy & humid Friday, I started thinking back on my school days & finally landed upon the Wikipedia pages of my school. Exactly how I jumped from there to the the motto of Kendriya Vidyalayas, I've no clue. But I vividly recall the Hindi teacher in viith standard in distant Sambalpur, Orissa, explaining to a bunch of awkward, gawky sunburnt children (well, at least that's what the boys pretty much looked like) what the motto of the KVs meant. Here is the original Shloka:
He went on to add that "dandaa maarke sar phodke pratibha bahar naheen aa saktee" though he hardly ever followed his own counsel.
satyasyapihitam mukham
As you may know, the motto part is just the third line. But it kind of distorts the context in which it makes more sense. This you can read here. I remember the teacher, a very humourous & knowledgeable gentleman who was absolutely against sparing the rod, put particular emphasis on "pushann" - the sustainer. He did so to underscore the importance of nurturing & nourishment in education & that this bringing out of inner talent (hiranmayena) is a rather slow process.He went on to add that "dandaa maarke sar phodke pratibha bahar naheen aa saktee" though he hardly ever followed his own counsel.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Whatever...
Obviously, you've encountered that expression before. And probably with an alarming regularity. But no, I'm not writing this to accentuate the difference between types of English, spoken or rolled.
I got into this conversation with a colleague over lunch & talked about gun control, & the state of creationism & the religious right here in the US - you know, the kind of juicy "isms" that make me salivate.
We had many commonalities in our opinions though these were borne out of different experiences;well, I should say that Joe's were experiences that involved real people & mine were accumulated from print & electronic media. What did you expect anyway?
The course of the conversation led JB & me to talk about how religious texts need to be examined in the social context of their origin. I was tactless enough to throw in how all religions really had tribal, pagan origins & assorted ramifications. This, though, isn't correct of all religions, particularly of Jainism, & Buddhism.
The two further extrapolations I had in mind coming from this thread were that pagan, tribal societies had hard, well-defined,value systems (if you're not with us, you're against us etc), & that ambivalence/intellectual honesty is really a modern thing - particularly characteristic, in the US at least, of the generation X - another topic of conversation with JB.
And then I read this.
I was wrong. Again. The rigveda, for a document that predates most known bodies of knowledge, actually is ambivalent about the creation of the universe. Yes, the Vedas talk about Gods before the "trinity" culture became mainstream Hinduism. But even so, for a book that old, if that wasn't ambivalence & intellectual honesty, then.... whatever (ambivalence etc)
S!
I got into this conversation with a colleague over lunch & talked about gun control, & the state of creationism & the religious right here in the US - you know, the kind of juicy "isms" that make me salivate.
We had many commonalities in our opinions though these were borne out of different experiences;well, I should say that Joe's were experiences that involved real people & mine were accumulated from print & electronic media. What did you expect anyway?
The course of the conversation led JB & me to talk about how religious texts need to be examined in the social context of their origin. I was tactless enough to throw in how all religions really had tribal, pagan origins & assorted ramifications. This, though, isn't correct of all religions, particularly of Jainism, & Buddhism.
The two further extrapolations I had in mind coming from this thread were that pagan, tribal societies had hard, well-defined,value systems (if you're not with us, you're against us etc), & that ambivalence/intellectual honesty is really a modern thing - particularly characteristic, in the US at least, of the generation X - another topic of conversation with JB.
And then I read this.
I was wrong. Again. The rigveda, for a document that predates most known bodies of knowledge, actually is ambivalent about the creation of the universe. Yes, the Vedas talk about Gods before the "trinity" culture became mainstream Hinduism. But even so, for a book that old, if that wasn't ambivalence & intellectual honesty, then.... whatever (ambivalence etc)
S!
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
The subcontinental
Invariably, it appears that when Americans are thinking of India, they're really thinking of Chicken Tikka Masala. Or, Tandoori chicken. And some of them think, I'm told, that the Tandoori chicken , owing to its crimson complexion, must be very hot. I've been asked if we eat Tandoori Chicken everyday. I did not have the heart to tell the person that my resources back home are too limited to build out a Tandoor at home. So, I said something to the effect of "Oh no, just on Sundays or some such special occasions!"
Then, one time, I had to explain this whole thing about how usually in a family with both a daughter & son, customarily the daughter gets married first. This led to many hypothetical questions about many-children-families & the associated ramifications about age differences & the like.
And then, making sense of arranged marriage was about the hardest thing to do. Admittedly, it works & has worked for a while & there are possibly good cultural reasons for it. My problem was actually more about explaining the set up process in the process of which I, perhaps injudiciously, mentioned the word "pageant"... needless to say; I could not rescue my explanations from that point onwards.
Americans think of Indian food, Indian traditions & Indian IT.
Indians, to the contrary, think of the Punjabi Tandoor, the Tamil Pongal, the Bangalore IT scene, the power corridors of Delhi, the ever-prospering Gujaratis & do not think at all of the North-Eastern states.
The whole, it appears, could not be farther, in our hearts & minds, from the parts.
Then, one time, I had to explain this whole thing about how usually in a family with both a daughter & son, customarily the daughter gets married first. This led to many hypothetical questions about many-children-families & the associated ramifications about age differences & the like.
And then, making sense of arranged marriage was about the hardest thing to do. Admittedly, it works & has worked for a while & there are possibly good cultural reasons for it. My problem was actually more about explaining the set up process in the process of which I, perhaps injudiciously, mentioned the word "pageant"... needless to say; I could not rescue my explanations from that point onwards.
Americans think of Indian food, Indian traditions & Indian IT.
Indians, to the contrary, think of the Punjabi Tandoor, the Tamil Pongal, the Bangalore IT scene, the power corridors of Delhi, the ever-prospering Gujaratis & do not think at all of the North-Eastern states.
The whole, it appears, could not be farther, in our hearts & minds, from the parts.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Food
I was recently quoted as remarking " The only good use of time is one which involves alcohol & meat". Now, I myself would raise a few eyebrows - if such a thing was possible - at such a sweeping generalization, particularly because it does not consider sports or sex.
Why be a foodie? Why not eat for a better metabolism than for gustation? Why count calories & why confuse prime ribs with animal rights?
To answer such questions of immense consequence & to document our experiences through our taste buds, Antara & I have started a blog together. Of course, my own contribution to this togetherness is a photograph that features on the blog - which I'm trying to get removed. My role in this endeavour, I hope, will continue to be 'advisory' - which means no real work -; so while you're at liberty to criticize the posts & the content, you may do so with no threat of any reprisals from me.
Salivaah is then the culmination of about five seconds of thinking. To be completely honest with you, my interest in food begins primarily at the dining table & not too much earlier. However, I've been known, in my time, to do strange things to eggs. Hopefully, I'll put something up soon.
So there you are. A food blog primarily by Antara, with me hanging in there somewhere, somewhat obscurely. Just the way I like it...
Why be a foodie? Why not eat for a better metabolism than for gustation? Why count calories & why confuse prime ribs with animal rights?
To answer such questions of immense consequence & to document our experiences through our taste buds, Antara & I have started a blog together. Of course, my own contribution to this togetherness is a photograph that features on the blog - which I'm trying to get removed. My role in this endeavour, I hope, will continue to be 'advisory' - which means no real work -; so while you're at liberty to criticize the posts & the content, you may do so with no threat of any reprisals from me.
Salivaah is then the culmination of about five seconds of thinking. To be completely honest with you, my interest in food begins primarily at the dining table & not too much earlier. However, I've been known, in my time, to do strange things to eggs. Hopefully, I'll put something up soon.
So there you are. A food blog primarily by Antara, with me hanging in there somewhere, somewhat obscurely. Just the way I like it...
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Courting rituals
Of the many different ways of experiencing the US
It all started on February 18th. We were driving to DC & a green light turned yellow - as they often do when you're about to miss a bus or train. While some people, sometimes labeled "normal", may experience an urge to slow down, I had the exact opposite exhortation. I sped & got to the intersection just after the light had turned red. Which was all fine for people around here are incredibly nice. However, there was one slight glitch. Or, a cop.
The officer chased me down & had me cornered, thanks to some prudence of my own - though kind of late -, before the next signal. He checked my India Driving license, & not my passport. He listened to what i had to say, including my precise narration of theVirginia
He then produced a second ticket, just as I was about to roll the window up & drive away. This one, he said, was for driving without license. Or a local license. My encore performance of State Driving law rendition seemed to have fallen on deaf ears or, at the very least, ears that do not listen very well. However, as a gesture of whatever he thought it was a gesture of, he told me that the judge will probably let me go if I did get a local license before my court hearing. Nice as ever, he did wish me a good night & a safe drive home.
Exactly how I went about procuring my local license, a story in itself, is another story. In summary, as I drove to the court today, I had my local license, myIndia
I soon learnt that Justice was on his way & goes by the name "Buttery"! Well, if there is one name a Judge should not have, it is buttery. I mean, imagine the ordeal. Can Buttery be greased, etc? Well, there I was musing on these funny lines when he called my name - rather well, mind you -, & I was facing him trying to not laugh or some such thing.
Well, it turned out that Justice Buttery was an incredibly nice chap; he ignored my yawning, & kept me there for precisely 5 minutes. The case was over before it had begun. I was found "Not Guilty"
And what better way to celebrate than to say a boo to another yellow light on the way back. Only this time, it hadn't turned red.
It all started on February 18th. We were driving to DC & a green light turned yellow - as they often do when you're about to miss a bus or train. While some people, sometimes labeled "normal", may experience an urge to slow down, I had the exact opposite exhortation. I sped & got to the intersection just after the light had turned red. Which was all fine for people around here are incredibly nice. However, there was one slight glitch. Or, a cop.
The officer chased me down & had me cornered, thanks to some prudence of my own - though kind of late -, before the next signal. He checked my India Driving license, & not my passport. He listened to what i had to say, including my precise narration of the
He then produced a second ticket, just as I was about to roll the window up & drive away. This one, he said, was for driving without license. Or a local license. My encore performance of State Driving law rendition seemed to have fallen on deaf ears or, at the very least, ears that do not listen very well. However, as a gesture of whatever he thought it was a gesture of, he told me that the judge will probably let me go if I did get a local license before my court hearing. Nice as ever, he did wish me a good night & a safe drive home.
Exactly how I went about procuring my local license, a story in itself, is another story. In summary, as I drove to the court today, I had my local license, my
I soon learnt that Justice was on his way & goes by the name "Buttery"! Well, if there is one name a Judge should not have, it is buttery. I mean, imagine the ordeal. Can Buttery be greased, etc? Well, there I was musing on these funny lines when he called my name - rather well, mind you -, & I was facing him trying to not laugh or some such thing.
Well, it turned out that Justice Buttery was an incredibly nice chap; he ignored my yawning, & kept me there for precisely 5 minutes. The case was over before it had begun. I was found "Not Guilty"
And what better way to celebrate than to say a boo to another yellow light on the way back. Only this time, it hadn't turned red.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
And you are?
One of our pillars of identity is what we eat. In fact, what we eat can be so parochial in nature is that if you try to arrive at the idea of a nation based on food habits – as is possible in a foreign land – the whole analysis is practically useless in the way of categorization but does harbour serious possibilities as farce.
So, say for example, some tourist has been, just by chance, to an Andhra - style restaurant & has had a sumptuous thali, complete with that fiery Rasam. It is just incredibly funny to think Rasam & rice could then in her mind, oblivious to vastness & the consequent variety of our country, become some thing like an Indian dish – devoured with smacking relish across our vast country, with eulogies emanating from the deep recesses of devourer’s guttural abyss.
While I personally love a well made pongal – the kind you get in Chennai more often than you do in Bangalore, the pregnant silence that make its presence felt when I voice this opinion in a group of people who belong to the north of the Vindhyas makes me want to dive into a suitcase & pull the top tight & securely.
Bengalis are fish-eaters. That’s banana oil, you know. Give them something piscine you’ve scooped up from a sea & regardless of the content of your bookshelf, or your political point of view, they’ll brand you as loutish tykes unworthy of their society.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
The Indian Constitution
Jug Suraiya, the eternal secularist, has written this piece. I found it totally hilarious; though certain Indian communities have gotten more publicity than others.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Opportunity Cost
Opportunity cost is defined as the cost of writing off the second best alternative. For example, if you have money enough to either afford a dinner or a visit to the movies, then choosing to dine entails the sacrifice of the pleasure of watching a movie. This pleasure, then, is the opportunity cost of choosing to dine over going to the cinema.
Nothing, nothing at all, drives home the concept of opportunity cost as watching all those pretty women on Fashion TV.
However, attempting lousy diplomacy, I emphasize that opportunity cost is still about the second best alternative.
Nothing, nothing at all, drives home the concept of opportunity cost as watching all those pretty women on Fashion TV.
However, attempting lousy diplomacy, I emphasize that opportunity cost is still about the second best alternative.
Monday, April 04, 2005
The one
Just when the first dapples of doubt begin casting their ghastly shadows, just when you start wondering - chewing your lower lip with gusto while you are at it, for you like paying attention to such seemingly insignificant matters - if the hottest thing around is not you but the weather, the mists gather, the winds stir things up a bit & it rains.
Do you need further proof?
Do you need further proof?
Monday, January 17, 2005
Are you game?
About nine -ish each evening the bean bags are strategically positioned to save the telly and the sound boxes in the hall. The doors are pulled. A stool is summoned. Light at one end switched off. A plastic bat is harnessed and a tennis ball dug up, & a group of gentlemen in their late twenties, not to mention shorts, gear up for a quick game of cricket.
I am sure that each one of us has some unique experience to tell, but for me & SA its about out thinking your opposition. For SC, ostensibly, it is extinguishing any chance I have of furthering my lineage, which is probably a good idea in the whole scheme of things anyway. Each one of his deliveries, projected from his super height & hurled with a great deal of sidespin, is targeted to pitch, gather ample turn and bounce, and end up with a soft thud a few inches below my waistline. You should see him beam with endless joy, but since we are friends & all that he stops short of doing cartwheels & happily lends me a cigarette afterwards.
SA, like I said, sets you up. He showers you with bouncers so that your feet grow roots & then suddenly there is ball turning away from you at which you play like Ganguly - play the most inelegant stand n deliver cover drive & get a solid nick. Embarrassment & sheepish smiles follow. General happiness all around. Chu**** Saala & the like, you know.
Then there those searing yorkers that he unleashes. Just when you are happily checking out if your head is still attached to your neck & wondering if the next bouncer will end it all, comes this yellow trace of a tennis ball , your weight still on the backfoot, & violently shakes the stool behind you. Sometimes, if your reflexes are fast enough & you think you are beginning to read this trick, you can bring your bat down fast enough & crush your own toes. That is adding injury to insult.
MG is probably the most complete cricketer amongst us. SA has the most guile, besides being a very safe pair of hands. SC, like you might have figured, is absolutely fatal when bowling & suicidal, like you might not have figured, while batting. He continues, though, to be a champion of perseverance. And, VH has not been around lately.
And me, well, I am still hanging in there. "Shaken, not stirred!", as James Bond puts it.
I am sure that each one of us has some unique experience to tell, but for me & SA its about out thinking your opposition. For SC, ostensibly, it is extinguishing any chance I have of furthering my lineage, which is probably a good idea in the whole scheme of things anyway. Each one of his deliveries, projected from his super height & hurled with a great deal of sidespin, is targeted to pitch, gather ample turn and bounce, and end up with a soft thud a few inches below my waistline. You should see him beam with endless joy, but since we are friends & all that he stops short of doing cartwheels & happily lends me a cigarette afterwards.
SA, like I said, sets you up. He showers you with bouncers so that your feet grow roots & then suddenly there is ball turning away from you at which you play like Ganguly - play the most inelegant stand n deliver cover drive & get a solid nick. Embarrassment & sheepish smiles follow. General happiness all around. Chu**** Saala & the like, you know.
Then there those searing yorkers that he unleashes. Just when you are happily checking out if your head is still attached to your neck & wondering if the next bouncer will end it all, comes this yellow trace of a tennis ball , your weight still on the backfoot, & violently shakes the stool behind you. Sometimes, if your reflexes are fast enough & you think you are beginning to read this trick, you can bring your bat down fast enough & crush your own toes. That is adding injury to insult.
MG is probably the most complete cricketer amongst us. SA has the most guile, besides being a very safe pair of hands. SC, like you might have figured, is absolutely fatal when bowling & suicidal, like you might not have figured, while batting. He continues, though, to be a champion of perseverance. And, VH has not been around lately.
And me, well, I am still hanging in there. "Shaken, not stirred!", as James Bond puts it.
Friday, December 10, 2004
Taking stock
There are 206 bones & 600 skeletal muscles in the typical human.
I can feel almost all of them....ache by ache.
I can feel almost all of them....ache by ache.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
The pill
SA, my roommate & close friend, has gone & twisted his neck. I asked him how did he manage it but he was not very sure. It could have been the game of badminton, but exactly what acrobatics on the court would potentially twist his neck like that, he did not know. It could have been the long hours he spends supine & otherwise on his kingsize bed, alone mind you, but then after twenty six years of proven expertise on the art of dormancy, that was unlikely too.
Whatever the reasons for this mysterious twist in the neck, he did not seem to like it a bit. He sat sadly watching the crocodiles on Animal Planet. He refused to play football. He started studying. All in all, he showed all signs of a man whom nature has dealt an unfair blow.
So he went and sought some professional advice. First, it was the barber. After giving him a really smart haircut, the barber, growing in confidence, held his head between his hands & said, "Nikaal doon kya?". Obviously, that would have been getting to the root of the problem; but for some reason, SA did not really seem very keen on the idea. I mean he is the kind of person who keeps his head under the most trying circumstance & this was but a trivial pain in the neck. So back he came with a just a massage, flashing his perfect set of thirty two, the massage having soothed him, for the time being.
However, the pain returned soon, the marsupials started jumping again on Animal planet, more refusal to kick the ball, & more serious contemplation on Business Communication. This time, he chose to see a doctor who, as most doctors do, gave him a pill.
This then, dear readers, was the moment of truth. With Neo-esque dilemma and a glassful of Bisleri, he looked all set to take the plunge; rather, plunge that pill down his throat. He proceeded to do so, shortly. With the pill just beyond his tonsils, just beyond recovery, it occurred to him that the pill, a muscle relaxing one, may not be able to figure out which muscle to relax!
A pain in the neck is bad enough. And roommates howling like a bunch of wild hyenas is not very comforting at eleven in the night. The last thing you want is a wrong muscle deciding to take it easy at the promising age of twenty six and a bit.
The wait was agonizing but SA was able to sleep through most of it. He woke up rather early, at nine in the morning. He bathed & pushed for office.
His limbs are fine, his eyeballs still doing the rounds, his jaws crunched away at the sandwich this morning.
I do not know if he will feel like playing football this evening, but I think I'll ask him.
Whatever the reasons for this mysterious twist in the neck, he did not seem to like it a bit. He sat sadly watching the crocodiles on Animal Planet. He refused to play football. He started studying. All in all, he showed all signs of a man whom nature has dealt an unfair blow.
So he went and sought some professional advice. First, it was the barber. After giving him a really smart haircut, the barber, growing in confidence, held his head between his hands & said, "Nikaal doon kya?". Obviously, that would have been getting to the root of the problem; but for some reason, SA did not really seem very keen on the idea. I mean he is the kind of person who keeps his head under the most trying circumstance & this was but a trivial pain in the neck. So back he came with a just a massage, flashing his perfect set of thirty two, the massage having soothed him, for the time being.
However, the pain returned soon, the marsupials started jumping again on Animal planet, more refusal to kick the ball, & more serious contemplation on Business Communication. This time, he chose to see a doctor who, as most doctors do, gave him a pill.
This then, dear readers, was the moment of truth. With Neo-esque dilemma and a glassful of Bisleri, he looked all set to take the plunge; rather, plunge that pill down his throat. He proceeded to do so, shortly. With the pill just beyond his tonsils, just beyond recovery, it occurred to him that the pill, a muscle relaxing one, may not be able to figure out which muscle to relax!
A pain in the neck is bad enough. And roommates howling like a bunch of wild hyenas is not very comforting at eleven in the night. The last thing you want is a wrong muscle deciding to take it easy at the promising age of twenty six and a bit.
The wait was agonizing but SA was able to sleep through most of it. He woke up rather early, at nine in the morning. He bathed & pushed for office.
His limbs are fine, his eyeballs still doing the rounds, his jaws crunched away at the sandwich this morning.
I do not know if he will feel like playing football this evening, but I think I'll ask him.
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