Bengalooru Banter

The twain finally meet.

2010-02-15T08:50:00.000-08:00

“Aye thu blady naansense”, I screeched into the unsuspecting ear of The Eyer, when he suggested we meet up at Lalbagh. “My fother will drive so far or what?” I said, picturing my journey-across-the-seven-seas for our much awaited meetup.

“Shut up now. Basavangudi is central, its you Malleswaram types that are in the burbs.” He said. Besides it’s walking distance for me”, he added helpfully.

“Ohoho, very close to you means what I must do. Trans Siberian Railway and all I cant catch and come to see your face ok.”

“Dude you didn’t volunteer to organize this, so thatsaaal means thatsaal, jhungachukka. You must only come to Lalbagh and meet us, I do not know anything. Besides, it’s your workplace anyway.”

“Ayeeeeee, how very dare you call me a gardener I say?”

“Err, because you are one?”

“Oh correct no? Ok, see you in half an hour.”

Unwittingly caught in the crossfire was our celebrity guest - Krish Attack, who magnanimously postponed his flight back to Chennai to hang out with us, after smashing his way through a maha funda presentation at IIMB. After some frantic calls to ascertain his whereabouts, we finally located him, suitcase in hand, appropriately clad for the Bangalore chill in a three piece suit.

After a couple of “mad or what?” looks directed at the Eyer and I, who were busy clawing each other’s eyes out deciding which Lalbagh gate to enter, he cleared his throat. The Eyer and I stopped in mid claw and looked back at his rapidly reddening complexion.

“Err, I have seen Lalbagh before you know”, he ventured timidly, peeling off 7 layers of winterwear. “My parents took me there as a kid.”

“So, err.. what shall we do then?” said the Eyer, dismayed at his grandiose plans of a botanical tour of the gardens being dashed to the ground.

“Eh, lets eat”, we all said in chorus, and whirled the car around to our first stop in the gastronomic tour of “the place where the other people live” – Basavangudi.

First stop: New Modran Hotel. “Do not put leg on Chair. Do not wash hand in plate. Do not yodel. Do not sing mainstream Telugu film songs while chewing”, read the sign above where we sat, as we waited for the famous modran hotel thatte-idli to arrive. Meh. It was salright. Sorry Eyerboss. Veena shtore rules. Aaa nexxxxxt…

My smirkiness died a quick death however, when we stopped at our next venue: Shettr angdi (appojite New Modran Hotel). After making us chomp through an interestingish tamota-slice, The Eyer pulled out his trump card. He whispered into the Jabba-the-hut-like proprietor’s ear. Jabba guffawed, gave us the up-and-down, rubbed his palms together and went to work: on Shettrangdi Special Andre Speshhhhhal Butter Gulkand.

“Whaaaaaaaaaat?” I hear you loyal Bhagyalakshmi Butter Gulkand loving Malleswaramites scream? “How very dare you, Bikerdude”, you sob? Well sadly, Shettru has only one word to say to you. “Mwah.”

First came a gob of butter. Then a slather of gulkand. Then the mixed fruitu. Familiar enough, no? But no. That’s where Bhagyalakshmi stops and Shettrangdi starts. On went the murabba (murabba??? Yes) followed by nuts, candy, more fuits, chaat masala (No! Yeah? Yeah.) and finally a dollop of butterskaachu icecream!

Enoughaaaa? No. On the top of the butterskaachu went more chopped nuts and a glazed cherry. Whaaaaaataylovely!!!! Jabba handed it over with a flourish and 12 seconds later, fini! What a beauty I say! Sorry ma Bhagyaakshmi, you lose. Ok? ok.

Next stoppu: Subbamma angadi. While Attack stocked up on 564 packets of kodbale and chakli, I settled for the mind numbingly spicy masala vadey. Good stuff. Well done Subbamma, wherever you are, smiling down upon us with a plate of dynamite-nippat in hand.

With about minus 10 minutes to spare for Attack saar to catch his flight, we managed to teleport him straight into a vayu vajra, from where with his superior Web 2.0 skills he managed to re-program the check-in-lady’s brain to jettison him through an open cockpit window into the flight as it was taxiing off to Chennai.

So- um yeah. Basavangudi. Hmm. Some possibilities there I agree :)

Many thanks to Eyer saar for smiling stoically through all manner of abuses hurled. I am suitably impressed ok? ok.

Attack saar, kindly come nesht time I say. I will feed CTR benne masale and veena idly and you only decide.

And as for you Bhagyalakshmi, I have only one word to say:

Hogamma.

-----------

PS: Aa yes, I'm back, hello. (famous last words)

Jack for all trades

2009-06-15T03:31:00.000-07:00

“Ah! You’ve inherited my Number One”, said granny when we moved into our new home in her backyard. What she alluding to was yellow, strong smelling and exactly what you were thinking of: A small innocuous variety of Jackfruit that she’d planted in the corner of her garden, now the driveway to our home.

In the twelve years that we’ve been here, Number One has faithfully yielded smallish yet absolutely delicious crops of crisp, non-fibrous fruit- the best I’ve ever tasted. This year however, it’s gone crazy. Over 30 huge fruit dangle obscenely from various parts of its long spindly trunk. We think the extraordinary yield is because it’s finally managed to pierce through the crown of the heavy mango tree that had been shading it all these years.

The produce from Number two, a much heavier yielding though marginally less crisp variety in our backyard, has always been reserved for friends, visitors and colleagues. This year, the thought of dealing with the bumper crop from both the trees is enough to make us all ignore them steadfastly, rather than deal with the sticky mess of cutting them down and processing them.

At work, this time of year has always been eagerly anticipated. All my chakka*-starved mallu colleagues at work would wait eagerly for the season, so I could bring and dump some yellow goodness on them. “In my nayteew, we used to get like this oLLy. My andy used to make jaam with jayckfruit, yinnow, chakkavaratti?” They’d say. “Blurgh yes. Notte quiteh my favouriteh”, I’d think.

The Tam gumbal would pipe up from random corners of the office “Bunrotti palaa* you have eatena? Supera irukkum”, they’d say. “What on earth possessed anyone to name a village Bun-rotti?” I’d think.

“Aiyo maraya namma oorinalli idral yenth-enthadhella maadthaare gotha? Happala, huli, pallya, chipsu.. Ohh halasina hannu* illadhe jeevanave nadiyuvudilla” (I use it as a facial scrub daily. It's great for my skin), my Mangalorean friends would go. “Slurrp, ngn”, I’d go.

“In Vizianagaram, jeshtu oui are getting beshtu panasa* andi”, the Telugu bunchu would remarku. “Yes, commaan, let us vizit-the-nagaram”, I’d thinku.

“Kamaal hai yaar”, my northie frands would add. “Yahaan pe averybody is eating ripe? Hamare yahaan kathal* ki subzee banti hai.” (In Norththth na, we use iskin of jeckfruit in geography class as relief map of himalayas yaar.) “What next? Bhindi ka halwa?” I’d think. Wouldn’t put it past my Madras paati though.

“Plaa-mushu* na yenna nu theriyumo?” She’d begin sagely. “Yen maamiyaar aathulai adhukku nanna kadugu thaalichu thoenga, gueenga ellaam pottu masichu shaapuduvaa. Bhaama maamiyaar aathulai athai rendu eeda vadhakki….” (Lost me at plaa-mushu) At which point I’d go “Mushu mushu haashi deo malai lai.”

Last year, an oldish gentleman walked in from the road and helped himself to a fruit off Number One. He was making slow progress down the road thanks to the weight and prickliness of the fruit. “But, aunty gave it to me”, he said with a practiced expression of goggle-eyed innocence when we caught up with him. Aunty (my mother), who under normal circumstances would have paid him to get the fruit off her hands, quickly snatched it back from him. She did not take kindly to people her age calling her aunty.

As for this year, I don’t think we can pull off ignoring the bumper crop any more. The trees are groaning with the weight and the squirrels are making rude noises at us while they tunnel through the ripening fruit. We’ve already commenced negotiations with Numbers One and Two in an attempt to convince them not to ripen too quickly (or ever). I’m also making a Tibetan-style endless-loop CD with the words “Must deal with jackfruit”, set to a tinkly contemplative tune to play while the family sleeps.

If all the above doesn’t work, we’ll need some help. Any volunteers? Be fair warned that you will have to deal with the cutting and scooping yourself. We’re too posh for all that soht of thing dahling.

*****

Glossary:

Chakka, panasa, pala, kathal, halasina hannu = Jackfruit

Pala mushu = baby jackfruit (cooked as a vegetable, looks suspiciously like mutton!)

Peer Sahib for lunch

2009-04-07T07:42:00.000-07:00

“Ootakke Peer Sahib untu.” (We’re having Peer Sahib for lunch), squeaked the timid Sumangala, my grandmother’s long suffering cook from Udupi, as I walked into the kitchen. “Wha..?” I asked. She took in a deep breath, closed her eyes and looked like she was about to pass out. This of course, was no cause for concern as it was her normal way of starting a new paragraph.

“Peer Sahib”, she said mournfully. “Chapatiya mele tamta, seeju, ella haaki bishi-bishi maadi koduvudhu, gottillavo?” (Tomato and cheese on a chapatti).

Ah. That. “Yes, please!” I told her. My super cool grandmother had been talking about making pizza for a couple of days and yay! She’d finally gotten around to doing it! Hers was the best recipe in the whole world. All the quirky things she did to her ingredients made the pizza even better. She’d grind up tomatoes and onions in the mixie and stir them about in a buttered wok with a bucket of cream and lots of love and affection. She’d then hand mushrooms, capsicum, carrots, cauliflower and anything else she could find to the waiting Sumangala who’d sigh and dip them in bisneeru (hot water) for exactly a minute. “It’s called blawn-ching dahling”, she told me once when I asked her if she was crazy. “Gets the raw taste out of them da raja.” Mhaha.

A generous smear of the sauce went on the pizza base (bought fresh from Vijaya Bakery), three tons of veggies went on top, and finally the piece de resistance: Good old fashioned Nilgiri’s cheddar. About three cows’ worth.

On the verge of collapse, two such pizza towers would be placed gingerly in granny’s aluminium dabba oven that Sumangala would sighingly dust out and place on top of the gas stove. My brother and I would stake claims on the pizzas we wanted. The top one would get all melty and yum, while the bottom one would turn black at the bottom and go crrrunchh when you bit into it. We wanted both, so granny dearest would dispatch us off to the dining table, where we sat twiddling our thumbs impatiently until the pizza arrived. Through granny’s good offices, we’d each receive one half of both pizzas: two quarters burnt at the bottom and two quarters melty on the top. We’d shriek with joy and tuck in.

When granny wasn’t making pizza, we’d drag her off to the best pizza place in town then – Casa Picola. Just the sight of the menu with all those names: Tia, Maria, Julia, The God Mother…, would drive us insane. Uff. The twitchy-nosed French proprietrix would pause by each table to make sure things were okay, while my brother and I steadfastly ignored everything else but the pizzas in front of us.

But this was in Bangalore on our summer holidays. Back in Malluland nobody had ever heard of pizza. “Nge?” (Eh?), said the shopkeeper when my mother asked for pizza base. “Illa.” (Well m’dear lady, we’ve run out of stock, but let me place an order with Harrods London, with whom I have a running account with and procure some for you. It might arrive next month by container ship fresh from London), he said, when we described it.

Crestfallen, Mommie dearest decided to make do with what Trivandrum could offer then. She marched into Milma Dairy and asked for cheddar cheese. “Cheese illa butter unde”, (Ah cheese. Cheese, you say? That lovely thing that was invented in a Bactrian camel’s intestine? Hmmm… Chweeeeezzze. Käse. Fromage. Somebody stop me), said the man at the counter. We got the message and left. We finally found some at Jayaram bakery. Good old best-in-the-world Amul.

Back home, Amma followed granny’s recipe to the tee. Err, except for the blanching, the cream, the tomatoes, the asparagus, mushrooms and cheddar cheese that is. She’d learnt from Mrs. Krishnamurthy next door that a pressure cooker with sand in it does the same thing as a dabba oven on a stove. “Yaaay”, we said, and ran to the Guptas’ garden next door, where a pile of sand had been freshly delivered to construct a toilet for Anandavalli, their maid. We rushed back home, sand in hand, to find that Amma had managed to make a white naan like thing out of maida and was piling it up with tomato puree and oooh…! onions. She then grated the Amul on the top and after a quick prayer to Melkote Selvanarayana, put a layer of sand at the bottom of the pressure cooker, placed the pizza gingerly on top of it on a plate, and closed the lid.

Amma had to throw away the pressure cooker after that. “Aiyo, yenk irkra problems onna renda?” (Wo to be in Ingilaand, drrrrinnnking Ingiliss beerr), she asked Melkote Selvanarayana, as she scraped the melted bakelite handles of the cooker off the stove top and retrieved the incinerated pizza from inside.

We bought a Bajaj round oven after that. It would heat everything up nicely to about 40 degrees, but do nothing about melting the cheese on top. “It’s the cheese, not the oven da kanna”, she’d say as pizza after lukewarm pizza emerged out of the oven with intact layers of grated Amul on the top. We even tried paneer, which, aside from refusing to melt, also tasted like imported pencil erasers without the pineapple flavour.

Granny’s dabba oven retired in the early 90s, as did our Bajaj round, after a decade of absolute uselessness. We now a have fancy microwave-cum-convection-oven-cum-dishwasher-cum-three-piece-orchestra-cum-massage-lady that sadly does nothing for me or the pizza. And as for Pidsa Hut- Gidsa Hut with all their cheese-filled crusts, oregano-girigano, jalapeno-gilapeno and what not, I have only this to say:

Fbbthbbp. Give me my melty- crunchy, granny-made Peer Sahib any day.

And the sordid saga continues..

2009-03-03T12:35:00.000-08:00

Ah hello hello Im still alive.. Err and still sufferring from writer's cramp. So in the meantime, please to have

Bengaluru Blahnteru - Part Sthree:

Over by two coffee at the Byadara Bomma Instt of Technology canteen:

Recorded for posterity at 42/C, 20th Cross, 15th Main, Malleswaram

Benglur Talkies Part Thoo.

2009-01-13T11:27:00.000-08:00

Ah yayes, by popular demand,

Bengaluru Blanhteru Part Bleuh

Heard at CTR, Malleswaram.

Heard at a leading Koramangala hospital...

Benglur Talkies

2008-12-19T06:18:00.001-08:00

Hello hello peeps, sorry for the sepulchral silaans. This time, at the insistence of this mad person, I am going to torture you with my first talking blogpost. Gaaaaahahahaha. So kindly have it, Part 1 of:

Bengalooru Blahnteru

(Secretly taped snappy snippets of day to day Benglur talku)

PS: If you have a dodgy internet connection like I do, you might want to hit the pause button and let them buffer a bit before listening...

1. Heard outside the Basavanagudi NRI association..

2. Secretly captured on cellular phone at Lounge de la didah.

3. At Lunchtime in Electronics city, Phase II

The Mane Man

2008-11-06T03:06:00.000-08:00

“Chumma irikkadei!” (Shut up, you!) he growled, as he dragged a blunt razor across the back of my neck. I was six and petrified. Nicknamed “Kandan The Barbarian” by all who knew him, this guy was known to draw blood at the slightest provocation. “Aaaan. Mindaathe iri.” (Not a word!) He said ominously, and went away to sharpen the razor on a rubber tube he’d tied to the window for the purpose.

I whimpered and looked at my brother, trussed up similarly in a white sheet next to me, and prayed for our mother to appear miraculously and save us. A few more snips and scrapes later, his work was done. I tried my best not wince as the blunt blade sliced into the side of my neck, but he wasn’t impressed. “Poda!” (Get out!) he roared, as we paid up and ran for our lives. For if anyone took the old adage: “Fashion is pain” seriously, it was this man: Manikandan, our not-so-friendly neighbourhood barber.

After several tear-filled entreaties to our parents to spare us the torture of Manikandan’s rusty blade, our parents finally agreed to take us to a slightly more upmarket barbershop a few km away. My brother discovered the joys of the 80s bouffant there. It swayed like the fronds of a coconut tree as he towered a good foot and a half over his classmates. I, however, decided to stick with my Beatles-Goes-To-Pulayanarkotta hairstyle all through my childhood.

And thus I remained right until college, when a rather nasty bump into a lamp post made me realize that hair flopped over the eyes wasn’t a great idea in the era of electicity. I was all set to get a rad new 90s Bangalore cut that would give me the Hollywood edge that I’d always dreamt of. However, the 8 rupees that I paid Jagganath Reddy of Up To Date Hair Style, Vyalikaval, didn’t quite seem to do the trick. He’d grab a clump of my head, shake his head and say “Yenri, hing ide nim koodhlu?” (You sure that's hair?) He’d then call his assorted baavas, maavagarus and thammudus sitting around to come have a look at it. I’d close my eyes tight and pretend to die.

At one point, I’d had enough. I sent Jagannath Reddy an I Hate You card one September, and grew my mop out until it threatened to engulf the Sankey Tank. When my strangulated family pleaded for mercy, I took it to the best salon in town at the time – Spratt on Magrath Road. The proprietrix looked down her nose at it and said “Relaxer, maximum strength. Now.” to her waiting assistant. Four hours later, after much grunting and groaning, as assistant after exhausted assistant relaxed and flat ironed my hair, I emerged looking like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. The Spratt lady took one look and burst out laughing. In my face. “I’m sorry, but it looks hilarious. Hahahahahaha. That will be one thousand five hundred, thanks and do come back.” I covered my face with a towel and ran to La Bamba to buy myself a very large hat.

I did everything to my hair to get it to look like Zulfi Syed and anyone else who had long hair those days, but could never get it to look the way I wanted it to. The sweet Srilankan girls at Squeeze on Lavelle Road had a go at it a couple of times, and would send me home looking like professor Snape from Harry Potter. The bearded, bejewelled stylist at Bounce told me to wash it with yoghurt. Couldn't bring myself to do it. I even had an Australian woman cut it when I was in Melbourne. “You’ve got quite a thatch up there mite”, she mumbled, grunting as her tiny little scissors tried in vain to snip through it.

Two years and a depleted bank balance later, I gave up. It was back to the barber shop for me. I now share a special relationship with Muniraju of Royal Men’s Beauty, Bhashyam Circle. When he grabs a clump of my hair and says “Yenri idhu?” I smile benevolently. When he says, “Ayyo sariyag maintrence maadbekri koodhalge. Shamf-geemf ella hachi condeesn nal itkobeku.” (Ever heard of product?), I gurgle. And finally when he says, “Shaarta, frighta?” (Short or spiked?) I say “Nimge gothallaa..” (You know it best, dude) and lie back and enjoy.

The daaeth of European drama

2008-09-24T04:33:00.000-07:00

So I finally did it. The 4000 mile schlep across the seven seas to the haven of Bangalore theatre. Not just once but twice over.My motivation? Free tickets kindly supplied by a cousin to watch her play: An adaptation of Anton Chekhov's Cherry Orchard, called "City of Gardens". Well it was fun alright. The seating was on mattresses arranged amphitheatre-style, close to the stage. The acting was great and so was the Bangalorification of the play, though I think deeper character sketches might have made them a tad more convincing

The second play was - yawn - a done-to-death adaptation of Woyzeck: one of those dreary European plays where everyone dies. The acting was stodgy and faw-faw, and the original storyline, bleh as it was, was drawn out over 2 agonizing hours. Every so often, the hero would tumble dramatically off a cardboard box and play dead, much to the relief of the audience, only to spring back to life moments later and set off on another mind numbing monologue. My life hit rock bottom when one of the side actors (in a Vishnuvardhan style moustache and beret) climbed up on a box and talked about "daaeth". The background music was an unnervingly Indian sounding hodge-podge of various European classical composers, painstakingly named in the playbill. A vaguely admirable part of the play, however, was the set: a bizarrely painted backdrop with lots of doors and windows, that was reused as a rowhouse, a tavern and a wall for the hero to pee on.

All in all - fbbthbbp. I don't know what they were aiming at. If it was meant to be tongue-in-cheek, it worked somewhat. But if not, did they really expect to be taken seriously when the gloriously tanned hero was accused of looking "white as a sheet", or when they played chutneyed Dvorak at a tavern in small-town Germany??!! Tsk.

All said and done though, I think the overall Rangashankara experience was worth the monster schlep across town. For one, it was amazing to see so many identically dressed people in there. The collection of terra-cota jewellery, mat chappals and handloom prints in the audience could make Fab India look like Laxmi blouse-piece junction in comparison. The kid at the door gave me a "you don't deserve a playbill" look as I walked in. Luckily the sabudana vadas and the coffee at the cafe had put me in a good mood by then, so he barely escaped being strangled with his own jhola bag.

So yeah, I'll go again, But togged in my artsy-fartsy best this time, so I can look all intense and theatre-circuity. I'll atleast be guaranteed a playbill that way.

Honourable mentions: J for going gaaahahahaha during the most serious parts of the play, and A for being official shusher of the group: they'd better pay you for doing that the next time :)

Cartoon: "Go and adjust yourself at the back, girlie." - Line from Premaloka (kannada) starring Ravichandran Vishnuvardhan and Juhi Chawla.

Sexy Bach

2008-09-02T00:46:00.001-07:00

See boss, there's no point in being indignant about some things. Like what you're not supposed to do at western classical concerts for example. We're Indian, I agree, naturally effusive, demonstratively appreciative and all that sort of thing. But sorry, no go during Bachtime. So for your own protection and that of those around you, here is a comprehensive list of don'ts at a Western Classical concert.

Suspend all activity when the music starts. If you have your finger up your nose, leave it there. If a mosquito buzzes annoyingly around you, too bad. Try and bargain with it telepathically to leave you alone in exchange for the address of a carnatic concert in the same neighbourhood.

Don't clap. You'll get into trouble. Western classical musicians lose their mojo if there's applause between movements. Mimic a 1970s concrete water-maiden until the music stops. Look around for someone who seems knowledgeable. Rub your palms non-committally when this person applauds. If the artist acknowledges the applause, clap 3 times and smile wanly.

Athough unthinkable before, it is now considered polite and modern to whistle and hoot while applauding at a classical concert. However, be warned that it is not you that should be doing it. YOU - are supposed to continue resembling a frozen coelacanth. The polite whistles should emerge from experienced polite whistlers.

Do not say Sabhash, Aaaaan and Bhale in the middle of a complex aria. Do not waggle your head and say mchxl-mchxl when the soprano hits a high C.

Do not say silly things like "Actually all weshtran musics are in Shankarabharana raaga only." Multiple carnatic music buffs in the audience will jump up immediately and say "Yes yes". They will then proceed to bore everyone senseless with comparisons to Yedhukula Kambhoji and Kiravani and there will be no end to it.

If you're bored, do not make things worse by looking at the artist's music score to see how many pages they have left to play. Chances are that the artist will play till the last page, flip the music over and play it all over again from the top. These classical musicians I tell you.

Try not to focus on the conductor's bottom, though it is the most visible part of the concert. The music does not come from there, though the rhythm does.

Your babies are cute. Leave them AT HOME. Do not inflict a stuffy adult concert on them. They are not interested. The rest of the audience isn't interested in listening to them wail through one either.

If your cell phone rings in the middle of the concert, commit hara-kiri immediately. Yes I realize it takes two people to do it. Don't worry, I will help you.

You are not allowed to arrive or leave in the middle of a piece unless you're dying. Even if you are, you'll probably live through the piece anyway, thanks to the preservative effect of your state of suspended animation.

Do not request an old hindi number at a Bach concert. Well I suppose you could, actually. Go ahead, enjoy ma.

However, do not, at the end of the request, say, "Oh what is there, anybody can play piano ting ting ping ping." I realize Shammi Kapoor has convinced you that you can produce excellent western classical by kneading imaginary chappati dough over a Baby Grand. What you don't realize is that this technique will not work unless there is a heavily mascaraed weeping woman with a bun as big as her head, a disapproving father in a dressing gown AND a grand staircase for him to hobble down.

Linger around after the concert with a polite smile on your face. Chances are you'll be photographed and captioned: "All smiles - Syamanthakamani and Selvaganapathy" on page 3 the next day.

And finally, do remember to take the program list home. You can mug up the names of the pieces and rattle them off at the unsuspecting people you have incarcerated in your basement for this purpose.

Sandalwood, here I come (ish)

2008-08-12T09:52:00.001-07:00

Ah yes hello, I am back. And for those who don't remember me anymore, allow me me re-introduce myself. "Hello, jeste my name is Bikerdude, malayalam vooice-oaver artistte."

Whaa? Yes. This is the new me, and this what I did on my first day of official unemployment.

Whaa? Yes. I bade adieu to my software engineer avatar a couple of weeks ago to see if I could pursue my true interests in the arts. Well atleast that's what I wrote in my resignation letter. Bwahaha. I'm not sure how much pursuing I'm going to be doing, but this was definitely an interesting start:

A few months ago, I got in touch with Suchitra Lata, an immensely talented musician/composer and virtuoso veena player, who very sweetly invited me to check out her studio in Jaynagar. They do some amazing indie jazz-fusion music, aside from mainstream stuff like jingles, voice overs and radio clips. Suchitra's brilliant Album Mobius Strip (2006) has a dreamy loungey sort of feel to it, with very crisply executed veena leads all through. A wonderfully refreshing change from the usual ersatz tracks that you hear in our page 3 lounge bars across town.

So off I went to the studio last week. After I'd gawped at the all studio equipment and was sufficiently bowled over by Suchitra's fusion tracks, she asked me if I'd like do a voice over for a photo printer ad. "Um, sure", I said, and was led into the recording room and asked to sit in front of an extremely cool looking mike. She handed me a 4 page manuscript with a series of jalebis drawn onto it. I was to do the voice-over in Goad's oawn Language.

Whaa? Yes.

"Err.. no English?" I asked nervously. "Err, no English", she said, "Unless you want to do the voice over in Tamil or Gujarati. I stared at the jalebis intently, hoping I'd suddenly be able to read the script as fluently as I could as a kid. No hope there. I finally gave up and begged to be excused for a day so I could go home home, weep for an hour and then attempt to make sense out of it.

After several hours of laborious Malayalam-to-English transliteration (and standing out in the rain to get the perfect nasal twang), I went back to the studio to do the voice-over. Gokul, the brilliant sound engineer, smiled encouragingly at me through the glass window of the recording room and cued me to begin.

"Namaskaram, ende peru Bikerdude. Njaan oru photographer aanu..." (Hello I am Bikerdude and I am a photographer....) I began, looking steadfastly away from Suchitra who had collapsed on the studio floor in uncontrollable giggles the moment I began speaking in my rah-rah malayalam accent. Gokul played my voice back over the headphones. I looked around for a sharp intrument to end everybody's agony right there. Apparently they were used to reactions like mine, and had padded the studio walls as a precautionary measure. After several re-takes and some cool cut-paste jobs by Gokul, the voice-over was ready. It was maginally less hijrotic than when I first started, but still sounded like Hermann Gundert on coconut schnapps.

"I sing and play the guitar a bit too, you know.." I told Suchitra hesitantly, after we'd done the voice over. "Oh?" she said. "Let's do a scratch recording then." It was for a kannada film track. The lyrics hadn't come in yet, she said. But not to worry, I could sing it anyway using the phrases 'love me', 'touch me', 'kiss me', and 'oooh bayyyybehh' in random order.

I sang. Gokul recorded, and played back the track over the headphones. It sounded like a cross between a foghorn and Rajamma miss. They made me sing the same track in a higher key. It sounded like a cross between the HMT factory siren and Rajamma miss.

"Uh-huh, cool, so lets see how that works out", Suchitra said diplomatically, after I was done. "And next time, try not to wobble so much while you sing, yeah?" I simpered, melted into a puddle and trickled down the studio stairs into my car .

So if you hear of mass-malayalee-suicides resulting from a printer infomercial, you'll know who was responsible. And as for me being the next kannada singing sensation, don't hold your breath. I'm not quite sure "Love, touch, kiss or hold me in no particular order baby" will make it to the top ten countdown any time soon.

Thanks tons Suchitra and Gokul for being so patient and long-suffering. You really are awesome people!!

Sandalwood = The kannada film industry ala Bollywood, Kollywood, Tollywood etc.

Commercial Eat

2008-07-11T02:33:00.000-07:00

One of the happiest moments in my mother's life, she says, is when they built her a luxury ladies' toilet on Dispensary road in the late eighties. This facility essentially doubled her shopping time, which in turn meant that my brother and I got twice as much food to eat, to prevent us from grumbling. I therefore dedicate this post to that life-saving toilet, for introducing us to the gourmet delights of charming Commercial Street.

Most of the shops on Commercial street are atleast as old as I am, and many older than my grandmother. Which, I have been instructed by her to inform you, isn't that old, ok? But if you'd like to give the shopping a miss and concentrate like I do on the food, a good place to start is the slightly overpriced, but lovely Woody's.

Stop sniggering, I think the owners of Woody's wanted to do a hep take on Woodlands, a bigger restaurant chain, when they opened this joint. Do try their dee-licious kotte-kadabus from coastal Karnataka: fragrant rice idlies steamed in cylindrical baskets(called kottes) woven from thaaLe-yele leaves. Slurp. Don't hesitate to try all the other yummy stuff on their menu. As long as you can get over the staff who will ignore you even if you commit hara-kiri at the counter, and the mechanical lady who'll say "Towkenn Fifffty Ffffour" in an ominous voice every 5 minutes or so.

A couple of buildings to the left, is the famous Bhagatram Sweets. Legend has it that the stoves of Bhagatram have never stopped burning since the shop opened in 1948. I can say without hesitation, that they make the world's best Sindhi gulab jamoons. Also do try their gorgeous jalebis, their lovely dumroat (baked yellow pumpkin halwa) and their chandrakala (a gulab jamoon stuffed in a badshah dipped in kesar-flavoured syrup. Sob!). Their carrot halwa and their famous 4pm samosas are superlatively delicious too. They moved from their dungeon like shop (lovingly named the Tunnel of Love) into a rather ordinary place next door a couple of years ago. The charming couple (Mr and Mrs Bhagatram Jr.?) that manage the shop speak a singsong mish-mash of Tamil,Kannada, English and Sindhi to their staff and customers, that many people stop by just to listen to.

Diagonally across the street is Anand sweets, equally well known and just as delicious. Their chaat section has some rather unusual numbers that I'm a little hesitant to try. While they have an array of mouthwatering North Indian sweets, do try their badam milk - absolutely hits the spot after a hot and hassled shopping spree. If you're tired of sweet things to eat, step to the back lane of commercial street where you can eat some really yummy streetside dosa and those odd looking triangular samosas.

Midway down Commercial street is the lovely Shiv Sagar. This is a standard Udupi joint with a humungous vegetarian menu, often bordering on the bizarre. Their Mexican selection has enchiladas (more like enchina maarayas* actually) topped with kissan sauce, and their pizzas have about a km. of grated amul cheese on their heads. Eh, whom are we kidding, they're delicious. Eat your heart out, Naples. But if you're not in the mood for experimentation, their North Indian and Indian-chinese selection will definitely appeal to your palate. Not to mention their array of excellent idlis, dosas and other scrumptious South Indian specialities. Top it all off with a Gud-Bud (Udupi special sundae with a story), Merry Window Special, or one of the millions of other lovely sundaes on the menu. Sorry, but you definitely need to visit Shiv Sagar about 15 times before you can decide whether you like it or not.

At the end of commercial street (on Kamaraj Rd actually), is a little ice cream shop tucked away in the basement of a run down complex. If you havent eaten tamarind or jamoon ice cream before, you must go there. Seriously though, Natural Ice Creams has some delicious all-natural seasonal flavours that will suprise you. My favourites are tender coconut and sugarcane-ginger. Do cut them some slack though. They're usually poorly stocked and the staff is sometimes frosty, but they'll warm up to you once you make a few appreciative noises and solicious enquiries about the ice cream.

Around the corner from Naturals, on Dispensary road, is the yummy Lalita's paratha point. Really good parathas of every shape and flavour and some surprisingly good biriyani. Do try when you're starving and want a great, satisfying punjabi meal. A little further up the road from Lallo's is Tiwari bros, a Calcutta based sweet shop with standard issue marwari sweets and some nice samosa-kachori sort of situations to go with them. They don't use onions or garlic, so this is a good place for fussy foodies or couples who, um, intend to have a long romantic evening in close proximity.

And now that you've eaten, it's time to check out commercial street's shopping wonders (preferably in a car at 40kmph). Check out the famous ladies' lane and the chappal gully where you can easily waste away and die unnoticed waiting for your female companions to finish. Go to the Green Shop, Brown Shop, Royal Mens Wear, Jean Junction or Your Shop(pe) for clothes, suitcases and sundries. Take a dekko at Eastern Stores, Bangalore's biggest woollens shop until the eighties. The owner of Eastern Stores will weasel his way into your heart (and wallet) by saying endearing things like "This is your shop ma, your shop. Take it and go ma, yours only". Also check out the series of ladies' tailors (all named Mr Rao) on Dispensary rd., and C Krishniah Chetty and sons, an expensive but exquisite jewellery store in an antique building in the middle of the street. Do walk around and check out the scores of other venerable old shopping institutions on the street when you have the time.

Frankly though, two venerable institutions down and I'm ready to tank up on some yummy Bhagatram gulab-jamoons again.

*Enchina maaraya = "Whaaaat I say?" in Tulu

And the winners are...

2008-07-07T01:20:00.001-07:00

Yes my dearies, it's prize distribution time.

The winners of the most scandalous and/or entertaining stories about cheap places to eat at MG road (see comments section of previous post on the same subject) are:

1. The anonymous VAN: For wearing a tie to Koshy's. And for being from cwashtal AndhrPradeshandi.

2. The human bean: For posting 6 comments in 48 seconds.

3. Karen: For spoiling his chances by mentioning multinational food chains.

4. Scribbler: Ladies/Chinese quota.

Consolation prize: Bikerdude, for doing admirable clean up job of majestic loo like usage of comment space.

Honourable mentions:

Nigel Jeejeebhoy: For vivid descriptions of MG Road in the early jurassic period.

Anoushka: Because I already drew her.

Pri: In the hope that she'll get over that ghastly kheer kadam at some point

And the rangashankara crowd: Please do not kill me.

And finally, the prize:
Bonda soup for yevverybody, commaaan yenjaay I say.

MG Road for under 50 bucks

2008-07-03T03:44:00.000-07:00

"If y'all don't 'ave pots of money, there's not much you can do on MG road men", I heard a friend moan. Actually he said yuvarself instead of y'all and paatsu instead of pots (he was from Nellore dishtrict), but I couldn't print that. Suitably challenged, I wandered off to the end of MG road and decided to take a stroll down to see how many places I could still get a satisfying meal at, for under 50 bucks.

First stop- K C Das on Church St. Ok stop screaming, I know those sweets are ridiculously priced. But here's the trick. Step in, sit yourself down and order a plate of luchis or motor kachuri with alurdom and yellow dal. Or maybe a couple of singaras, a rasgulla or three and some deliciously divine mishti doi. Slllurrrrp. When the surly waiter flings the bill at your face, you'll be pleasantly surprised to see that you've only drummed up a bill of about 40 rupees or so! They also sell sweets per piece which work quite well with your budget. Those cashew/pista balls are dangerously priced at 17 bucks apiece though.

Tumble about 20m downhill from KC das and walk into Sheshamahal restaurant. This certainly has to be the pleasantest south indian restaurant for miles. Try their hearty bonda-soup in the evenings. Ok go crazy and throw in a maddur vade, some nippat-chakli and mangalore bajji and wash it all down with some filter coffee. Not more than 35 bucks, I assure you. Happiness joyness! Oh and do try their oota (lunch) section which is actually on the MG side, in a small lane beside Arya bhavan sweets.

Which brings me to Arya Bhavan sweets. Lovely, surly staff, and a variety of low-priced sweets and chaats to choose from. Try their speciality: Baby chaat kachori. A sort of edible flour basket filled with all manner of yummy things. Might burn a hole in your stomach, but not in your wallet. Ha ha. Manchi joku kaadhandi? Also try their excruciatingly sweet malai lassi. Lovely for a brilliant 23 minute sugarbuzz.

For some really great filter coffee, try India coffee depot, a small hole in the wall opposite Premier bookstore on Museum Road. The kindly gentleman there has a strange system. He'll take 5 rupees from you and hand you a doubled paper cup full of piping hot filter coffee. He'll then walk in, tear a coupon ceremoniously out of a book, rip it up into shreds and fling it out of the window, all the time smiling and making small talk as you finish your coffee.

Pani puri my loves? Try the chaat walla right around the corner from India coffee depot. Deeeelicious pani puri (sooji ke hain sir, ek dum mulaayam) for ten bucks, with a sookha poori (with channa, lemon and a magic chaat masala) thrown in for free. The best gabuk-gabuk-ten-rufis-thank-you place ever.

For round-the-clock cheap food, there's no place like Empire. A vast menu, immaculately dressed staff and many, many inebriated clubbers on a Saturday night. Try their shawarma rolls and dosa-chicken combos. Also their yum ghee rice, dal fry, kerala/ceylon parathas, chikken gebaabuh (kabab in Malabari-speak), lychee melba and much much more. Their Arabic restaurant upstairs is a little disappointing, but the food's not bad at all for the price.

For more inexpensive South Indian, try Kaycees down the road. Their lunch thalis, especially the Naarth Indian mini-meals, where you get to choose the gravy that accompanies your fluffy white kulchas, are really quite delicious.

Midway down MG road, it's been business as usual at the India Coffee House. For the past 4000 years. The grouchy waiters, also around the same age, have for some reason become uber polite these days. Gone are the days when they'd bite your head off if you dared to ask for a pepper shaker. They now stand around in an avuncular fashion, and even half salute when you tip them. While their cutlets, sandwiches, coffee and masala dosas are not bad at all, do not miss their slurpily yumptious scrambled eggs. They are arguably the best in Bangalore, and served on toast in VERY chipped china. Super value for money.

Walk down Brigade road and up rest house crescent (or Pecos lane as it is more popularly known) and the first thing you hear is some super cool music from a green spiral staircase. That, my dear friends, is the infamous Pecos - Brigade road's best kept... err non-secret. Step in, and well, step out, if you don't get it. But if you do, welcome to what was once my world. Beautiful (sob sob) music, cheap beer that on a good day tastes like Rosy chechi's dishwater, natural airconditioning (I'm not kidding. Sit by the window that overlooks Pick 'n' Move), a sav crowd and surprisingly affordable food. Try their tacos and sausage steamed rice with your dishwater. Slurp.

A little past Pecos on the left, is the infamous Dubai Plaza that houses the lovely 'Taste of Tibet'. A smash hit with the college crowd, here's where you can gorge on momos, phingsha, tingmo, thupka and all manner of unpronounceable Tibetan things for very little money. You'll soon learn to love the slow motion movements of the staff, the lovely tomato relish and the tinkly Tibetan music that comes free with every meal!

How can I end any food story without a mention of my favourite eatery (mostly for non food related reasons) - Nilgiri's. Walk into the newly refurbished cakeshop and help yourself to puffs, pastries and all manner of yummy things for well under 20 bucks. They now even have pre-packaged dosa-chutney, poori-and-potato sort of deals that you have to zap in the microwave before you eat, which quite frankly look rather yucky. What you might want to check out is their 10-paise-per-gram lunch buffet, where an endearingly grouchy attendant spoons out as much rice, gravy and curry as you want into a plate and charges you by weight. Fascinating, and quite flattering when you notice she's written your weight down as 188 grams.

And that, I think, (besides Ullas refreshments, Brindavan Wotel and the noodle person on Dickenson Rd), brings my cheap and best MG road eateries story to a close. Other places, stories of unimaginable illnesses from eating at said places, anecdotes and observations most welcome!

Aargh-apella!

2008-06-25T04:55:00.000-07:00

Friday, the 20th could well have been the 13th.

"Hey, let's go listen to Stanford University's acapella group perform today", said a friend. "Aye thu come ya, It will be fun, and besides how bad can it be? They're only performing for 45 minutes." "Oh them?", I said, googling furiously. They were called Raagapella, I discovered. Stanford university's South Asian focussed all-male acapella group. Oho. They'd been selected as part of Stanford's eight acapella groups through a gruellingly intense audition process. Achacha. They only got 3 hours of sleep a night, because of all the practices, the article said. Mchxl mchxl. "Uyyo cammaaan I say" I hollered back into the phone at the friend, and off we went.

We reached the Alliance Française half an hour early, hoping to catch seats in what we thought would be a packed house. The group was performing as part of the Fête de la Musique, a free music evening showcasing musical talent from all over the country and beyond.

The show was running about an hour late as usual. Which was cool because it gave us time to check out the group that was playing before them: a talented but fairly pedestrian jazz-fusion group, with a cherubic dude on the western drums, a slightly apologetic looking Indian percussionist and a lost bass-guitarist. My brain switched off the moment the apologetic percussionist switched on his laptop and played an ersatz background score for them to drum over. A couple of well executed, intricate konnukol interludes and bland guitar riffs (all at an earsplittingly high decibel level) later, they left. Hopefully straight to the shower that they'd forgotten to take before coming on stage.

A hush fell over the audience. About ten men, identically clad in red zari-kurtas walked in and took their positions on stage. "Ah, there they are", sighed the friend and settled into her seat, looking forward to a fabulous hour ahead. The lead kurta fluttered down from on stage. "Hi how are you guys doin'?" (Oooerr. Ah well they've been in the US for a while, I suppose the NRI twang is forgiveable.) "We're Raaegapeylla", he said, launching into a long winded explanation of the type of music they were into. A few "raaeguhs" and "taaeluhs" into his speech, and I had zoned out. I even missed the part where he explained why girls in particular were supposed to like their music. I was taking bites out of the seat in front of me by then.

Finally, they began. Lead kurta blew into a pitch pipe, pumped his arm up and down with the skill of a Saidapet housewife at 4am, and the group began to hum a low 3-note chord. The pitch pipe hadn't helped. They were flat. Kurta after kurta fluttered down to the mike and sang a line each (flat), before taking their places back with the red mass of gyrating hips on stage, still on the same chord (flat). We looked at each other. "Probably not warmed up", we reassured each other, and waited for the next song.

A scientist type slithered down to the mike next, his longish hair in straggly wisps around a standard issue wide-eyed NRI leer. "Hope you guys are doin' just fab tonight. We're now gonna do a modal (dai!) piece for you guys in a Raega and its based on a shlogum." (Ah. Tamil-ABCD. Hmm.) "We've also tried to mix in a John Denver number" (Aiyo! Poor fellow what he did to you I say?). "But first, Im gonna do you an aalaa-banai" (Uh huh, definitely Tamil).

The visions in red went "Pum-pum-pum-PUMMM" for about 40 seconds, which I later figured was supposed to have been the sound of a tanpura (left out in the rain for 40 days and 40 nights presumably). A billy goat bleated out from somewhere. The Alliance caretaker jumped up with his stick to chase it away, but sat down suspiciously when he realized that the sound was coming from on stage. It was long haired scientist type. He had closed his eyes and was doing his aalaa-banai. It was - ooh, you guessed? Flat. He'd suddenly shudder from head to toe and go a-a-a-a-a-a-a, presumably to placate the djinn that had jumped into his pajamas before the concert. Finally, he left. The Chinese (north-east-indian?) member of the group came down to sing his line: A deep bass growl emerged from his dimunitive figure. Not half bad! Pretty darned good even. Unfortunately his elaborate churidar had slid down over his feet and made him look like a handsomish Yoda. "Song sung, I nicely have", I thought I heard him murmur before he flapped back upstage.

Long-haired scientist type came back down and went "tae kit ta tah, ta laengu takka tah." for 2 minutes, accompanied by a voice-percussionist member of the group. I had finished chewing the chair in front of me, and was gnawing pensively on my friend's obligingly offered shoulder by then. My cell phone buzzed. It was a distress message from Missy M, whom I had also invited to watch the spectacle: "Headache. Pain. Must go. Will talk. Later. Water. Room service."

I couldn't take any more either. I left quietly after the song was over, and cried into my pillow all night.

Stanford Raagapella. I have two words to say to you: "What the...?!!"
OK three: "Fbbbthhhbbpp".

Acknowledgements: Mem (for offering gnawable shoulder), Subz (for scarring us for life), Apps (for being long suffering and stoic)

Placatory disclaimer: Don't get all hot under the collar boys, you weren't so bad. Just tune up a bit and you'll be fine.

Radio Goo Goo (or Radio Ga Ga Part Too Too)

2008-06-09T06:45:00.000-07:00

My slightly less-than-reverent post on Bangalore's chatterbreed seems to have attracted a fair amount of attention from the accused. And for those of you who quite understandably skipped reading the comment track of the post, here are the responses of some of the RJs who wrote back after reading it:

Manasvi (AIR) said:
Glad to know you love AIR. Many people call it old fashioned. But those who work there would only know the effort it takes to be a part of AIR. and the number of restrictions we have to consider before every word is spoken.

Priya Ganapathy (ex Radio City) said:
One of my friends told me to check out this blog and man, i haftu admit, u guys made my day!! Full majaa happened. I can't believe that there are quite a few who still remember the 'Core FM team of Radio City!' and so many who loved the Retro Show & the Late Show. I had an awesome time while I was there, and it feels utterly wunnerful that u were listening. For those of you who need an update on my life - I quit fulltime radio but now host events, do voice-overs and am back to writing. Travelling a lot... but if I find a radio station that's calling out my name - u can be sure to hear me on the airwaves;-) Till then, take care and thanks for ur wonderful messages! Yours in music n madness - Priya Ganapathy/Lingo Leela/Sister Stella

Rashmi and Prithvi (Radio One) said:
Can't start without saying that your post Radio Ga Ga brought a smile on all our faces on a day when Radio One works without takin a pause - Friday (25th of April i.e last week). And this of course included my station head Shyju Varkey, the breakfast jock Prithvi, Ulfat Sultan a k a Agent Rakesh, a few of our sales guys and me. These instances makes us feel good of our presence in the market and assures us of the connect we have with our Bangalorean Buddies just like anyone of us at Radio One who find an instant relationship establshing with Chamrajpet Charles of Prof Sultan. Thank you so much for the support and of course for tuning in.

After a couple of emails to and fro, I realized Rashmi and Prithvi's Radio One office was almost next door to my workplace, so off I went last Friday to meet them. Acutely aware of the high fashion state that my friday work wear was in, I decided to accessorize a little by smoothing down my frazzled hair with some good quality BWSSB water before meeting them. Thank you 30% relative humidity, in the 3 minutes that it took to walk down to the station, my hair was back to resembling the Great Indian Macaque again.

A pretty Rashmi breezed into the foyer as soon as I came in, and took me inside to meet 'everybody'. Very soon, a nattily dressed Prithvi was shaking me by the hand and leading me into the recording room. Inside, the pretty RJ pavitra (adh yen neer kudeetheero pa, nangu solp kodi (what water you drink-o-pa)) was at the console, studying all the intellectual smses that were coming in from her listeners. "Hai SXZVLW. Hehehe" flashed the most recent one, which she efficiently deleted with one graceful schloomp, while turning on the music, feeding the cat, doing her taxes and calling back an smser in another fluid motion.

Rashmi and Prithvi dragged me out of the studio before I could fall at Pavithra's feet and beg to be accepted as a disciple forever, and whisked me away to the main office. "Yaar ivrella?" (Who are all these people?) I asked looking mika-mika at everybody, feeling exactly like the legendary Boré Gowda did on his first trip to the city. Tinkly Rashmi laughter bounced off the walls of the office. "Ivraa? (These peopleaa?) Well, the guy sitting over there is RJ Anjaan, and this person here, is your friend Ulfat Sultan", she said pointing to a smart dude tapping away industriously at what I'm sure was his next hilarious clip. "Oh hi", he said, looking up momentarily. "Abb..ab.. gnh", I said, waving weakly and pretending to melt into the floor.

The station director came out soon enough, and at that point I completely lost it and gibberred away incoherently in Kannada. There was a light tap on my shoulder. It was Prithvi. "You know all those nice things you just said to the director? Yeah, so he doesnt speak Kannada." he said. "Oh hauda? Hehehe mhemhe", I simpered and turned back to the director. "Adhe budhdhi, nim radiyaa aithallraa? Bhal beshtyth nod budhdhra. Belg-belghoth jagli myaag kuntkaand kyaalthen nwaadi." (Charming programming, dear sir. I enjoy listening to it greatly as I sip my cha in the breakfast room), I continued in an inexplicable pan-karnataka halli-mix. For some reason, the English section in my pea brain had decided to pack its bags and take a vacation to Nelmangala.

Before I could cause any more embarrassment to the director or the staff, Prithvi and Rashmi dragged me out, still gibberring away furiously in Nelmangalese. They finally lured me into the elevator and out of the building with promises of a bonda at Kaycees.

Aiyo, mast maja banth ammawra - swaamyoi! Bhal thyanks kanra.

A letter to ze pooblick

2008-05-29T05:02:00.000-07:00

Guten Tag.

Zis is your airportdirektor speaking. All ze papers are reporting already about ze screw ups in my new airport. I am ankry about zis. You are mean, mean people, and zerefore I vud like to say ze following. Boo.

Howeffer, in the greater pooblic interest of your mutterland, I am klarifyink ze misconceptions zat have formed in your kopfs, vun by vun, as follows:

1. I don't give a spaetzle what you sink about konnektivity to my airport. Take your time, its not like you can go anyvere else to fly. Muhahaha.

2. You haff problem vith ze old airport klosing. I belief zere are two solutions for zis problem.
(a) My vay
(b) Ze high vay.
Ze answer to 2(b) is NH7. Let us not go there. Getting to my airport is your business. You can get to my airport by megic carpet for all I care. Auf weidersehen HAL. You vill not be missed here at Deffanahalli.

3. I vos not eating bratwurst ven ze conveyor belt in ze beggege claim died ze moment it vos svitched on. In fect, I vos pacing the floor boards composing my next indignant press release on how my airport operations haff been kompletely rheady for months.

4. I haff been constantly warning my staff to use the aerobridches only to connect people from terminal to flight. Not as slippery slide (whee!) for zeir personal enchoyment. However, zey are refusing to listen. I zerefore recommend zat all you lazy esses undergo an intensmountaineeringtrainingprogram like I haff, to enable you to board ze plane using a series of rope laddahs. Zis is ze only vay fohvard, konsidering ze benne-mudde's zat we have operating ze aerobridch zese days. Jooseless fellows I tell you.

5. You vont me to build train to come to ze airport? Vot silliness. Vosh your face and think lochically. If you haff train, vy must you come already to ze airport? Vell okay, if you insist, giff me money and I vil build train for you. I vill not hire my aerobridch operators to drive train, do not vorry.

4. The lostandfoundaeroplanesdepartment has been rheady for months. Howeffer, since the lostandfoundaeroplanesdepartmentmanager vos having trrouble findink his vay to the lostandfoundaeroplanesdepartment through the long line of people waiting to check in to ze missink airkraft, he vos not able to locate ze missink airkraft. Move, you dumkopfs, ozervise you vill be heah forevah.

5. Zis is airport. Not texi stend. Or Murugeshpalya cultural association. I vill hire Helga from Herrenberg and Wolfgang from Wurtenburg to drrive my texis if I please. If you can say "Meine airportdirektor rhoolz" in a konvincing accent, you vill be hired. Ozervise, boo hoo. Go drrive a Volfo boos. Harumph.

Yes and now back to my bratwurst.

Can't get any verse

2008-05-22T03:35:00.000-07:00

Just I will tell off one poetry
So kindly to be keeping the quiet ri.
It may be shallow
Or crass, you faallow?
And irritate you senseless, it might ri.

Onnaf my friend, a daaktar,
Loved a girl and quite raacked her.
Their honey moonu
Came a tad too soonu
'Cos when she asked him to wear protection, he maacked her.

Yettanother boy in a call center
Had a big row with his mentor.
He is currently regarded
As mentorry retarded
After she ate the book he lent her.

A man sat down at Koshy's
And ordered two masala doshys.
The waiter glared.
Not that the man cared.
He, in fact, calmly picked his noshys.

A young girl from Banashankari
Wore jewels and assorted junkery.
When someone asked why,
She said, "Simple. I
Just want to ensnare a hunk ri."

Raj Saxena, while at Forum
Would never maintain decorum.
When they'd throw him out,
He'd scream and shout.
Once he even pulled off his jeans and tore 'em.

Does this story have a moral?
Visual, tactile or aural?
Or a heart-rending
Rhyming ending?
No, it doesn't.

Flyover feveru is backu.

2008-05-12T23:40:00.000-07:00

2009 is when it's all going to happen. The BBMP, having partially completed the world's biggest roller coaster for everyday use on Sankey Road, has now decided to go super high tech. They're going to build a skyway on stilts from Minsk square all the way to Hebbal. They're also throwing in landscaping, a traveling circus, thirteen temple elephants and a high speed train that will reach you to the airport before you can say Hunsemavur Nanjundaswamy S.K.

This is just part of the grandiose master plan. People from Electronics City will now link up to the airport via a series of three skyways. At the end of the journey, they will have the option of purchasing pictures of their terror struck faces taken just as their cars begin to hurtle down the steepest ramp of the skyway.

People from Whitefield and Indiranagar need not worry either. A skyway will fly them over the old airport, past Domlur and into a large hole in the ground located near Johnson market. Illuminated signs bearing the inscription: "We suffered for 40 years, it's your turn now, gaaaahahaha", sponsored by the Yelahanka residents association, will be installed in the hole to make the descent more bearable.

A special corps of 83 traffic policemen specially selected on the basis of paunch size will be stationed throughout the length of the skyway to frantically motion the traffic along. Special parachutes will be provided to them to quickly exit the skyway in the event of a traffic jam.

National petroleum reserves are expected to hit zero 6 months after the inauguration of the airport. Bicycling on the skyways will therefore be actively encouraged. To provide further encouragement, speakers will be installed at regular intervals throughout the skyway, playing the song "Aye Gangu, ee biku kalisi kodu nangu*" on endless loop.

In anticipation of frequent power failures rendering the high speed train useless, passengers will be provided with a cone of kadle puri** each and marched to the airport in single file. Senior citizens however, will be suspended from the tracks and provided with a set of hand pedals to winch themselves slowly but safely to the airport. The IPL cheerleading squad will be recruited to recite "Dum lagake, aisa" to a pair of bullocks that will be airlifted onto the tracks to pull the train to safety.

It's all going to happen. By 2009.
So far, we've got this:

BBMP, we love you ma, ok? oaaaaakay.

*Dear Mr Gangadharaiah, would you be so kind as to educate me on the workings of this charming two-wheeled transportation device?

** Karnataka equivalent of bhel

Acknowledgements: Picture of the BDA Junction magic box received with thanks from the kind offices of Camera Karan.

The mountain cake-shop

2008-04-28T23:47:00.000-07:00

It was 5 in the evening. Our grandfather had left us at the cake shop while he went to get tickets for The 36th Chamber of Shaolin at Rex, next door. My brother and I were ravenous. Cakes of every shape and colour beckoned at us from glass cabinets all around. Goodie shelves were stacked sky-high with pastries, patties, puffs and pies. Our only hope of getting anywhere close to the counters was to crawl under the legs of the crowds that thronged them. After a couple of slithers, twists and crawls, we finally managed. We stood on tiptoe and reached as high up as we could, waving wildly to attract the attention of the surly attendant. She paid us no heed, choosing instead to scowl at all the others that had managed to reach the front of the counter.

In sheer desperation, my brother yanked at the hem of a skirt near his head. A chalky voice neighed down at us from above: "Eh, look two littl'uns. What y'all want my darlings?" it said. "D..d..danish pastry."said my brother. "Two", I added, holding my fingers up at a smiling, heavily made up face. "'Ere, give dese two sweet'earts danish pastry neh." said the large woman to the surly attendant. The attendant reluctantly slapped two drippy, treacly treats on the counter and returned our change. "Go siddown dere 'n' eat." she said, pointing to an unoccupied table. "Y'all came 'lone eh?" "No, our grandfather's gone to the theatre to buy tickets." we chimed in chorus. "Ooh, holidayzuh?" she said, and turned back to continue haggling with the attendant, while my brother and I ran to the table slavering over our spoils.

This is my earliest memory of Nilgiri's - the most celebrated cake shop in South India. They'd been around over seventy five years before I arrived on the scene, and still stand strong and proud today. New cakeshops have come and gone, some with arguably better fare than their old world competitor. None, however, have been able to replicate their unbeatable always-been-there flavour, that seems to have ingrained itself irreversibly into our palates.

By the 1940s, Nilgiri's had moved down from their mountain abode into a little shop on Brigade Road stocked with homemade English goods. When they started their booming fancy cakes business in the '50s, everybody in Bangalore ordered from them. For every function, a cake more special than the previous one would be delivered fresh from Nilgiri's. For a wedding reception, my grandparents ordered a cake shaped in the form of an entire stage. For Pongal (yes we are incurably cantonment), they ordered a sugarcane shaped one. My mother's birthday cake was in the shape of a house, my uncle's was like an aeroplane, and the crowning glory was a rich Vat 69 bottle cake specially ordered for my great grandfather's birthday.

Nilgiri's, though hugely popular by the '60s, was still a friendly little shop. My mother remembers an incident from back then, when she arrived by auto on Brigade Road and realized she'd left her purse back home as usual. She hesitated only for a moment before deciding what to do. After admonishing the auto driver for not bowing low enough, she adjusted pin no. 112 in her bouffant hairstyle, batted her mascara'ed eyes and told him to wait by the side of the road, so as not to inconvenience the 8 vehicles that plied on it daily. Looking steadfastly away from the risqué poster at the Opera theatre, she took 347 mini-steps across the pavement (on account of her double wrapped saree), and stood at the Nilgiri's counter, knotting and unknotting her pallu worriedly. "What happened ma?" asked Mr Chenniappan, the kindly proprietor. The young mutter, amidst heaving bosoms, fluttering eyelids, and helpless looks cast hither and thither, explained her predicament. Without a moment's hesitation, Mr Chenniyappan emptied a bag full of 1 paisa coins onto the counter and said, "Take as much as you want ma". She counted out 100 coins, the staggering fare from Malleswaram to Brigade road, and gave them to the waiting driver, who was standing with his palms folded over his head and one leg crossed over the other, waiting for his fare in a meditative trance. He accepted the money with another low stately bow and sputtered away, humming the latest Sivaji hit.

But that was then. By the time I was tall enough to reach the top of the pastry counter, things had changed. The sweet little mountain-bakery had been replaced by Nilgiri's Supermarket, the biggest shop I had ever seen. You could get everything you'd ever read in an Enid Blyton there. Marzipans, gingerbread, licorice, cheeses, marshmallows, jellybeans, asparagus, easter eggs- everything. And at the cake shop below: pastries, puffs, pies, minces, pizzas, tarts, eclairs, macaroons- and of course, those slurpily delicious Danish pastries. The counters were operated by a bevy of Tamil women, all equally surly, and if my grandmother was to be believed, "hired directly from Nimhans, I tell you." They looked straight through you, said "No" just on a whim, and in the unlikelihood of their taking mercy on you, made you acutely aware of how privileged you were to be getting something from them. Nevertheless, the crowds surged on through the '90s and midway through my college years. Nilgiri's cakes were, after all, the cheapest and loveliest to be found.

Upper Crust, the restaurant started by the Nilgiri's heir-apparent, did roaring business, especially with the college crowd. People from my college, strategically situated in the heart of the city, would be the first to bunk class and appear there for a quick bite (and sometimes a long drawn out date) before a movie. The cafe-restaurant was also the perfect place to meet after a long day at work. When they started serving Chettinad cuisine, our joy knew no bounds. Unfortunately, the cafe went into decline in the 2000s thanks to family feud, and closed down a couple of years ago. Die hard Nilgiri's buffs like me grew sadder as the stacked shelves in the bakery grew lighter and lighter with every passing year.

Last week, an enthusiastic classmate and I decided to organize a college reunion at the Nilgiri's cake shop. We felt it was the perfect place to renew old aquaintances, and perhaps bid fond farewell to our old favourite hang out. As we waked down the stairs to the basement cake shop, a pleasant oniony aroma hit us. It was the all-too-familiar smell of Nilgiri's baking. The cake shop under its new management had been given a face lift. There was air conditioning, modern furniture, elegant lighting and even a children's play area. Nilgiri's' slightly anachronistic trademark pastries and cakes stood proudly in their shelves once again. The surly staff now smiled waterily at the customers, as they laboriously keyed bills into their new cash machines. The food, in true Nilgiri's style, was cheap, pleasant and satisfying.

As for the reunion, the less said about being the only singleton among 10 ageing classmates - spouses and children in tow, the better.

There, there. It'll be all better soon.

2008-04-21T23:20:00.000-07:00

Do you know what Bangalore's biggest problem is? It's the weather. We're spoilt brats. If the thermometer registers a 5 day blip of 2 degrees above normal, we think we're dying. When it rains for 45 minutes instead of 30, we go to pieces over it. When the winter's nice and chill, we cringe at the thought of how hot the summer could be. And then there are those memory trips that everybody goes on in April, the moment the mercury hits 35 degrees for 2 hours: "Nimgenri gothu Bengloor chali bagge! 20 varsha hinde Malleswaradal Shivrathri maLege badlu manju bilthaa ithu gothaa?" ("Whaat all you maadran peepals know I say. 20 years ago, the dosa batter at CTR would freeze saalid before hitting the tava even in midsummer. You fallow?") Has our weather really suffered such a dramatic change over the past 50 years or so?

Thankfully, it hasn't. We have.

Does anybody know which year Bangalore recorded its highest temperature (39 deg)? It was in 1931! While the met department agrees it was probably a freak occurrence, it also says that Bangalore's average summer temperatures have only gone up by a degree or so in the past 30 years. They seem unsure that it's a long lasting phenomenon, or if it is cause for real concern. But while the global picture is definitely cause for worry, can one measly degree cause this kind of mass weather hysteria among Bangaloreans today? I'm sure there's more to it. Here are my theories:

(e) Bangaloreans are incredibly paranoid about the weather. While we love bragging about it and smirking down at the sweltering plains below us, we're also the first to panic when it isn't significantly cooler than the rest of India at any given point of time. We need to be a good 8 degrees below Chennai, for example, to feel completely satisfied. Even the slightest rise in temperature makes us worry about losing our USP, and we hate that.
(n) Bangalore weather is always on the edge. Our clockwork weather pattern is worrisome. The balance between heat and rain is so delicate that we're convinced its going to go awry some day. If it doesn't rain and bring the mercury down exactly when it should, we immediately assume that the end has finally come, and run around in circles, moaning.
(o) We live in matchboxes that don't breathe naturally. The simple beat-the-heat measures like high roofs, red oxide floors, large verandahs and ventillators that our older buildings used, were excellent temperature control mechanisms.
(u) With modern conveniences at our disposal, we are willing to tolerate fewer and fewer weather eccentricities. We'd rather turn on our airconditioners at full blast, or flock into malls and theatres the moment we feel even slightly uncomfortable. We'd probably not feel this bad if we allowed our bodies to adjust to temperature changes gradually like the previous generation did, instead of confusing them by plunging in and out of supercooled zones every few hours.
(g) There's too much weather information going around. Heat related anxiety is particularly prevalent in Bangalore. We worry ourselves sick after reading the weather columns in the papers and watching the rest of the country swelter on tv, instead of facing our relatively milder summers calmly.

But since we are such a bunch of moaners, here are some simple tricks to keep cool for the next few days until the rains come:

(h) Don't forget to drink as much water as you can. Try and get used to drinking room temperature water, to help acclimatize your body to the ambient temperature.
(a) If you live on the top floor, sprinkle a bucket of water on your roof in the mornings and evenings. Makes a dramatic difference.
(l) Wear cotton. We are used to dressing up in Bangalore, because the weather normally allows us to. But for now, put your fancy numbers away. People are too exhausted to notice anyway.
(r) When you wash your face, wet the back of your neck, your ears and your inner arms. Helps you cool down dramatically.
(e) Cut out the sunlight with curtains or chiks (roll-down blinds) during the day. You could wet them too, if your home is sufficiently ventillated. Remember to roll them up at night though, or your rooms will get incredibly stuffy.
(a) Eat simple food. Rice, salads, juices, greens, yoghurt, fruits - you know, that sort of thing.
(d) Look around you and see where you can plant trees. Select spots that are likely to remain undisturbed for the next 30 years. You will never regret the small effort you took now, 10 years later. If you are not upto the task, call these people. They will do it for free.
(y) And most importantly, relax. It isn't so bad. Yet. Old Bangytown's clockwork rain usually kicks around the end of April and brings things back to normal. Until then, drink majjige and stay cool, but also think about what you can do to keep it in good ticking order.

Radio Ga Ga

2008-04-11T06:17:00.000-07:00

They're everywhere. You can't escape them. Their incessant screaming seeps through your skull and messes with your brains. They gibber at you excitedly while you're at restaurants, malls and on your way to work. Their non-stop banter bounces off your eyeballs and lodges itself irretrievably in your psyche. Their ghoulish laughter rings in your ears hours after they've gone. They shriek in amusement as they watch you grow more and more dependent on their histrionics to tide you through your day.

What is most alarming, however, is that their numbers are swelling rapidly. The handful of RJs at Bangalore's solitary FM radio station in the early 2000s has now self-replicated to form a whole tribe of hysterical, airheaded babblers, chattering across 30 stations today. Unfortunately, I have never been able to catch a live specimen so far, to ask it the questions that I've always been dying to:

Are you sure you haven't been genetically altered? What do you have for breakfast before you let fly on the world like that? Do you sound like CDs on fast forward even when you're off work?
Will you ever have spouses? who aren't deaf-mute? Or children? How are those gonna work out if your spouses have permanent headaches from your incessant chattering? Ok I don't want to know the answer to the last one.

I must admit though, that there are a few chatterers that stand out from the maddening clamour. They gibber a little less, and make just a teeny bit more sense than the rest. This is my tribute to them. You kinda sorta make-ish my day, so, ummwell thanks.

Malavika (Radio Indigo): What! You lefta? Just like that! Why?? How can you do this to me, Bikerdude, your most adoring (and regretfully silent) fan? My mornings to work were made so much more bearable by the cheeriness of your happaladha-hittu voice. Your good humour and understated wit, especially when those obnoxious schoolkids called in and asked you to "playya song f'my muddher", were so charming. I will miss you I say. Come back! Wail!

Prithvi (Radio One): Boss, you're the man. Aha what a lovely RJ you are I say. I crown you the undisputed King of Kanglish. Your crazy humour and voice impressions are awesome. OK they're also slightly girly, but hey we like that. Oh and guy, could you ask your people to redo that jingle for your show? The one that has "Gooooood morning 'aa-Byengloora'" clunkily dubbed over the earlier 'Bangalore'? Apart from that, very good boss, congrats ok? ok.

Radha Thomas (Radio Indigo) : Sigh. When your deliciously husky voice hits the airwaves every Sunday, I stop wherever I am and listen intently. To the slightly run-of-the-mill but gorgeous jazz that you play with such coolness. Mid-middle full garagase Gayathri voice also. Aha, what a. Thank you for being born ma. Enjoy ok?

Rohit Barker (Radio Indigo) : Ahem, what can I say. You were awesome when you started, until you had that lobotomy a couple of years ago. Seriously boyo, what gives with the hysterical giggles and the brain dead jokes these days? We want the old Bright Barker back. We miss you(ish). Luckily the extra brain space seems to have been substituted with fairly good taste in music. And that Saturday thing you do with the gravelly voiced DJ whatsizname is really quite lovely, so great going!

Darius (Ex Radiocity): Well you're tough to ignore, aren't you. Taking some time off the air after all those death threats from the people you humilated during your call-in shows? Ah ok. Take, take.

Chaitanya Hegde (Ex radio city, now somewhere on a satellite): Putta, I can't say I dig your music, but your voice has a lovely reassuring tone to it that we all really like. So keep talking, but keep that finger off the play button, Ok? Ok bye.

Priya Ganapati (Ex Radiocity, now Mumbai, no?): Hai so nice. Full RJ ki Rani you were. Where you went off I say? And more importantly where did you take your awesome, awesome alter egos: Sister Stella and Lingo Leela? Boss! you guys used to make my day back then, with those slonguaze lessons and gogonut oil melodies for maaaladies. Come off back no, what is there?

Chamrajpet Charles and Prof. Ulfat Sultan (Radio One): Dude, you rock. Even a die-hard cantonment type like me can't get my dinglish to flow as smoothly as you do. 'Ow y'all manije so well I dunno men buggeh. Muss'be all dose quarters and bubba curries y'all eat hevery week, neh? What-tever you say baba, when I meet you I'll take off one xerox of your foot and hang it off on my wall only. Oi teri xerox ka taanga! Much love.

Sheetal Iyer and Vasanthi (Where are you these days ma?): Aiyo, sweeties you are I say. Sweetal and Pleasanty you can change off your names to, no? Nice job OK? Oaakay.

And finally, my all time favourites:
The nameless RJs on All India Radio (AIR) FM:
Dear saars and medams,

Kindly note that I am terribly in love with all of you. I am fascinated by your polished, measured tones, resultant of decades of practice in the dharna tent with an apricot seed in either cheek. I am highly entertained by your tinkly genteel laughter whenever any of your readers from Kaval Byrasandra sends in a joke. The detailed explanations provided after each joke are greatly appreciated by goldfish embryos, rock dwellers, politicians and waiters at Mocha.

Thanks to your intelligent discussions on various fascinating subjects during the Rajkumar favourites hour, my knowledge on piles, streptococcal infections and commercial chakkotha cultivation has advanced immensely.

I realize that you have approximately 88,743 hours of flute recitals in your archives, and am only too happy to listen to them incessantly, at the risk of going slightly mad at 7 every evening. I even approve of your long stoic silences between songs, when I assume you take your well-deserved tea breaks.

Live long and prosper, AIR, I love you. OK? OK.

As for the rest of you:
I'm not saying you aren't good. I'm not saying you are, either.

South Indian Wedding Etiquette

2008-04-04T06:55:00.000-07:00

If you're anything like me (and I hope for your own good that you aren't), I'm sure you're fed up to the gills with all the irritating things people do at South Indian weddings. I have decided therefore to publish a "Lets call it like it is" pamphlet on South Indian wedding etiquette, so that all the fools who make them as unpleasant as they are, can mend their errant ways. I have to add here though, that this pamphlet does not apply to Malayalee weddings. For them, a visiting card with the words "Do not blink, or you'll miss the wedding" will suffice.

Bridal etiquette
(1) Smile, woman. We didn't drive all the way through the maddening traffic to see you look doped-out and weepy. If you're that glum you probably shouldn't be geting married. Go home.
(2) Brown is beautiful. Really. If we wanted to see pancake, we'd go to dosa camp.
(3) If you liked the black saree you saw at the shop, wear it at your wedding. Anyone who says black is taboo has been irreversibly brainwashed by Queen Victoria who's dead anyway.
(4) If you plan to be in bridal makeup 4 hours into the reception that you invited us to attend, either give us the address of your beauty parlour so we can drop by and murder you, or for God's sake allow us to eat and go home.

Groom etiquette
(1) Face it, you can't help looking silly in semi-drag with an umbrella over your head. Just go with the flow.
(2) You can smile reassuringly at the bride, and maybe at your friends. Not at all the pretty young things around.
(3) Do not give your friends a "thumbs up" before, after, or while tying the knot. We shudder to imagine what you're implying by it.
(4) If you're a Greencard/H1 groom, try not to talk much. A Banshankari II Stage accent with a West Virginia overlay cannot be taken seriously when you have kohl in your eyes and a fat black dot on your cheek.
(5) You're going to be half naked at the wedding. Please work out. We wholeheartedly agree that your flab is nobody's business but yours. Seriously fool, hit that treadmill and pump that iron. Your wife will love it, and we will too. Unless you plan on saving on lunch expenses by putting your guests off their food for the next month.
(6) We really don't care if you don't understand what the priest is asking you to say. Google everything later. Do not irritate us by asking the priest to explain every line. Lunch is waiting.

Older guest etiquette
(1) Don't swarm the stage during the mangal sutra ceremony. This is the only part of the ceremony anybody has even the slightest amount of interest in. We do not want to fling our rice at your ample posterior. If you're that keen on establishing your importance in the ceremony, hang a sign around your neck.
(2) If you're too feeble to climb up to the stage, cut the drama and sit tight in your seat. Spare us the agony of watching you painfully hobble up the steps to bless the couple, holding up the rest of the ceremony for interminable periods of time. Just let the bride and groom know that you wish to bless them and if they think you're important enough, they will come down to you.
(3) When your beady eye spies a young guest who seems 'perfect for your third cousin's second daughter', shut the hell up. Do not point, glare, whisper or pounce. These are people, not camels at the Pushkar bazaar.
(4) When you see two young people talking and feel the urge to make an entendre-filled remark, slap yourself and go wash your face. You're proving irrefutably that the only thing that's on your mind, always, is sex.
(5) Before coming to the wedding, sit down and think of things to talk about, that do not involve coupling or reproduction. We realize how hard that can be, considering this is all you have ever thought about during your adult life. Make the effort, it is time you evolved. You'll be pleasantly surprised at the number of young friends you'll make, who won't get up and leave the moment they see you coming.

Younger/single guest etiquette
(1) Listen, if you'd rather stay home and not go to the wedding, we understand. We know you have a life and can do with a little less of the marriage pressure, you poor thing. There, there.
(2) It is acceptable to walk away when old biddies with only sex on their minds ask you your age, height or salary. In fact it is increasingly becoming acceptable etiquette to reach out and slap their faces before walking away.
(3) Flirt, flirt, flirt as much as you can. A wedding is the only place you are officially allowed to. Remember to mentally undress the flirtee though. Think kerosene colour pant shirt, faded green salwar kameez, yellow overgrown nails, bajji-pakoda induced thunder thighs and radish breath on a Thursday evening. See if the flirtee is still worth it. And if an oversexed old biddy swoops in and tries to hook the two of you up while you're still deciding, show them your armpit.
(4) If you can't handle all the irritating people, the smoke and the noise, either skid off with your gang to the kitchen, or hole up at a nearby ice cream shop. Nobody cares, besides if someone wants to reach you, you can always ignore them when they call you on your cell.
(5) If you're NRI or ABCD, wipe that perpetually surprised, open-mouthed leer off your face. We don't get it. Try frowning when you're uncomfortable, or grinning from ear to ear when you're happy, like normal people do. That way, we'll atleast know what's up with you.

Parent etiquette
(1) You're allowed to look good. But remember, you are at your most endearing when you look hassled and disheveled. The guests will take pity on you and leave you alone. If you're all primped relaxed, they will assume you haven't done enough for them.
(2) Delegate, delegate, delegate. Or die.
(3) Honestly, all the wild goose chases the priests send you on, are rubbish. You are allowed to tell them to go fish if you can't do something with minimum effort.
(4) Do not usher people secretly into the dressing room and palm them off with a recycled blouse piece. If you don't have anything nice to give them, just grab their hands and say "ate aa?"
(5) Do not get the audience's hopes up by waggling your finger at the nadaswaram players and getting them to play the getti melam every 43 seconds. One pee-pee-dum-dum during the thali ceremony is enough. Nobody cares about the rest.
(6) Tell the cameraman not to moon the audience everytime he wants to get a closeup of the groom picking his nose, or the bride counting her toes for the 600th time. He's going to scrap all the footage and encase their mugshots in purple circling hearts anyway.

Eating etiquette
(1) Try and get to the dining room as early as possible, to avoid the feeding frenzy. It doesnt matter if the cooks sigh and grumble that you're early. It will save you and the hosts needless trauma if the diners are spread out through the day.
(2) If you're the host, please get a grip on the number of guests you'e expecting. Make extra food, and make prior arrangements for the left over food to be transported someplace where it will be appreciated.
(3) We like it when you fuss over your guests. Makes us feel less guilty about stuffing our faces while the world outside starves, because you're the ones forcing us to.
(4) Don't be pathetic and hover over your fellow guests to make them finish fast. Go home and eat if you're that desperate.
(5) If there's something you don't like about the food, shut up. This is a one-off thing and there's nothing anyone can do about it. Remember the starving millions outside your door.
(6) Remember to eat everything on your leaf. It is good manners to ask for only as much food as you need, instead of dramatically folding over a leaf full of uneaten food at the end of the meal. Oh and did anyone tell you that folding a used leaf over after a meal is, in fact, bad manners? Well then.

Dress etiquette - women
(1) If you're under 45, wear anything you want. Really, everything from a 9 yards saree to a strappy number looks great on you.
(2) If you're over 50, do not wear anything you want. Really, sarees look awesome on you.
(3) Try not to wear those rather bizarre duppattas around your waists and over your forearms, that tie your arms back all evening. They're pretty but we feel sorry for you and do not want you to be deformed for life on their account.
(4) Do not wear stilettos. Most people in South Indian weddings run around barefoot. Amputees are significantly lower in the marriage market.
(5) It is now acceptable etiquette to wear fluorescent blue hawaii chappals with elaborate kanjeevaram sarees. You'll need to take your footwear off everywhere anyway, so you may as well wear something that won't be stolen. Besides, if it's men you are aiming to attract by dressing up, you can rest assured they won't be noticing your footwear.

Dress etiquette - men
(1) Dude, dress down. Please. Those jigajiga brocadey kurtas only serve to accentuate your thair sadham features and make you look dorkier than you already are.
(2) Leave those filmy man-dupattas that you wear around your neck, at home. They are 5 minutes ago. I will personally come and blow my nose and wipe my sweaty face with them if you don't.
(3) Give those curly jooties to the poor. Even they will probably hit you with them if you do. Wear sensible stuff like chappals or floaters that you can take off and leave at the door without worrying about them.
(4) If you're in Chennai, do not gel your hair. Even if you are an NRI. The gel will trickle down your face and make you look like The Melting Man. If you're in Bangalore, you may gel your hair in the months of December and January. For the rest of the year you will look like Juggy Dee. Nobody will marry you.
(5) The bare chested look is over. Even if you're 68. Especially if you're from my family. We know exactly where all the puliyogare and and panchamritam goes. Spare us.

Alright, go now. And behave.

Robinson Clueless

2008-03-26T03:14:00.000-07:00

“OK boys, time to pack up. We’re leaving”, announced the (then) youngish Mutter. We were going to relocate to a township in Andhra, to join Appa who had transferred there. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere but in dear old Trivandrum. I'd miss my lovely school, the paddy fields, the gurgling canals, the beautiful Kovalam beach, and the army of kids in my heptalingual colony so much! I kicked up a row, threw tantrums and refused to move. After a while, when I realized nobody was paying any attention, I gave up. Several farewell dinners, filled autograph books and walks around the neighbourhood later, it was time to leave for good.

The parents had done a recon expedition a few months before, to check things out before our actual move. The house was smallish but the garden was huge, they said. I would love the wild life, the migratory birds and school, they said. Ah well, I thought. If I couldn't cut it, I could always run back and live with the Guptas next door, where I could play with the kids all day and live in aloo-kachoried splendour for the rest of my life, I thought.

Our new home was located in a township carved out of a 50 sq km forested island. It was surrounded by the gigantic Pulicat lake on three sides and the Bay of Bengal on the east. The journey itself was quite spectacular. We travelled to Madras and drove 100km to a small town at the edge of the Pulicat Lake. Beyond it was 16 miles of nothing. Just a straight road across the lake's tidal bed. At the end of the road was the township. The road now entered a pair of formidable gates manned by tough looking CISF jawans. The jawans stiffened, saluted smartly and let us through. Coming from communist Kerala, where people wouldn't even give the Maharaja of Travancore the time of day, this was quite startling. In the three years that I lived there, I could never quite get used to it. I'd always cower in the back seat when the jawans jumped to attention as we passed them.

The housing colony was spic and span - and slightly neglected, in the way only a central government township can be. Our home, the first in a line of several identical quarters, had scrubby jungle on two sides, and overlooked the colony on the other two. Poker-straight roads criss-crossed the colony. It had a school, a hospital, a guest house and two modest shopping centers. All houses had been issued the same plants by the horticulture department: Chickoo, sitaphal, guava and pomegranate. Those, the horticulture dept had decided, were the only species that could survive the sandy soil and the harsh coastal heat. They were right. Inspite of our best efforts, nothing else did, except the odd jasmine and a couple of Allamanda and Moonbeam plants.

At the other end of the housing colony was school. Sprawled over a few acres, with small quadrangles between classrooms, it housed all the children of the township. Coming from a fairly progressive school in Trivandrum, the strange rules of this school took me quite by surprise. There was a drill for everything. Students marched out of class into assembly every day, listened to the principal and marched straight back into their classrooms. Girls and boys sat on either side of a wide aisle, across which they exchanged notes and the ocasional fleeting glance. The kids had hardly any interaction with the outside world, and had evolved a culture of their own. Even the language they spoke was a strange pidgin English, strung together in Telugu idiom:
"What ra rey, haircut naat doingaa? Bush like looking it is."
"Shettup ra. Your grandmother squirrel catching my son."

A second pair of security gates led from the housing colony to the scientific installations dotted across hundreds of hectares of jungle. The jungle itself was like nothing I had seen before. Short thorny shrubs covered a sandy forest bed. Jamoon and palymyrah trees poked out through the shrubbery, and exploded in a torrent of berries every autumn. The only sources of water for all the jungle's resident feral cows, jackals and birds, were large marshy ponds called vaagus, that served as oases in the otherwise unforgiving landscape.

Occasionally, we would spot a tribal dwelling - an igloo shaped hut that you needed to crawl to enter. The few tribal settlements that inhabited the island before the government took over, were left alone. The government offered to build them better houses, but the tribals refused, choosing instead to live in the same way that they had done for thousands of years.

The feral cows on the island were quite a phenomenon by themselves. They were probably brought into the island centuries ago by nomadic tribes, and left to fend for themselves after they moved away. Some of the residents of the colony had managed to tame a few cows into coming to their homes every evening. The cows would agree to be milked in exchange for the day's leftovers. After being fed and milked, they'd swish their tails and amble peacefully back into the jungle, only to come back to the same houses the next evening. Definitely the most symbiotic human-animal relationship I had ever seen!

We would sometimes drive through the jungle, out to the pristine beaches on the other side of the island : A 50km coastline untouched by habitation. It was odd to see the sun rise over the sea here, unlike in the west coast where we were used to seeing it dive into the sea in the evening. We would gather seashells by the bucketful and toss them back on the beach, not knowing what to do with them. Tortoises nested on the quiet beaches during the season: major happy times for the few tribal settlements by the sea.

The sea itself was rough and unbatheable. Cyclonic storms would ravage the coastline periodically, causing massive destruction to everything in their path. The housing colony was situated as far inland as possible to avoid being wrecked by them, though a massive cyclone in 1984 almost managed to wipe it out.

Every month or so, we would cross the Pulicat lake to get to the mainland for shopping, tuition classes, or just for a break from the monotony of the colony. The Pulicat lake, dry and lifeless during summer, would come to life after the rains in October. Thousands of migratory birds would fly in from places as far as Poland, to roost on the lake bed. Crossing the dreaded 16km 'road to nowhere' (as Mutter delicately put it) would now be a treat. Acres of pink plumed flamingoes would plod through the floodwaters, patiently dredging the lakebed for crill. Pelicans would flap around clumsily, their beaks filled with fish. Painted storks, dabchicks, spotted ducks, cormorants, pond herons, and a myriad other birds would descend in flocks all over the lake and cover it in a carpet of pinks, browns, yellows and blues. Truly a spectacular sight.

After three years on the beautiful island, it was time to move again. And this time, to the youngish Mutter's home turf, good old Bangytown! While we were on the island, we felt cloistered, cut-off, and deprived of company. When we moved though, it wasn't without a tinge of regret. It was a tranquil, calm and spectacularly beautiful existence, that taught us much. For one, it made me the compulsive tree-hugger that I am today. I got to experience first hand, what most others can only see on tv, or in a glossy Salim Ali bird book. My botanical knowledge quintupled in three years.

And even today, if I can rattle off scientific names at a 100kmph in a heavy Telugu accent, it is because of my three years on the beautiful island of Sriharikota.

*Cartoon: Yentraa babu is the Telugu equivalent of 'What's up dude'.

A Chronic Deccan

2008-03-17T05:35:00.000-07:00

"Kanna, epdi irke maaa? We miss you da love-raj", cooed the old mutter embarrassingly into the phone, a day after I'd gone missing. "Um harumph, fine." I growled back. I was afraid the airtel man who was secretly listening into our conversation, would cut in and say "Ha ha! Momma's boy!" and hang up. Luckily no such thing happened. After several reassuring coos from the old mutter and a pleasant chat on the current socio-economic situation in south east asia with the old pater, I hung up a happy man. I had run away to Poona because I needed to get de-bangalored for a bit. Besides, there wasn't much happening at work, and everyone I knew in Poona (ie, 1 sainted cousin and 1 long suffering friend) was in town.

Poona in a word, is lovely. Poona in three words is hot and dusty, but word 1 more than compensates for the other three. Lovely food, charming old-worldlines, lots of space, a fairly pleasant nightlife, and plenty of sights to see. The cousin watered, fed and whisked me around town with characteristic cousinly efficiency. The friend stuffed me silly with amti, srikhand puri, and every other imaginable maratha viand until I screamed for mercy . Ok I didn't. I just ate and ate until he ran out of supplies, and then he screamed for mercy.

The non-eating moments in Poona (and they really were only moments), were spent reading a book by the nullah-side, walking through the charming lanes of Tulshibag and Sadashivpet, gawking at the enormous mansions in Koregaon Park, trekking up and down the wooded tekdis in the centre of town, and making plans for the next meal. All in all, a wonderful time. Thanks muchly, o sainted cousin and long-suffering friend.

Back in Bangalore, I took one look at the traffic outside the airport, and almost caught the next flight back to lovely dusty amchi Pune. My dismay was short-lived thankfully, as my auto driver managed to slither through the traffic bottleneck like an oiled cobra.

A blast of cool air hit me as as the auto turned into airport road. I looked out and noticed it was drizzling. Gentle winds were blowing everywhere. The people in the jam were smiling. I was puzzled. What happened to the uncomfortably warm city that I had left barely a week ago?

And then I remembered: The Mango Showers had arrived.

"Ahh", I sighed. Right on time. My favourite season in Bangalore. When the skies explode, wash the streets clean, turn trees green overnight, inspire poetry and make everyone smirk about how lucky they are to live here.

And now, while the rest of the subcontinent slowly begins to bake, all you "vods so great aboud this waather yaar" types can call your relatives in your sizzling hometowns, and tell them what they're missing: Cool, moist evening breezes blowing up your.. err street. Boiled peanuts at Lalbagh on a wet March evening. A half masale sweet after an April shower. Shetty's nippat masala followed by a drizzly open air concert at the Palace Grounds in May.

Do not encourage them to move here. It is enough if they know.
And if the voice on the other end of the line says "Yes da raja, I knnnowww maa. Its reeeelly luvleee, no?", please hang up instantly. I want you to contact your relatives, not mine.

Odes to Bangalore

2008-02-27T23:01:00.000-08:00

To the tune of: Yesterday (The Beatles)
Mathikere..
Far as hell and dull as dust, but hey..
Would you rather choke on smog, or say
You're glad you live that far away?

To the tune of: You fill up my senses (John Denver)
Chud-dies, con-tact lennnnses,
Butter Gulkand, Black Forest.
Its always shop-ping time
On Malleswaram, 3rd main.
Stop at Asha's for dessert
Where milk tastes like hand lotion.
The '98 census
Showed alarming brain drain.

To the tune of: Jamaica Farewell (Harry Belafonte)
Sat-ur-day,
I wanna party away
MG Road is teeming with angry cops.
You look as hip
As a fashion clip
But at midnight your party is gonna stop.
We can't stay and play,
What is this, I say?
This rule will stay for many a day.
Just simmer down,
Stop hoppin around
And bring the party to my pad at the edge of town.

To the tune of: Country Roads (John Denver)
Migrant haven - Koramangla
Flats with fountains
By a sewage river.
Land is gold there, not so much the trees
A hundred Jacarandas
Mowed down 'fore you sneeze.
Bumpy roads, spell your tome
Not the place, to sing a song
Koramangla - money corner,
I'm staying home, won't miss you loads.

To the tune of: California Dreaming (The mamas and the papas)
Oh to Frazer town,
You shall go away.
Go take a wa...lk,
To Thom's bakery, I say.
The cakes are fresh and warm,
Made at 4 every day.
Should I send you screaming,
Or will you go to-day?

To the tune of: Take it easy (The Eagles)
Oh if youre really very bored
Just hit DVG Road
But just tell me what is on your mind.
Looking for some flowers?
The kem-pe-gowda towers?
There's V.B if you wanna dine.
What's up duuudey?
Are you a fooodie?
Lets get a nice fat benne-dose, outside U.D.
Just get here in a car or van,
Or on a horse with a wedding band
Because it's great in the far off land
Of Basvangoooodi.

Cartoon Translation: "Where will you run now?" (Pun on the word 'Odu' = run)

Modern Indian Idiom - An illustrated tutorial

2008-02-19T21:51:00.001-08:00

Linguistic education in India is in dire need of change. Casual conversations in modern India are no longer limited to one language. Multilingual textbooks are therefore the need of the hour, and must include modern turns of phrase, wise sayings and quirky Indian idiom in a minimum of three languages. The following is the recommended excercise format (with solutions) , for a "Learn Kannada, Tamil, Hindi and Telugu in 30 days" textbook, to be released in 2010.

Excercise 37: Translate the following passage into Tamil, Kannada and Hindi wherever applicable, with neat, labelled diagrams. (10 marks each):

'Hey Manjunath, why are you seated as if you are just back from a bungee jump? '
Ans: Dai Manjunath, yaen da bungee adichcha madiri ukanthirukkai?
--(Tamil: Bungee = cannabis. Bungee adicha madiri = looking doped)

'Argh, destroyer of evil, I hit the bore and became a mad dog. '

Ans: Ayyo, bore hodidhu huch naai agbittidene shiva
--(Kannada: I've become a mad dog out of boredom = bored crazy)

'Yes dear friend, I too have caught the madman and am currently scratching the mat. '

Ans: Aaman da, naanum paithyam pudichchu paaya praandindu irukkaen

--(Tamil: Gone crazy and scratching a mat (out of frustration))

'Hey Piyali, what disease has come to you? Who has shaken your chair now?'

Ans: Hey Piyali, Ningen roga bantu? yar nin chair na alladsidru?
--(Kannada: What disease has come to you = What's wrong with you? Who shook your chair? = Why do you look disturbed?)

'Sigh! Yesterday Rahul touched me and my death occurred. '

Ans: Hae! Kal na, Rahul ne mujhe touch ki aur meri toh daeth ho gai.

--(Hindi: died = 'I just died in your arms tonight' sorta died)

'Clean, go. Ladles two ladles, both loose ladles. '

Ans: Suththam po, Aapai rendaapai rendum kazhandaapai.
--(Tamil: Suththam = clean= Perfect, Loose ladles = useless)

'Oh move aside, monsoon cloud. You and your underwear friend are the ladles.'

Ans: Ae, chal hata sawan ki ghata. Aapai hoga tu aur tera chaddi dost.
--(Hindi: Move aside monsoon cloud = buzz off, underwear friend = childhood friend.)

'Oh pshaw old girl, are you turning on your meter? How did your exams go? '

Ans: Uyy, yenamma, meteraa? Sari, exam ella hegithu?
--(Kannada: Meter = autorickshaw meter = being obnoxious)

'After giving the last paper, I sold horses and slept. '

Ans: Arre, kal aankhri paper deke ghode bechke so gai main toh.
--(Hindi: sold horses and slept = slept soundly)

'Oh by the way, you haven't fallen properly in any of the photos I caught during our trip. '

Ans: Aye, naan trip-la pudicha photola ellaan nee nallave vizhala ma.
--(Tamil: Tamil words reserved for photography. fallen = appeared, caught = took.)

'Forsooth, dear friend, Did all of all not emerge properly? '

Ans: Arre yaar sare ke sare theek se nahin nikle kya?
--(Hindi: saare ke saare = all of all)

'Pish tosh, leave it, woman. Whose father's house bundle goes?'
Ans: Aiyo, bidamma, yaar appan gant hoythu.
--(Kannada: whose father's house bundle goes = who cares).

28 day fever (Or five day fever, part fouru with pichars moru)

2008-02-13T03:40:00.001-08:00

Read Parts 1, 2 and 3 here.

Day 28. I parked near the construction mela like I do almost every day and peered over the edge. In a heartening show of solidarity, college students were pitching in to complete what trained, paid masons were struggling to do. They had even set up a helpdesk to explain the convoluted traffic plan to the public. Some pro-active Bangaloreans at last! Such a relief from the usual jaded, moaning lot!

Manipuri artists were creating sun-patterned frescoes along the walls. Painters were giving a final coat to the concrete. The errant bulldozer was smoothening out slopes in a calm, lobotomized manner. The wronged crane was nowhere to be seen. A group of 60-something gentlemen were standing atop the underpass, fingers pointing in every direction, giving a hapless supervisor a piece of their collective intellect:

"Allappa, hing craas aag katsi yen sukha bantu?" (But young man, like this crooked you build means what comfort has come?)
"Ishtu chikka bridge mel yenaiya madthiya? Shuttle-badminton aadthiyenu?" (On such a small bridge what lord you will do? Shuttle badminton playinga?)
"Haiyyo, yen katsthaaro, bidthaaro. Thale iddru upyogsalla saar ivru. Eega idara mel bussu, gissu, maNNu masi, ella band sikakond bitre devre gathi ."(Haiyyo, what they will build, what they will leave. Head is there also means they will not use sar. Now bus, giss and several similar sundry objects will come and get stuck on top of this means god is only recourse.)
"This is vy country has gaan for daags sar. Aal these peepal musht be lined up and shaat I tell you. "

"Sir ond nimisha, bande" (Sir, one minute coming), said the long suffering supervisor, and vanished into the underpass with the old biddies harumphing after him.

I studied the student helpdesk's thermocol plan (slightly soggy after a cloudburst), and noticed that my dancing fountain idea to entertain gridlocked commuters on the U-turn atop the underpass, was not included. I advised the student body to undertake installation activites immediately. Grim studently silence ensued. Nevertheless, I managed to get a fair idea of what the traffic plan is going to be, and this, I think is it (fountain optional):

But sob!!! All the action will be be over in a couple of days and I will miss it sorely! What on earth will I do now, without squint eyed supervisors, mad machinery and genteel crowds to blog about? Sniff!

I will therefore leave you with an ode composed in memory of the birth of the Cauvery Junction Magic Box Underpass, before I go away and cry myself to sleep:

Under passu
You will help to crassu
The road without laassu.

Of your ingenious planu
I am a fanu
And so is my clanu.

So my magic baaxu,
Pull up your saacksu
Because you provide irrefutable proof that Benglur raacksu.

Sri Gattikal Coffee Works

2008-02-04T03:20:00.001-08:00

Bangalore is where things have traditionally been put to pasture. Hyder Ali tried to retire his troublesome army chief quietly, in Bangalore. The British turned Bangalore into a hospice for weak and wounded soldiers. Professors, accountants, and army officers retired in Bangalore to escape the heat and disorderliness of the plains. Ageing rock bands perform swan-song concerts in Bangalore. Old and unhip foreign institutions open new botoxed-up avatars in Bangalore, hoping for a final blaze of glory before biting the dust.

One such institution opened quietly on St. Marks road this year. I watched in distress as the antique-chic Barista and Nineteen Twelve were scooped out of the old Bible Society buildings, and fused into one huge space. My Indian sensitivities bristled as the yellow neon Hard Rock Cafe sign was hoisted over the door. I was only slightly mollified when a sign that said "Bengaluru" was tacked on underneath it. I watched them knock down walls, open up windows and re-structure courtyards. I hoped and prayed that they wouldn't convert the beautiful old building into another jarring modern eyesore that we certainly didn't need.

Fortunately, they didn't. It looked just as pretty as before, notwithstanding the yellow neon. As expected, people flocked in on the opening weekend. I didn't feel like battling the crowds, so I stayed home and did my nails for a couple of weeks till they died down. This weekend, a cousin and I finally decided to go find out what all the fuss was about.

"Hi surrrrrh", sang the ubiquitous Manipuri maitre d'ni, as we walked in and looked around. The old granite walls of the building had been left intact. The newly installed distressed wood flooring and furniture gelled perfectly with the rough stone. The mezzanine floor had been ripped out and a purple-lit bar put in its place. The old vaulted Mangalore tiled roof soared high above us. Elegant picture windows looked out at the the beautiful LIC building across the road. Slightly scuffed rock memorabilia, guitars, costumes and photographs glared down at us from glass coffins all around.

"Vyelkam to Hord Raak Cyaf-fayyyy!!" screeched our waiter Manjunath 'Call me Mannie' S.V., and went away while we studied the menu. Aside from standard American fare, it had an enigmatically named section called "Namma Bengaluru", that featured 'local specialities' like paneer wraps, pita bread and hummus. Wonder what my grandmother would have had to say about that.

"TGIF plus fifty rupis, no?" remarked the cousin as we glanced nervously at the prices. This was true. The menu read exactly like a marked up version of the already overpriced TGIF in Indiranagar. Luckily for us, they had half portion salads and the like, which we instantly ordered. "They'd better be good", I grumbled. "Medam, just I will check if Vanill 'odka shtack is there and come won minit." said Manju to the cousin. After a brief consultation with the ever-grinning bartender, he returned triumphantly, glass in hand.

The drinks were pleasant. The salads and mashed potatoes (yeah I know, whats the point) that we ordered were nice. The service was courteous and unobtrusive. The DJ played lovely classic rock. The obnoxious bartender interrupted our reverie periodically by yelling out to people that arrived and left. The gifts section had endearing "Hard Rock Cafe Bengaluru" tshirts, and little autorickshaw keychains.

I have to admit though, that they've succeeded somewhat in giving the place a Bangalore twist. Perhaps it was the familiarity of the music and the old building, or the comfortable kannada accents of the waiters that did it. In fact, for some bizarre reason, it reminded me of a big bad super rich cross between Guzzlers Inn and Windsor Pub. As for the grinny screechy bartender, I'm going to ask Manju to wrap him in a Bengaluru speciality and drown him in a barrel of Vanill'odka.

Old Bangytown has proven itself yet again, to be a perfect pasture ground: this time, for an ageing temple of Rock. To enter it, however, you need what most Bangalorean rock lovers do not have: TGIF plus 50rs.

Acknowledgements: Photo of the Hard Rock Cafe from SloganMurugan's brilliant photoblog.

A lazy afternoon at Cubbon Park

2008-01-28T00:15:00.000-08:00

I had a Wordsworth moment the other day.

It was a warm, sleepy Bangalore afternoon at Cubbon Park. I was on a lunch break from work. Everybody in the park was happy, mellow and relaxed. Even the icy expression on Aunty Victoria's statue seemed to have thawed a bit in the afternoon breeze.

The sunlight filtering through the treetops made beautiful dappled patterns on the duck pond. It reflected off the oiled heads of a lone couple under a sprawling banyan, and brought the bald pate of a man asleep on a bench, into dramatic focus. A bunch of burqa clad women were busy picking fallen leaves out of their lunch boxes as they sat in a circle, giggling.

The fountain played lazily. Pan-chewing women gardeners picked weeds insouciantly off a mound of of flowering marigolds, salvias and dwarf zinnias around the statue of the Wodeyar. The ornate lion benches bearing the royal emblem had been given a fresh coat of paint. The Vidhana Soudha and it's new found twin loomed up majestically behind a copse of fading pink Tabebuias near the Central Library.

As I turned into the library, I caught something out of the corner of my eye and turned. Nothing quite prepared me for what I was about to see. An ocean of roses. An acre of them at least. Of every colour and shape. Some as big as two palms cupped together. All in bloom, all at once.

I spotted the old favourites that my grandmother had taught me to name: The baby-pink Eterna, the lavender Whiskey, the delightfully fragrant yellow-and-red Double Delight, the blood red Prince Edward. And hundreds of nameless but astoundingly beautiful others. All set off perfectly by the brick red and granite facade of the library. Absolutely breathtaking.

Yup. We're still the garden city alright. Except we've almost forgotten what to do about it.

PS: If you want to see the rose garden live and in full bloom, go NOW. The rose bushes are specially pruned back every winter to get them to bloom all at once, during republic day. Another week more and you might not see as many. Speak nicely to the cross looking caretaker and she'll let you climb over the fence to take close up shots.

Fifteen day fever (or five day fever - part mooru, with picharsu)

2008-01-27T02:11:00.000-08:00

The initial furore over the underpass has died down. The underpass now draws regulars, who visit it every day and check on its progress. The BMP commissioner, anxious to save his name and ancestral familial reputation, has camped permanently on the construction site and swears to leave only after it is complete.

A small representation of the genteel crowds of Malleswaram and Sadashivnagar greeted him yesterday to provide genteel words of encouragement. The commissioner smiled, pinched babies' cheeks where available and said: "With the support of people like you, I am not worried." The small representation returned home happy and reassured.

The delinquent bulldozer has been pressed back into service and now chomps up clods of earth in a quiet, compliant manner. The crane has accepted the bulldozer's apology for any harrassment caused and all is well in underpassland.

Except, with two days to go for the extended completion deadline, the magic box underpass looks like this.

But hey, whats the hurry. We don't have an elevated rail to catch, do we.

Five day fever.. continued

2008-01-18T04:11:00.000-08:00

"They're doing it! They're really doing it!! Come NOW!!"
A ruptured tympanum prevented me from partaking of the rest of C's excitement on the phone. So without further ado, the Old Mutter and I headed off in the dead of night, to where all the action was.

Cauvery Circle: the site of the first ever instant underpass in India.

Yes, really. They're using Malaysian technology to assemble pre-cast blocks together quickly to create an underpass overnight.

The construction site was like a village fair. Nobody had seen anything like this before. The genteel crowds of Malleswaram and Sadashivnagar were peering cautiously over the debris, as bulldozers gouged out the underpass under their very eyes. It was actually happening.

"Cool huh?" I screamed across the void at C, whose entire extended family had turned up to watch the construction.

"Super cool boss!" the extended family shouted back in chorus, and ran away screaming, as a bulldozer suddenly came to life and chased them down the road.

"Ha ha", the Old Mutter and I laughed from our side. Our mirth was short lived, as we suddenly found ourself knee-deep in mud from a truck that had decided to unload where we stood.

"Hoon mathe"(then what), said a surly policeman watching the entire scene with the glazed look of one that has eaten mudde-saaru for dinner. "Theppakke maneyal bidkond Mukta nodak badlu, il band tarle madidre innen aguthe.Yaae HOG-ri aakade. Idhen nim thathan swoththaa?" (Serves you right for coming here and mucking around instead of watching Oprah. Aay GO that side I say. This is your grandfather's ancestral property or what.)

Suitably apologetic, we extricated ourselves and retreated to a corner. I rang C on his cell to find out if he was ok. "Yes!!!", he hollered into my surviving ear. The bulldozer had apparently lost interest in his family, after they had all clambered onto a large rain tree. It waved its claw creepily at them and went off in another direction, he said. The view from the tree was great, but cousin #12 needed to pee, he said.

I was okay too, I said. The Old Mutter was a little miffed about her mithai pink and fluorescent green polyester duppatta getting muddied, but would survive, I said.

Both of us stopped in mid paragraph however, when we noticed something very strange indeed.
The underpass seemed to be in the wrong place! Wasn't it supposed to cut across the main road, instead of plunging in and out of the side road??!!

"Oh No!!" we both screamed, scaring an accountant's family off a Tabebuia. "Stop this madness instantly!" we shouted, waving frantically at the man in charge: a hirsute, pot-bellied gent, clad rather fetchingly in a tattered blue lungi.

"I shall do no such thing", said the lungiman calmly.

"But the underpass is supposed to Pass Under the intersection, remember?" we gasped.

"There are water pipes are under the intersection. Your father will move them or what?"

"Bu...but how will it work then?" we blubbered.

"Wait a minute for five minute", he said, and pulled out a crumpled envelope from a region I'd rather not remember. "In this master plan document", he explained, "you will see how this underpass system will work." On the back of the crumpled envelope, next to a hastily scribbled mobile number and a grocery list, was indeed the master plan.

To avoid the waterpipes on the main road, the underpass would start and end on the side road.
Traffic from the side road towards the main road would now flow under the underpass, but re-emerge on the side road, crossing the intersection above ground.

"But how on earth is that going to help?" we asked.

"Ah", said Lungiman. And drew a little squiggle on the master plan.

All the traffic from the main road would be made to swerve into the side road, take a U-Turn above the underpass and swerve back into the main road.

The lungiman said he arrived at this gem of a design (surpassing even that of the Richmond Circle flyover), after reading a Tinkle comic containing a story of Mullah Nasruddin. In the story, the wise Mullah went searching for his lost ring under a streetlamp where the light was brighter, even though he had lost it elsewhere.

Sheer Genius.

BMP, we love you. No, really.

Epilogue: A day after this post was written, the ornery bulldozer ploughed into a water pipe that the BWSSB (Bangalore Water and Sewage Supply Board) claimed no knowledge of. The burst water pipe is going to be converted into a musical dancing fountain which will spray "Car car yel nodu car" at the gridlocked traffic in the U-turn. The bulldozer, suspended from duties after trying to eve-tease the crane-lift, is currently undergoing anger management and repression therapy at NIMHANS (National Institute for Mad Hatters, Axe-murderers, Non-cooperative-bulldozers and Stuff).

The BMP commissioner says sorry and has urged the genteel crowds of Malleswaram and Sadashivnagar to kindly adjust and oblige.

Half century!

2008-01-15T01:04:00.000-08:00

Have a fab Pongal/Sankranti, y'all!

And this, my dears, is my 50th post.
Whew.

Move over, Mother Goose!

2008-01-10T01:55:00.000-08:00

My family has always been big on poetry. Proof of this fact lies in the lyrical beauty of the doggerels that have been passed down over generations from father to daughter, mother to son, driver to ex-gardener... and finally down to me.

I have therefore decided to preserve the following family heirlooms in a stainless steel tiffin box filled with liquid Nitrogen. The tiffin box will then be jettisoned into outer space, as a complete representation of modern civilization on earth.

Move over, Mother Goose.

(Refer Glossary below for word meanings)

Announcements:

One ara two ara dikkara dun
Aval kaaval must be done
KaLLan KuLLan twenty one
Ah, you may bluqq.

(Tanglish + Gibberish:

A one, a two, a dikk and a dunn

Waiting watching must be done

Robber, shorty 21

Ah, you may bluqq

(gesture slicing throat with tongue out))

Son who temple salt flour needle gone

( Pun on Pillaiyaar koil Upma oosi pochu (Tamil)

=The upma in the Ganesha temple went bad)

Proposals:

Leaf lotus Only one pearl umbrella

(Pun on Yele kamala onde ondu muthu kodey (Kannada)

=Hey Kamala give us a kiss)

Travelogues:

Bambai ku jaana
Daarili obba koothidha
Ra, ra ani chepthe
Vardhille ant chonna
What shall I do?

(Pentalingual

Pig Hindi: When I went to Bombay

Kannada: A man was on the road

Pig Telugu: I told him "come, come with me"

Pig Tamil: He said, "No I won't"

English: What shall I do?)

Once I went to Vellayani *

There I saw a Kalyani
Sitting on a Mullani*
Eating Bombay Biriyani

Once I went to a Chinese Shop
There I saw a chinese lady
This what she said to me:
"Aye aye chick-a-dye
Um pum poori
Out goes you
And that is you."

I and Mary
Went for a waak
Mary fell
And tore her fraak

Appushasthri and Kuppushastry
Went to Kalahasthri
There they saw a

Kuppai thotti mesthri*
They took him to aspathri*
And put plasthri*

Philosophy:

Brandy ni thraagithe

Brahmandamga untaru

Whisky ni thraagithe

Vishwa roopam choosthaaru

Saaraayi thraagithe

Swarga lokam pothaaru.

(Telugu:

If you drink brandy

You'll be fantastic

If you drink Whisky

You'll see the real you

If you drink toddy

You'll go straight to heaven)

Mottai mottai molagu saar

Kambli mottai dei Kumar!

(Gibberish+Tamil:

Baldy baldy pepper sir,

blanket baldy hey Kumar!)

Perhaps Tamilized version of the Hindi:

Motey, motey, maalguzaar

Gamley motey de kumhar

(Fatty fatty landlord man,

Give you fat pots, the potter can.))

It adhu but aadre
What yenu??

(Kanglish:Translations inbuilt)

I naan, me naan
Thou nee, you nee
He 'van, she 'vaL
It adhu they 'vargal
(Tanglish: Translations inbuilt)

Sher-o-shayri:

Karuppu naayikki
(wah wah huzzoor, karuppu naayikki?)

Haan. Karrupu naayikki - vaal illeyyy
(mashallah! maar hi dalogey)
Karuppu. Naayikki. Vaal Illeyy...
Kaapi thaNNikki paal Illey.
(Waaaah wah wah wah)

(Tamil, in imitation of a mushaira:

The black dog has no tail

The black coffee has no milk)

Other contributions welcome. Nitrogen is expensive, and we have a whole stainless steel dabba to fill. Quick!

*Glossary:

Vellayani = a place in Kerala

mullani = foal

kuppai thotti mesthri = garbage collector

aspathri = hospital

plasthri = plaster

Get up the goose!

2008-01-04T02:37:00.001-08:00

"Yaendhukka da, pasangala!.
Get up the goose!
Get up the goose!
Madras vandhaaaaach!!"

My brother and I would clamber out of the upper berth and look sleepily out of the train window at the inky black night outside.
"Where, pa?" we'd ask him.
"Another hour", he'd announce cheerfully.

Appa is never last minute. He wouldn't let us be last minute either. Everything had to be prepared for, hours and sometimes days beforehand. If you were travelling, you had to call the station the previous night to make sure it was still standing. If your train left at 6, he'd shoo you off to the station at 3. You'd also need to call the station at 20 minute intervals all day to make sure the train was on time. And if you had to get off a train, you needed to be all packed and near the door at least an hour before your stop. Even if it was the last one. The perfect father for a head-in-the-clouds son like.. err my brother.

So, within minutes of getting up the goose (nobody except Appa knew what that meant), our bedrolls and suitcases would be packed and ready. Amma would be up and combing her hair out. Other passengers would stir grumpily in their sleep as Appa turned on lights and opened windows. My brother and I would be squashed up by the window under a towel. The soporific whirring of the train fans would make us drift in and out of sleep, as the sky slowly lightened outside.

The closer we got to Madras, the slower the train would crawl. Tired perhaps, after the 18 hour run from Trivandrum.

Our immediate surroundings would undergo several miraculous transformations overnight. For one, there was no "Chaaya chaayeyyyy" anymore - just "Kaapi kaapeeeeyum". Station names in the comforting Malayalam jalebi-script now looked noodly and recti-linear, written in Tamil. The passengers who chatted non-stop in Malayalam until Coimbatore, would now speak in heavily accented Tamil. We were nearing Madiraashi after all :

"Ende berthle neriya bet-becks irundhadhakkum. Urakkame varalai " (Lots of bedbugs in my berth. Just couldnt sleep.)

But most strangely, a peculiar scent would waft in through the windows of the compartment. As the train crawled slowly on, it would intensify from a mildly unpleasant odour into an all-enveloping, mind numbing stench. "Ahhh.." my father would sigh in pleasure, inhaling deeply. For if there is one true sign that heralds the arrival of Chennai, it is the magnificently overpowering sulphurous pong of the Basin Bridge station. A heady mixture of rotten eggs, chemicals, sewage, fish, sea and ripe guava.

"Madras waasne", my mother, the Bangalore girl would say, and smile affectionately at Appa.
"Aama, illai? Gubbbbu. Ackack. Na-na", he'd say to us, forgetting that his children were now capable of coherent articulate sentences.
"Hngello, hngello, hngow aagre you?" "Fngine Thngank you.", my brother and I would chant, holding our noses.

Appa's sundakkai-vendakkai "Tamil dictation" lessons had not really prepared us for real world Tamil. We could read the script haltingly, but couldnt make any sense out of anything we read.
"Ka-zhi-ip-pi-da-im", we'd chant, stringing the Tamil letters together painstakingly, from the signs we read.
"Pa, pa, what does it mean?" we'd ask him excitedly.
"It means... kakkoosu", Appa would say, with a wink to our shocked mother.
"Cheeeeeeeeeee" we'd scream in chorus, and read the next sign.
"Pae-ch-in Pi-ri-t-j" (Basin Bridge) "Pa, see, see, spelling mistake." we'd say excitedly.
"No." My father would reply. "Appadi thaan ezhuthanum." (thats how you write it), and proceed to explain how the difference between "pa" and "ba", "sa" and "cha" in written Tamil is contextual.
"But whyyyyyyy?" we'd persist.
"Becaaaaaa....use", and after a dramatic pause: "..one day, Appushastry and Kuppushastry went to Kalahasthri. There they met a kuppai thotti mesthri...."
The peals of laughter that followed would put an end to any further exploraitons into the matter.

Madras Central would loom up at us through the deep indigo of early dawn. But as the old Tamil saying goes: "Before you see the elephant, you can hear its bells". The odours of Madras Central would waft into the compartment about 42 seconds before the train pulled in. Karuvade (dried fish) in gunny sacks all along the platform were the culprits this time. Smelling karuvade for the first time is like exactly like being smacked hard on the face by Hemalatha Miss for hashing an exam. It's that physical.

After the initial shock, my brother and I would look around Central Station in wonder. It was the biggest station we had ever seen. The tracks actually stopped inside station and trains parked there overnight. The roof soared high, high above us. Big posters loomed up everywhere. Announcements in a strange Tamil that that nobody spoke in real life, would pipe up from nowhere.
"... onpathu mani pathinainthu nimidathirkku purappattu chellum..."
"Wha...? Pa, pa, what's she saying?"
"She is saying, nee romba asadu, naan unna udanna vandhu odhaikkaporaen" (She's saying youre very naughty and I am instantly coming to beat you up)"

Straight ahead, G chittappa would be waiting for us near Higginbothams, smiling his G chittappa smile. We'd run across the platform, jumping over sleeping passengers, side-stepping trolleys, gunny sacks, surly porters and paper-sellers and latch ourselves onto him. After an hour's journey through the big, beautiful, sweltering city of Madras, with the widest roads I'd ever seen, we'd be in Thatha's house...

...where Pati's fragrant rasam, an army of cousins, A. chitti's godrej almirah full of Archie comics, and a whole month of fun awaited us.

Five Day Fever

2007-12-26T01:53:00.000-08:00

Bangalore will now have the world's first roller-coaster for everyday use. The Bengalooru Mahanagara Palike (BMP) is constructing a series of 5 hump-backed flyovers on Sankey Road, all in a span of 5 days. Ingenious Malaysian technology is being used, where interlocking concrete blocks will be assembled lego-style, to create a flyover system overnight. At the end of the 5 day period, Sankey Road will look like this:

The deadline for completion has come and gone though, and I don't see no humps on that road. Not even a speedbump. Since my faith in the BMP is strong and unshakeable, I have come to the inescapable conclusion that the flyover was built well in time, but instantly ceased to exist due to one of the following reasons:

(1)The flyover system came to life, logged on to shaadi dot com in search of a life partner, and moved to Scotland.

(2) The Police commissioner felt that the flyovers would cause giddiness, and that anything involving light headedness beyond 11pm was illegal and had to be dismantled.

(3) A passing family of giants needed braces for their dentally challenged children.

(4) Smallsquirrel, self, and other respected Bangaloreans decided that the flyovers were actually donut halves and ate them for breakfast.

(5) The concrete lego blocks were smuggled off to suburban Bombay, where they now house a family of 8 each.

(6) Flyovers No.2 & 3 next to Opus sprouted legs and ran for cover on Karaoke night, and so the entire project had to be cancelled.
In light of the extenuating circumstances above, it is only fair that we forgive poor BMP for its inability to produce the said flyover system in the stipulated time.

We must therefore not lose hope in their ambitious 30km tunnel highway from Minsk square to Devanahalli, and can rest assured that it will indeed be complete by next year, as promised.

BMP, We love you. No, really.

One chilly evening at the Yathiraja Matham

2007-12-23T22:31:00.001-08:00

Note: The conversation below is in Kan-Tam (Kannadized Tamil), spoken quite widely in Malleswaram, with dialects as diverse as the families that speak it. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to skip the vernacular and stick with the translations though :)

Anri, Yeggu, ippodhella kaaNrdhe ille? Kaaryon jaasthiyaa?
(What di Yadugiri, haven't seen you in ages. Been busy?)

Ille ma Sheerangu, aar maason Cincinatti-k patpoindhe, chin paNNde haathke.
(No ma Sriranganayaki, I was visiting the younger daugher in Cincinatti for 6 months)

Oh, annual visitaa? Apdi ikka unde haidhi? AvLe paath 5 varshath kitte ardhe.
(Ah, the annual visitaa? How's that daughter of yours doing? Havent seen her in 5 years at least)

Hoon ma, ingthik varthke aiykundille awlaale. Office karyon, pash-haLde schoole, yejmanarde vaaley, adh, idh ant time-e shik-kyundille awLke. Athkey ticket anpichoodra, naangl rand peron poit varthke.
(Yeah, yeah.. You know how it is, Work, children, husband's job, etc. Thats why she flies us up there every year instead)

Adh sari. Naanon yejmanaron hathrathle Minneapolis poit vandhon 6 maasathke. Ande peri paiyon ang ikkandha, gyaapkon ikkardha?
(Oh yeah, I know that one! The old boy and I were just up in Minneapolis for 6 months to visit our older son recently)

Oho aama, anna? Odh paanengl rand pero ange? Thalihe, paapa pathkordhe, phone le vaarthey sholrdhe: athnyeva? Athva engyana alchkund ponana, paiyyon?
(Oh, Yes, no? And what did you two do there? Cook, take care of the baby and talk to relatives on the phone? Or did he take you out somewhere?)

Hoon ma odho Taco Bell ant restaurant ikkardhe, angthik alchkund pona wor na dinner ke. Awnde haath leno jasthi dooron ille ant kaanrna. Namde rajma ikkardhe, athk kothambri sopp pot chapati le shuththi kudthaa. Parvayille, nanna indhe.
(Yeah, we went out once to this restaurant called Taco Bell. Didn't seem very far from his place. They dished us some weird Rajma and corriander wrapped in a chapatti. Wasn't too bad I suppose.)

Adh sari. Naangl yengyon jaasthi poville ma. Thalihe panni, papa-de karyon ella pathkorth-kullye sariya pochi. Paapon rand perkon office le shene karyon ant thonrna. Time-ey shikville engLe angyon appale alchkyund porthke.
(Ah ok. We didnt go out much ma. What with all the cooking, cleaning, looking after the baby and all. Looks like both of them were really busy at work. )

Aamva? Neengl vapas vandh aan pinne rand pero Europe trip patpona ant aaro sholkyundindhaaaa...? (sly smile)
(Well, r-e-a-l-l-y now. I heard they went off on a Europe vacation after you guys came back. (sly smile) )

Oh.. ha ha.. err.. aama ma, paapon, odho break vonon, break vonon ant kirchaadkyund indha appolenme. Naangl innu sheth naal irkunma irndhdhe. Adhe holidayk time ach ant begon anpichoota.
(Oh.. ha ha.. err yes, they were talking about that while we were there. We were infact supposed to stay on longer, but they sent us back early so they could go, poor things.
Aama Ne, nee unde naatpaNde daycare centre le thuNi thochkyund indhe ant kaette....n? (smirk)
But how about you? I heard you were in charge of the dirty laundry section in your daughter-in-law's daycare center? (smirk))

Umm.. errr... Ann ma, varme washing machine le adth potkundindhe athnye. Ange adhellaa periya kaaryon ille.
(Umm.. err.. well I .. just loaded the clothes in the machine and dried them out. It wasn't a big deal really... )

Hmm. Paapon. Nee yenmana chollu. Indh vysle ang poi oddhaadrthk badhla, ingye santhoshma irndh filter coffee utkund, kovilk poikund-vandhkund irklaan. Anna?
(Hmm.. Poor you. Eh, but who are we kidding. At our age, I'd rather do filter coffee shots and hang out at the temple here, than slog it out in a foreign land, what say?)

Aama Ne. Namde Malleshwaron thaa gathi namkellaan. Sari, appo vapas pore angthikke?
(Pfft, tell me about it. Malleswaram's the bees knees for the likes of us! When are you going back?)

Sadya (Thank god) ma, naat likely in thee neeyar future.

Nee lucky ma ude. Naa July le wapas ponmaardhe. Thirpyon Taco Belle- gille ant engyana alchkund ponaka adhHaLe kothambri marathk nethaad-vechoot vare.
(You are lucky ma, leave. I have to go back in July. But I swear, if those freaks take me to a Taco Bell again, I'll personally string'em up on their stupid corriander plant* .

*kannada idiom: will string you up on a corriander plant = I am angry but love you too much to wish you any harm

Hungry kya? Carols ga!

2007-12-16T22:51:00.000-08:00

The terrible part of last week was that I had to do the million-mile schlep to E-City for a training programme.

The bad part of last week, was that the training programme had a homework assignment! I pleaded with the taciturn trainer to let old men like me off the hook, but my passionate entreaties fell on deaf ears. I was left with no option but to drum out a jargon-filled prez, dressed up with my infamous technical diagrams. Since the trainer didnt die laughing or make me stand in a corner after he saw it, I assumed he'd just eaten bisi bele bhath, or was just plain stupid. Not that I was complaining.

The good part of last week, was a chi-chi-pooh-pooh concert at the Park Hotel dahling, attended by Bangalore's insufferable who's-who. What was I doing there? Well, aside from showcasing my natural talent at being insufferable, I was also playing sound engineer for the evening's performance: A Christmas concert by my music group.

The choir had been rehearsing 3-4 times a week to get this concert together. The first half consisted of excerpts from Handel's well loved Messiah. (You know, the one where the conductor runs 440V up everybody's spines and they go "Haaaaaa-le-lujah! Haaaaa-le-lujah!" in perfect 4/4 time.) Being on a break from singing and all, I was deputed to perform the supremely arduous task of hitting the play and pause buttons between soundtracks. Blonde Swedish counter-tenor, sweet brunette German soprano, and the extremely talented Girl 1 (Mallu soprano, choir director) were in full form, as always. The choir was tight, well rehearsed and comfortable. The mood lightened up considerably in the second half, though the music remained just as tough to perform. Swedish and german carols, jazzed up versions of popular christmas songs, Girl 1 going slightly nuts on "I'll be home for Christmas", and finally, the quick paced, but light-as-air Carol of the Bells.

The wonderful part of last week however, were the free cocktails and hors d'oeuvres after the concert. Yes, I use this word specifically, as I ate like a hors till they were all oeuvre. While wine and cocktails flowed like water, the ardors of my crazy-ass week melted away happily into nothingness.

And the best part of last week was the "order whatever you want on the menu" dinner for the performers, after the concert! Haha! If the poor Park Hotel staff was expecting a bunch of air-kissing, food-picking socialites for light dinner and polite banter, weren't they in for a surprise! Especially when they had to reckon with Bikerdude, the lean (err), mean (uh-huh, oh yeah!) eating machine! Muhuhahaha.

Moral: Never offer free dinner to a hungry choir.

Bangalore Winter Cameos

2007-12-05T23:09:00.000-08:00

After due diligence and deliberation, I have decided that Bangalore in the winter is what reminds me the most of Bangalore.
And therefore I present below, 15 things not to miss in a Bangalore winter:

The ethereal morning mist on the Sankey Tank.
My naturally botoxed face after a freezing bike ride.
The blue, dew-covered lawns at Cubbon Park.
The insanely pink Tabebuias in full bloom all over town.
Street dogs curled up in little bundles inside dustbins.
The Bangalore Boom inducers - avarekai.
My great-aunt's lovely Christmas pudding.
Hot hot rava rava idli at Adigas.
Missy M in her red sweater.
The artists' walkway at Bengalooru Habba.
Christmas lights on Brigade Road.
Open air concerts at the Palace.
My mother serving bisibele bath and bonda to delighted carollers at 10 in the night.
My numb fingers on the guitar accompanying well fed carollers at 1 in the morning.
And my birthday. Cash, cheques, facelift coupons and trips to exotic destinations accepted, thank you.

Tattooland

2007-11-29T03:43:00.000-08:00

I couldnt believe it. An hour ago I was struggling against time to send out a last minute doc to the boss, and now here we were in the airport, two insanely expensive samosas down, boarding a flight to Sossegado land!

Yaaaaay! Two whole days of sun, sand, corpulent Brit tourists, and sea!

"Humph", said the budget airhostess, as we got on the plane at Bangalore. I beamed back at her, hoping to make her day as good as mine. She threw her head back, howled at the overhead bins and gnashed her teeth at us in a most friendly fashion. Before she could reach out and snap our heads off politely, we dived into our seats and hid under our recycled budget-flight magazines.

From my foetal position in the impossibly crammed Spicejet seat, I saw the arid beauty of the Deccan slowly giving way to the lush green of the Sahyadris, and we soon touched down at the immensely charming Dabolim Airport. Minutes later, we were whizzing away to Calangute on the spectacular Goa highway, winding through villages, shipyards, pretty churches and amazing views of the sea.

Bags down, we set off instantly for the beach on a rented Activa. After wading across row upon row of slowly cooking white skin, we finally reached the sea. I'd almost forgotten how magical the Arabian sea can be in winter. Placid, emerald green and ethereal. Disturbed only by the incessant roar of waterscooters, wailing kids, paunchy uncles, and extremely silly looking parasailers. All very pretty though.

Out of the water and ravenous, we drifted into the nearest shack and ordered everything they had. I decided to be goody two shoes on the first leg of my trip, and ordered a glass of nice Goan port wine. The waiter plonked a whole bottle of the good stuff in front of us, and then set down huuuge platters of food with large helpings of chips and tartar sauce. 'Ow English luv, I thought, looking around at the astounding number of identically dour faced, sunburned Brit tourists sipping G&Ts and digging into chicken teeka masollas.

It was heartening though, to see that Goa had indianized quite significantly since our last trip. We saw more than a few twenty-something yuppie Indian couples dotting an otherwise lobster-pink peoplescape. Mostly punju, unfortunately. Their embarrassingly crass accents seemed to bounce right off the grim, silent walls that the Brit tourists had raised around themselves. Ah well, I thought. Silence was never an Indian virtue, and it would do the old coots some good to hear boisterous Indian chatter for a change.

"Tattoo brother?" Asked a local, and showed me into a beachside tattoo parlour. Two stern faced East European women were inside, getting mehndi tattoos. One of them was visibly upset, and was admonishing a Goan boy tattooing her foot with an extremely ugly daisy chain: "I had appointhmenth ath eleffen. Now I am lathe for ze anozer apointhmenth. Zis is verhy unproffessional". "Yeah, yeah, I'll do a good design", replied the Goan boy, with an unfazed Goan grin. What he meant of course was "Yeah fool, that'll teach you to make hourly appointments when you're ankle deep in Mehndi at a beach shack in Goa!"

"Come. I make. Good design. Ae Jigness bhai, book lao." said the main man. Okayyyy, a Gujju tattooist. Excellent! He pointed to various designs in his book and I shortlisted the following :
(a) My name in Gujarati
(b) My mother's name in Hebrew
(c) Celtic design containing a pot of Undhiyu and a pile of Thepla
(c) The words Anna-Saaru-Che entwined on a rose.
(d) "Lucky Laxmi" in purple and green disco dots.

I asked him how much he charged. "Sirji main aapse sirf 5000 maangoonga . Bahut kam daam hai." I resisted the impulse to to tattoo "Poda maanga madaya" (Go away mangofool) on his forehead and run. After much bargaining, he agreed to draw a much cheaper, temporary tattoo on my shoulder that looked like the imprint of a size 12 shoe.

Fake tattoo in place, all I now needed to do was scream "O yaar bill lao fatafat" to the waiter and I'd be the perfect yuppie Punju Goa tourist.

If you can't, mins..matlab.. beat 'em, Oye join 'em yaaru !!

Cardboards - Part Duh

2007-11-26T04:32:00.000-08:00

And I'm back :)
Here you go childrenses.. By popular demand, Part II of Cartoons on the Keyboard, a.k.a..

Cardboards - Part Duh

Cardboards

2007-11-21T01:20:00.000-08:00

My dear boys and girls,

You may breathe a big sigh of relief as I will not be writing much today. For I have channelized my prowess on the keyboard, borne out of ten years of non-stop yahooing, into more creative avenues. Therefore, kindly have it, the following batch of Cartoons on the Keyboard, OR:

Cardboards!!

Yen-zoy!

More to follow (or not as the case may be) :)

Missy M and the potter

2007-11-14T03:43:00.000-08:00

Missy Morkozhambu, by the way, is the best baker in the world. And I don't say this lightly. There's sponge cake, and there's Missy M's sponge cake. There's chocolate torte and then there's hers. Worlds apart. And whoa, those cheesecakes! Slurp city downtown!

When Benson Town was under seige and all the shops had closed down, she stepped into her garden, plucked a papaya off her tree, mixed it with godhi hittu (aata) and baked a glorious papaya gateau. Another day she made a kothambri soppu (corriander), avocado and strawberry bread which was, well, interesting.

While she says the secret to her phenomenal baking is gobs of amul butter, I haven't given up searching her pantry for that little vial of magic potion that's actually responsible for it. The most wonderful part, however, is that I am her self-appointed food taster. With her success rate of 100%, I am only too happy to stuff myself to bursting capacity with all her goodies, while giving her my extremely satiated two-paisa opinions on them.

Missy M made a green almond sponge cake the other day, which she had layered with chocolate and pistachios. She'd also made an unpronounceable Italian dessert with bansi rava (semolina), and called wondering if I wanted to drop by and try them out. Didn't I just! In about 43 seconds, I was squeezing through her front door, trying to prevent Coco and Buster from squeezing in with me. Dogs out of the way, I addressed myself conscientiously to my assigned task of stuffing myself silly. No eggs, she announced, since it was Deepavali after all.

The almond sponge with pistachio and chocolate icing was wonderful, as expected. Or as Appa would say "Mundiriparuppu, pista, vennai, sakkarai ellaam potta kasakkumaa?" (Cashew, pista, butter, sugar, all put means bitter it will be aa?). As always though, there was Missy M's unmistakeable touch, that made it a superlative almond sponge with pistachio and chocolate icing.

A quick kodbaLe break later, I was onto my next arduous task: sampling the unpronounceable Italian dessert. It was a cake-like kesari bhath, with the consistency of a very very fluffy Mysore pak. I blinked appreciatively at the legendary baker, unable to move any more muscles in acknowledgement of her fantastic culinary creations.

"Alright", she announced, "I figure you could use a walk. Care for a stroll down Williams Town? I need to buy some clay lamps." "Glurgh", I replied, indicating that I needed to be rolled off the Benson Hill first. So off we went: one goggle-eyed cake-taster and one diligent baker-deepavalist.

Williams Town, though adjacent to Benson Town, is in stark contrast to it. It struck me as nice and quaint, though not particularly affluent or spectacularly beautiful. Neat rowhouses abutted a sweet looking park, in the old world Bangalore style. The vaulted mangalore-tiled roofs of the rowhouses stuck out at the back, while their modernized frontages lined the clean streets. A few 1950s-style biscuit boxes with rounded verandahs stood in pristine splendour in their little gardens. A bunch of boys, a gaggle of girls and an assembly of aunties stood around in groups discussing the happennings of the day. We saw kids bursting crackers and lighting lamps, old men readying themselves for the evening namaaz, and several young people at the shrine of the virgin, lighting candles and singing softly. I was amazed at the diversity, and charmed by the old-wordliness. Missy M snorted a pretty snort and strode on smugly, reminding me that we were in the Cantonment after all.

A few well-swept streets later, we found ourselves at the central square of Pottery Town. "Wow. There's a potter's square in Bangalore?", I said, looking around in amazement. "Um, yes", said Missy M, "but it's been here forever, and we've never thought of it as one." I gaped open-mouthed at the quaint potters' shops around the square. Huge terracota planters, lamps, urns and basins lay around everywhere. Shopkeepers looked up at us lazily and went back to doing nothing. I meandered off into one of the shops, fascinated by some large urlis that seemed perfect for my irritatingly non-blooming water lilies.

"Focus", said Missy M gently, as she dragged me into a shop where she spied the diyas that she wanted. The sweet toothless adukulajji (betelnut grandmother) at the shop took an instant liking to us and made us come into her house and see all her wares. Pots, that is. We bought about 75 lamps for 100 bucks or so, and walked back through Williams Town, stopping to admire a collection of unsold clay ganeshas that escaped this year's mass-drowning. I chattered incessantly about the quaintness of it all, until Missy M suggested cooingly that I shut the hell up, as she was getting a migraine. I muttered my remaining remarks to my sandals and followed her back home, where she fed me home-made pizza and sent me away.

So if you're into quaint small-town 1950s enclaves and aren't afraid of jumping across a nullah or two to buy some pottery real cheap, go check out Williams Town and Pottery Town. And if there's enough of you coming that way, I'll ask Missy M to set up a bake-shop shop next to adukulajji.

You hate me, but I love you!

2007-11-12T01:50:00.000-08:00

So this new donut place opened up the other day near work. Being the full-on Thames nan maga that I am, I ran off instantly to sample their wares. I was not disappointed. The donuts were the yummiest I'd ever eaten and sold for like 20 bucks a go. There were all manner of killer combos involving medium to large scale sugar overloads, with caffeine fixes to boot.

The shop assistants, imported as always from a different planet, nodded and shook their heads for everything. Several sweet delights later, I waddled back to work and realized my wallet was gone. "Aiyo!" I screamed, and huff-puffed back to the donut shop. "Did you see my wallet?" Nod, shake. "Wallet, purse. Left here. Anybody saw?" Nod shake. "No?" Nod shake. "Yes?" Nod shake. I gave up, wrote my name and number on a paper and told them to call me if it turned up. Nod shake.

The wallet contained credit cards (easily replaced, whew), cash (as good as gone) and.. gasp! My Driver's License!

I quailed at the thought of getting a duplicate. The prospect of coaxing, cajolling, pleading and... shudder.. bribing my way through the RTO, had me wondering if I should bother getting one at all. But knowing my penchant for getting goosed by the traffic pulliss wherever I go, I figured I pretty much had to.

I made a few calls to friends who'd been in similar situations before, and figured out approximately what to do:

(1)Lodge an FIR with the police, get it attested (Bribe opportunity 1),
(2)Go to the RTO, pay Rs 235 duplicate license fee
(3)Submit several papers to the assistant RTO for approval (Bribe op 2)
(4)Collect my license 3 days later (Bribe op 3)

Four years in a Gowda college taught me to suspend my dignity for long periods of time to get my work done, but the art of bribery had, for some reason, always evaded me.

"Bunnrrrreee, koothkoLi, tea-gee kudeetheera?" (Come in sir, sit down, tea and scones perhaps?) said a pleasant SI as I walked in to the police station and told him my story. He read my FIR, written in the best Governmentese I could muster at short notice. It was a jewel of colonial composition. Every sentence had at least three of the following words : kindly, respected, faithfully, the same, therein and purse. Susy miss would have given me 10/10 for following the "Official letter format" down to the last tee.

Bunnree plodded through the letter and asked me how I could prove my wallet was stolen. "Err umm, it wasnt there when I looked for it?" I said. Dry sarcastic laughter ricocheted off the walls of the police station. He tossed my literary gem nonchalantly in the dustbin and glared at me. "Take down", he commanded. I almost fainted. Strip torture?? Oh no! What did I let myself in for!!In a few seconds however, I realized that his intentions were considerably less evil, and I faithfully took down the following letter:

"Bariri (write)" :

Two: Yes Eye, Sadasivnagra Polittashionu

Saar,

I walking roadu, coming aaffice to hotelu.
Aaan date-u, timu ella bariri (Aaan date time write ri)
When I going backu, purse miss-seddu. Pursu containing faalowing eyetams:
Aan bariri yenen itthu antha (Aan write what all was there).
Yif yanybody returannu, please caantactu my numberu.
Number gimber addressu giddressu ella bariyappa (Number gimber address giddress write father).
Saaaaaar, kindly request give that ackka-naalijmentu this FIR faar duplicate licensu.
Regardsu, gigardsu hesaru-gisaru bardhu sign haaki. (Regards, gigards, name, geeme, sign put)

I nervously handed my hen tracks back to the SI, who gave it a once-over, regarded me with a beady eye and sealed and signed the letter.

Whoa! That was easy- and they were actually sweet(u) !!

Off I went to the RTO, quailing again, thinking of the number of touts Id have to avoid and the corrupt officers I'd have to deal with. There wasn't a soul about, save one non-scowly man sitting by himself at a desk on the second floor. I touched the center of my chest(Bangalore version of Namaskara), and he nodded back.

"Banni, banni heLi." (Come, come, tell me). Wow, polite, but my jaded soul suspected that the politeness came with a price. This one's gonna fleece me dry, I thought, as I told him my story.

Luckily I'd gone online to the RTO website earlier and managed to get all the documents for the duplicate license ready. He looked at them and told me to go back to the police station and get an FIR acknowledgement challan. "Saaar", I said, scratched my head and tried to look harrassed and helpless. I asked him if the stamped FIR copy that I already had wasn't enough. He cleared his throat, flung my papers back at me, and looked ahead grimly.

Back I went to the police station, and haltingly told the SI I needed a challan. "Challan close aagide" (out of challans), he said. "Uh oh!" said a little voice in my head. Money time.

Suddenly a dulcet voice from heaven came wafting through the sultry air of the police station.
"Yaaeh, compter nal idiyalla saar faarmyattu. Sumne print haaki sign haak kotbiddi papa avarige. Math-mathe yaak barak heltheera" (Yaaeh, just print the damn thing out and sign it I say, why make this poor dude come again and again"). I turned around and saw a tough looking ladiss police with woollen scarf around head (winter, you faallow?). I beamed at her gratefully and was rewarded with a scowl.

I grabbed the attested print out, almost fell at everyone's feet and looked around waiting for someone to say "Saaaaaar.. hehehehehe scratch scratch" which is how I've always pictured people asking for a bribe. Noone moved. I left!

Back at the RTO the next day, the helpdesk people (Wait there's a manned helpdesk?) guided me up to a series of neat queues (Whoa!) near the cash counter where I paid the prescribed duplicate fee and had the receipt flung in my face. Took a deep breath, collected the receipt and went back to non-scowler. He muttered something about pinning the papers in the wrong order, scribbled all over my application, and sent me off to get my picture taken.

At the picture office, an efficient young lady looked up my old license number and, wonder of wonders, brought my old license up on her screen. "Allright, you may go", she said, and directed me to another guy who looked like Lt. O'hara from Duckburg. He scribbled furiously in a ledger, and wordlessly handed me a slip of paper with the collection date written on it. I waited briefly for Lt. O'hara to scratch his head or object to my existence, but left after he glowered for 5 more minutes at his ledger.

What? No bribe?

Arrived bright and early on the collection date and went straight to Lt. O'hara. He rolled his eyes sideways indicating that I go meet Gladstone Gander at the next table. Gladstone eyed me meanly through his half moon glasses and continued working. After a practiced 5 minute pause, he looked up and said: "God has given you eye. Father has given you spectacle. Take ten minute, sit down and kindly read distribution time." Uh oh, I thought, bribe time. Read the distribution time: one hour later. Whew.

An hour later, Gladstone had assumed an even more evil expression than before. He rummaged about and fished out a smart looking duplicate license card. Flinging it at my face, he slapped a piece of paper down on the desk. "Sir?" I asked in my smallest, scaredest voice. Gladstone flashed me a look of utter contempt. "Haiyyyyo.." he said, slapped his forehead, rolled his eyes, looked at O'hara and gave me another vile glare. "Ree swami! Sign haakri, Receewadu antha." (Swami (sarcastic), sign I say, received like that).

Signed. Waited. Gladstone started barking at someone else. And I left!!

What? No bribe?

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!

Moral: They scowl, frown, treat you like dirt and all that, but a little obsequiousness and a total suspension of dignity can get you very far indeed in government offices.

Seriously though, hats off to the Yeshwantpur RTO! Sure they don't have the best bedside manner, but they do their job!

And thank you, thank you, my dear scarf wearing, scowling godess!

Biker Banter

2007-10-30T04:08:00.000-07:00

My first biker memory was of running over my brother's foot on a grey hand-me-down tricycle when I was about three. Since my vocabulary then did not yet include the word "sorry", I just laughed insanely at my brother, pedalled away furiously, and crashed into a wall.

When I was 8, all the Trivandrum bois (including brother) started to learn how to cycle. Not to be outdone, I persuaded a senior boi to hire me a rusty green rattletrap from the cycle shop for 25p a day. The chain would lock itself tight every 10 feet or so, and send me flying into random puddles. When I finally mastered the green bike, I yelled to mommie dearest to look out of the balcony. "Look ma, no hands", I said as I careened down the slope leading to our house, and crashed into a wall.

My brother's red BSA SLR (with pump) was the most beautiful thing I'd seen. Using it, you could go anywhere you wanted in the world. Even all the way up to Prashanth Nagar (3 km away). The bizarrely vertical hills in Trivandrum, however, were not the easiest to negotiate. You had to get off and push your bike up cliff like inclines, and clamp both breaks down hard as you free-wheeled down them. My first brake wire snapped when I was half way down the Prashant Nagar incline. "Ende ammachiyey!!" I screamed as I hurtled down the hill and crashed into a wall.

Sriharikota was the flattest piece of land I had ever seen. No hills, no valleys, nothing. Just a flat-as-a-board mass of windswept scrubby tropical evergreen forest stretching out in every direction. "Heaven", I thought, as I climbed onto the BSA SLR that my brother had discarded in favour of a TVS champ. Little did I realize that Sriharikota's gusty winds were craftier than Indra's celestial nymphs. The wind would be behind me as I cycled into school all fresh in the morning, carressing and pushing me gently forward. On the way back, it would hit me square in my face. I'd huff, puff, wheeze and collapse on the pedals, only to find myself red-faced and barely breathing, 10 feet away from the school gates.

One cyclonic day however, the wind changed direction. I hopped on as usual at school and pedalled away furiously, expecting to make slow but steadyish progress towards home. The wind however, swirled back around me, jettisoning me out of the cycle path faster than a GSLV D3. "Orrey babooo!!!" I screamed as I flew over the footpath and crashed into a wall.

My rusty red steed followed me to Bangalore, where my home of course had to be located on the steepest incline in Malleswaram. Anyone who has cycled up the precipitous sloped of Kodandaramapuram and 11th cross, knows that it is a near-impossible task. "Pooh", I said when I first saw it, and set off to conquer it immediately. Switching on Sriharikota-wind-in-my-face mode, I monkey-pedalled up the first 15 feet easily. Suddenly the slope became twice as steep, and my world, half as bright. Half way up the slope, the infallible bikerdude, err.. fell. No more breath. Infact, almost no more life. Cycle slid back. "Ayyayyo, hoythallappoww..", I screamed as the cycle capsized, jingled, slid and crashed into a wall.

Trusty steed was replaced by two-geared Hero-Puch, trendy student-carrier of the 90s. After two years of plodding through city market on my way to college in a BTS bus, I was convinced this was my ticket to coolville. I conjured up supercool images of slicing through the market lanes at breakneck speeds of 30kmph, and dazzling everyone with my beautiful white moulded wheels. My joy was short lived. A scooter pulled up next to me at a traffic signal. The kid on the pilion tugged his father's shirt and said "Appa appa, can we buy this bike? It's so small, I'm sure it's cheap." "Aye cheh!" said the father. "Puchchu gichchu ella huchchare odsodhu" (Aye cheh, Puchch, gichch and all only mad people will ride). "Whaaaat? Bu..but.. Waiiiit!" I screamed, chasing after them, and crashed into a wall.

With my first salary, I bought the only four stroke motorbike on the market that was semi-cool and affordable: a smooth, beautiful black Hero Honda Splendor. I got on it, never got off. My ample rearside moulded itself to the shape of its beautiful black seat. I would sing loudly as I drove in the rain, and curse just as loud when the first trickle of rainwater got into my chuddies. I would take off on long lovely bike trips down Kanakapura road friends and significant others. When my office moved to Hosur road, I would be the first to get home, squeezing through the monster traffic on it in record time, escaping the incessant mind-numbing squawk of RadioCity on the office bus.

We've had a strange love-hate relationship, my bike and I. It has always been my best friend, fixing me with a baleful stare through all my trials and tribulations through its single square eye. I'd park it outside cinemas, pubs, garbage bins, rock shows and friends' homes, and always find it waiting for me dourly when I returned. It's been towed away, bashed up, scratched, dented and scoured, but never left my side. Probably because I had the keys.

When it grew old and would stop in the rain, Id take it aside and curse it gently until it sputtered reluctantly back to life. When it had its customary flat-tyre at 11pm on a Sunday evening, I'd always kick the other wheel and abuse it in the most loving manner, while the impossible-to-find mechanic would smile evilly and say "tube hogbittide(gone) saar". And whenever I jammed its non-existent brakes, it would always oblige me with a hair-raising squeak and crash into a wall.

My relationship with my big beautiful black steed has probably been the longest (and perhaps least healthy) attachment I have had with any mode of transport in my life. It is no longer mine though, but I really hope it's happy wherever it is now. Somewhere nice, I hope. Leaking last year's monsoon water from its torn seat cover into the pants of someone nice, I hope.

I loved you, my little black beauty, though between all the screaming and singing, I don't think I told you that often enough.

Ring out the old, ring in the new

2007-10-23T05:04:00.000-07:00

Bangalore's pretty old christmas-cake cottages are biting the dust like never before. People are moaning ceaselessly about important pieces of history being lost to the world forever every time one of them does.

People who've lived in them seem strangely dry-eyed though, having gone through a lifetime of dealing with rusty pipes, leaky roofs, stuffy kitchens and a 100 year accumulation of wild life in their cupboards.

The majority of us, however, just move on. We tut-tut when they go down, but happily waltz into the shiny modern apartments and malls that take their place. Is this an exclusively Indian phenomenon?

To ascertain this, I met up with a cheerful lady in in a diaphanous red saree for pani puri on 8th cross the other day. Her long flowing black hair was barely held in place by a crown of gold. She beamed at me in a most motherly manner, while using her tri-coloured flagstaff to pole-vault gracefully across a puddle to reach Rajanna's chaat trolley. After we ordered one masaaley and one pani sweet, we proceeded to converse thus:

"Vande mataram."

"Mataram vande, my child. Rajanna avre, solpa khara haaki." (Mr Rajanna, lay on the green chutney)

("Kottey! kottey..!") (Giving, giving)

"Maathey, why is the west so obsessed with preserving its architectural heritage, whereas we, as a nation, are largely unbothered?"

"Thoo some easy question ask I say."

"Well?"

"Seeee.. Western culture is visible and tangible and therefore needs to be preserved thus. India's is not. We look down our noses at everything ephemeral, such as brick, stone, life... and this pani puri. . gulp..

"I don't know about this really. It's lovely to say and all, but do we really believe this, deep down? How many of us are truly detached from life and the yen for aquisition?"

"Yen aa? Rupiss no?"

"Shh. No really, Even my thaatha, who'd say "Yennathai ozhachchu, paadu pattu, saaptu, thoongi.." (Whats the use of working, toiling, eating, sleeping..) was probably just saying it for effect. We're just complacent and unbothered, is what I think."

"True, but not necessarily in a bad way. We just don't see merit in preserving stuff that has outlived its value. What is not used crumbles to dust sooner or later. "

"As if. Just because you are Bharat Mata I should believe everything you say uh?"

"Hello I am new age Bharat mata. Bharat akka even. But look around you. The only Indian architecture that has been preserved culturally, is that which is still in use. Places of worship, government offices, rice-paddy terraces, etc. The rest of it - the forts of Rajasthan, the ruins of Hampi, the great baths of Mohenjo Daro - are all preserved by the Archaeological Survey of India, who probably do it out of sheer force of habit. I'm sure even the ASI wouldn't have been this gung-ho about preserving stuff, if it hadn't been formed in colonial times. "

"So why aren't we, as a culture, motivated enough to do it ourselves?"

"Boss I think we have our own ways of dealing with history and preserving our culture. We are not big on physical reminders. Our detatchment from material things has infact often been misunderstood as unbotheredness. History in my opinion (as new age Bharat mata), is meant to be learnt from and let go of."

"But Mummy Indie, our history is precious. How would we remember, if we don't have icons to represent it?"

"You don't need physical icons. Especially redundant ones. Besides, if all your ancestors were this hoity-toity about ringing out the old, you'd be sitting on 40 centuries of redundant architecture! Rulers regularly demolished and rebuilt entire kingdoms to suit their current needs. That's part of life. You can't expect an entire country to preserve 200 generations architectural heritage just because your highness wants iconic evidence of it! Maaad I say. Take pictures, make movies, document it, compose songs about it. Grumble about it if you want. These are Indian things to do."

"But can't we at least preserve the facades of our buildings and modernize the insides, like the west does?"

"Thats just silly. Why should a city look like it did 200 years ago, when everything about it has changed? It's like stuffing a dead pet. "

"Err I guess you have a point, but doesn't culture need an anchor? Something that stands as a reminder of its unique identity, something that will remain static over generations, for people to relate to?"

"An anchor can only be dropped when the sea is deep enough. The west has anchored itself on architecture that represents the zenith of its power, which it attained about 150 years ago. New India is only 60 years old after all, hasn't reached the peak of its power yet. I'd probably guess that buildings that survive 50 years after we reach our heyday, stand a greater likelihood of being preserved."

"So you're saying western preservation efforts are all about power in the end? And that India will start preserving icons that represent the peak of its power, whenever that happens?"

"That's what I'm saying."

"But hello, you're contradicting yourself. You just said we are culturally ephemeral and aren't into all physical reminders."

"Uff. Boss, India is land of contradictions. Leave off now. As it is I have a permanent headache with this stupid crown. Chumma don't eat my head and worsen it. Want to split one dahi puri?"

"Thank god you're pretty ma."

"Ei, suryanige torchaa? (For sun only torch showing aa?) When ledis-god only is standing in front of you, which other god you will thank I say? If you fools had drawn me a chappal, I'd have hit you with it, insolent fellow. Ri, ond dahi haaki." (Sir, put one dahi puri)

("Kottey! Kottey...!!")

Of Kunjavvas and soLLe kaatas

2007-10-17T02:27:00.000-07:00

Growing up all over the south has made me a victim of complete and utter linguistic chaos. I speak Malayalam when I mean to speak Telugu. I confuse random people in Malleswaram by breaking into Nellore Telugu when I need one kg bendekaai. I perplex priests in Kottayam by asking them where the college hostel is, in Bangalore Kannada.

My parents are Tamilian, though my mother's family has been in Karnataka since the 11th century. Probably for the weather. My father, having moved out of Madras in the 60s, speaks Tamil like an orthodox Kumbhakonam vaadiyar. So no help there. Plus, my dad had a transferable job which made us relocate to Kerala and Andhra during my childhood. I spent my wonder years swearing at my brother in Trivandrum gutter-malayalam, and my teens up a jamoon tree in Nellore, from where I conducted several conversations with passing cows in villager-Telugu. Resultantly, I murder all these languages with the ease of a college canteen chef.

My zealous quest for a South Indian Esperanto, has however, made me stumble on many charming crossover languages, spoken by small cut-off communities that migrated centuries ago from one linguistic region to another, each with it's own little nuances. This post is about them. For my sanity alone, Ive grouped them by crossover-category, with example crossover sentences, as follows:

Tamil-Kannada crossovers
Widely spoken all over Karnataka. Ancient tamil words, completely out of use in mainstream Tamil, are combined with contemporary Kannada idiom, resulting in a machine-gun-like, super-efficient, hilarious set of languages that are a riot to listen to.

Mandyam Iyengar Tamil: "Vaaron, vaaron. Coffee utkolreera?" "Anne ma, ippo thaa theerthamaadyoot vandhe." "Innu sheth podhle utkore."
(Do come, respected person. Would you partake of some coffee? Nay, mother, I just suffused myself in hot water. I shall partake of some in a while)
Hebbar Iyengar Tamil: "Kitki ella muchyoodu pa, sheegron." "Inge solle kaaton jaasthi ikkarna."
(Close all the windows quickly. We have a mosquito menace)
Bangalore Iyer Tamil: "Yennango, tiffin acha?" "Hoonungo." (Well, did you have your tiffin? Yes.)
Bangalore Cantonment Tamil: "Masth bejaan male vandhitkeedhu love-raj. 'Naathk ivlo vardhne therley." (It's raining a lot. Don't know why)

Telugu-Kannada crossovers:
The settling of Shettys and several other sub-castes from Andhra in Bangalore, saw the evolution of a peculiar brand of Kannada-Telugu, that has the melifluousness of Telugu combined with the cadences of Kannada.
"Em bava, mayintki vachnara ninna?" "Hoon ra, nee intlo naa beegam-chei marchpoi vachesthi." "Oh adh meedh beegum-cheina bava, adhe yevrdhani alochna cheskon undmi ."
("Hey brother in law, did you come home yesterday?" "Yes. I had left my keys behind." "Oh were they yours? I was wondering whose they were.")

Kannada-Marathi crossovers:
Spoken extensively in the Hubli-Dharwad and Gulbarga area. Completely the territory of the legendary Thoppai Mama. Kindly oblige :)
Aye bai, parghihann esht kotti? (Hey lady how much are those sweet-tart peppercorn-like fruit that contain large pips?)

Kannada-Konkani crossovers
Spoken in Karkala, Mangalore and its environs. Almost perfect Konkani, but a completely Kannada numeric system. Originally evolved to confuse family members from the Konkani diaspora about the ages of their female children.

Malayalam-Konkani crossovers (Konngani)
Mostly malayalam, except for a few key Konkani words
"Genabadhy Bhattarey, enganey undu? Ithra divasam veetilaayirunno?" "Nakko Nakko, njaan Kodihaaluvare poyathaa."
("Mr Ganapathy Bhat, how are you? Were you home all these days?" "No,no. I was in Mangalore")

Tamil-Malayalam crossovers (or Talayalam)
Another significant branch, with a large section hailing from Palghat. Other large populations exist in Trivandrum, Nagercoil and Trichur.

Trivandrum: "Kuzhandhaai, paal ambudum kudichutaaya. Bhesh, bhesh. Naalikku choakLayyte kondu vaaarein kaettiya?" (Child, did you drink all your milk? Very good. I'll bring you a chocolate tomorrow.)
Nagarcoil: "Enna chechi, unga veettile cabLe TV vandhittaa?" (Yo sista, did you just get cable?)
Trichur: "Ee ende pennnnil innnngu theeeeeeeraaRaayi. Ramaswamy maamayindeduththu ichchiri medichondu vaadi." (Mostly malayalam) (My pen is out of ink. get some from Ramaswamy mama)
Palghat: "Ennadi Kamalai, yedhukku indha neraththulai choarukku oda-oda resaththa vittu nanna chappitindirukaai?" "Yaen maami pandhrendu aachallo." "Aiyo Illai dee, paththumaNi aakkum. Enna, un cLoakku sariya nadakkalaiya?"
("Hey kamala what sort of time is this to eat rice and runny rasam?" "But maami, it's 12 after all." "No dee, it's ten. Isn't your clock working?")

And finally: The South Indian Esperantos..

Kodava takk: A charmingly perfect Kannada-Tamil-Malayalam crossover,with a sprinkling of Telugu (debatable). Spoken by people in Coorg, a border district in Karnataka.
"Kaveri kunjavva, engane ulliraa? Undit aacha?" "Oh gauji madiyand ullo." "NingaLa kandittu naaku bhari khushi aachi."
("Aunty kaveri, how are you? Did you eat?" "Oh I'm in great spirits." "I am very happy to see you."

Sanketi: This wonderful quadruple-crossover language is spoken by Sanketi Brahmins, orginally from Shenkottah in Kerala, but now settled in Bangalore and Mysore. The language seamlessly blends in Tamil grammar with Kannada and Malayalam phrases, and throws in a small sprinkling of Telugu words and case-endings. The language is not spoken outside the community, so I never had a chance to learn it properly. I will, however, attempt to write a conversation that I overheard a long time ago. Corrections are welcome:
"Ay Harsha, Raju koowde. Attathle rotti vechikkrani. Vandh sawda cholle." "Raju paai yerinji orangikyund ikraani." "Aiyo, orangikyund irundhaa yendhirpi vaaNaa. Yendhpinne neegl rend perko kalyanathe kurichi vivaramuga chollrani."
("Hey Harsha, call Raju. I've kept some roti on the shelf, tell him to come and eat it." "Raju is fast asleep on a mat on the floor." "Oh if he's asleep then don't wake him. When he's up, I'll tell you both in detail about the wedding.")

So, yeah. Now you know why I'm like this only.

Monsoons on Moore Road

2007-10-11T02:54:00.000-07:00

" 'Ey Clyde! Just 'eard de good news chy.. c'ngraats. "

"Thanks men, whe'yall went? I came 'ome last week but y'all weren't dere. "

"I was in Austrailyer chy, visiting Jo's brudder'n' 'is huncles. "

"Ah, say so! I was so 'fraid y'all ran off widdout telling me even. "

"G'on m'n, 'ow I'll go widout telling y'all. 'Ere only I'll stay until y'all drag me off. Hey what chy, I 'eard 'Arriet's come first in music 'n' all? Give 'er my love, no? What she'll do now? Litrachur ein?"

"No m'n, Im tellin'er to take up Cannadda. Never know when dey'll make it a bloomin' first language 'ere and land all of us in a bloomin' mess. "

"I know chy'. If y'ask me, dey should send us all 'ome and speak Cannadda till dey turn blue in de face. Dose Tumkur blue grapes are dere no? Laddat. "

"Whae' m'n. Hopp'tunities are much more now 'ere no, wid call centerz 'n'all 'iring like nob'dy's bloomin bizness. We c'n teach dose blighters a ting or two. "

"True chy. No point goin'way anymore. 'Appy we're 'ere only. "

"'Ey whats 'appning to de city m'n? 'Sbeen raining cats 'n' dogs all week! Miranda's 'ouse is c'pletely flooded, poor thing. Bluddy raining, raining all de bloomin' time. Never used t'be like dis in Bangalore b'fore, no? Gets me hangry whenever I tink about it. "

"No point gettin' hangry wid the rain chy. F'get it. 'Ow dose bloomin' corporation buggers've f'gotten our Seppings Road no, laddat. Umbrella y'ant eh? "

"No m'n, whats de use, I'm already soaked like a bluddy spongecake even. Hevvry day 's' bin raining m'n, like bloomin' Cherrapunji. "

"I know chy. If y'ask me, we should change the name of Roger's Road to River's road I swea'. You sh'look at 'ow much water's c'llected dere. "

"I swea'. Dat Lloyd's dere no, in Hulsoor, tell'im to repai' 'is boat 'n' bring, we c'n row down de street hevery Sunday. "

"Ey by de way, I 'eard Jake's got a new job 'n' all? "

"No men, 'oo'll give 'im a job. But I swear, 'f 'e doesnt get one soon, 'e'll 'ave it from me. What 'e thinks, dis is a bloomin' soup kitchen or what. I'll give him two bluddy uppercuts on 'is kidneys and kick 'is bloomin bottom out of d'ouse 'f'e doesn't find a job soon."

"What chy, 'e's only 25 no, littl'un 'e is. Let 'im find 'is hown feet first chy. Den y'all c'n 'dvise 'im."

"But I'm so 'fraid m'n. 'E's getting into bad company wid all these Cannadda boys from college. Dunno whe' 'e's 'eaded, dat boy. Praying hevrryday 'e doesnt become like dat Leslie bugger men. Sitting shamelessly at 'ome wid his mudder. "

"Whae' chy, 'is mum wants 'im dere no? 'Oo'll look hafter 'er udderwise. All dese old biddies no, clever dey are. If y'ask me, dey should all sudd'ly dis'pear from de planet in a puff of smoke. 'Ow dose Thoms' mutton puffs dis'pear after Sunday mass no, laddat. "

"Krekt, I swea'! Hokay m'n, come by at Christmas ein? And give my love to Lizzie, Ralphie and Hannabel."

"Cert'ly. Y'all coming f'de wedding no? "

"G'on chy, has if we'll miss it! G'bye, God Bless. "

"G'bye!"

Carnatic contortionism

2007-10-03T01:30:00.000-07:00

Where have all the quirky artists of yesteryear gone, I hear you ask? OMG I knew we were related! I often ask this myself!

Artist vakras (idiosyncracies) at a concert have been a dying art form for several years now. They have been almost completely obliterated by the new breed of rigid necked, poker faced, young artists of today. Whaaat is this I say?

All these self-righteous, modern music teachers are to blame for this, I tell you. I have personally seen them correcting the facial ticks and grimaces of young impressionable pupils right from their childhood. I myself have been a victim of this modern brainwashing. My beloved and late Shakunthala Teacher, a well meaning and very talented Trivandrum AIR artist, would always tell me after an inspired grimace during a difficult varnam passage: "Kondhaai, moonji-geenji elaam pannapdaadhu kaettiyo? Yellaarum un paattu kaekarthukku bathila, un moonjiyai paapaaLaakkum." (My child, don't make face-gees. People will look at your face instead of listening to your song. Ok? Ok.)

This post, however, is dedicated to those few, far between (and usually immensely talented) artists, who have managed to stick to their old school ways, and continue to grimace, gesticulate, cough, and slice their way into the hearts of their rasikas. Presented below is my humble attempt at documenting artistic vakras at a lively carnatic kacheri, in the hope that it may be used in the future to rejuvenate this wonderful lost art:

Varaaha Vaidyanathan: For the uninitiated, this is the delicate art of piggyface making. Especially prominent while executing delicate sangathis during a raga: "Thu dhu rin na nu....uuiiium", or during a long phrase in a Thyagaraja Krithi involving words like "munu ju joochuchumu".

Self Appreciater : Breaks into a hearty "aaaan" and "sabhaash" after executing a complicated gamaka. The usually timid violinist is forced to smile weakly and agree, while producing a mouse-like answer to the same phrase.

Audience-confusing thaalam putter: A master of thaalam who never needs to keep time with the music, but will suddenly slap his/her thigh 27 times in the middle of an avartana, and confuse the entire audience.

Exorcist VI: While the usually talented artist sings with abject devotion to various gods and goddesses, all the demons of the netherworld surface on his/her face. "Mah-hwaaaaaaa(scary face) Guh-Na-pa-thiyiwwwwwwum (scowl)"

Roti mandir: Usually found in the North, this artist will begin the concert by kneading some imaginary dough, pounding and pummelling it, stretching it out, and finally rolling it into imaginary chappatis. Needless to say the audience leaves disappointedly hungry after 2 hours of tempting chappati making.

Bronchitis Bhatrachar: The artist who thinks nothing of going "harrrghgthghgmph" in the middle of a subtle sangathi, instantly popping a spell-bound audience back into the real world.

Uh-uh, nope, not possible: The negative percussionist that shakes his head in hopeless despair throughout the concert. If the audience had any intension of sacrificing a bonda-bajji break during the thani, it is promptly pre-empted by an extra bout of intense head waggling during the first mohra.

Shanta Idly Grinder: Goes into raptures while singing "Maadu mekkura kanne nee poga vendaam munne". Sits on an imaginary arisi-paruppu (rice and dal) mixture and grinds away by swaying body in a clockwise motion, now and then tamping down the imaginary batter with a thrust of her closed fist.

Karate Kid IV: The Black belt master at a hindustani concert, who aims expert air-slices at imaginary bearded chinese masters. Most of these singers also have a secret ambition of substituting the percussion accompaniment with a big brass gong.

Comedy Chakrapani: Usually a violinist or a ghatamist with a humungous vibhuti, pottu and fantastic wardrobe, who drives the audience (esp the kids) insane with laughter with all manner of quirky faces, grins, eyebrow waggles, and funny screechy notes, with an "I didn't do that" expression.

Agathi Alamelammal: The consumptive looking "pretty girl" playing the tanpura. Either bored senseless with the concert or completley hypnotized by the buzz of the tanpura she is playing. Nevertheless a good nirvana-esque place to be in.

The lotus eater: An over-humble artist who will anounce all his kritis with hand in lotus bud formation held close to his mouth in a gesture of humility: "This is my wown hummmmble caamposition. Please feel free to kick and spit all over it because I am your wown hummmble servant". An instant cue for various maama-maamis to leave, or catch up with the weekly gossip.

Shruthi sodhapper: The avant-garde flautist/singer who is never satisfied with the tuning of the tanpura. Will repeatedly adjust the strings right in the middle of the song. Worse still is the electronic tanpura adjuster, who will unhesitatingly make shruti adjustments in full volume, making the entire audience tut-tut in irritation.

Mridanga Manikyam: The artist who smiles brightly at the mridangist after every phrase of a manodharma swara. By the end of the concert, the mridangist's polite return-smile gets sealed permanently onto his face.

The overcompensator: A native tamil speaker, unaccustomed to the heavy plosive consonants of other languages, especially Sanskrit. Will overcompensate by converting all consonants to their heavier versions, in the hope of pronouncing foreign words correclty: "YenDhara nee Dhana, Ghendha BhoNi, JhinDha viDhuva Jhaa Rhaa, Kshreeee Raaahaahaamaa". Usually eliciting sniggers from the audience when performing outside chennai.

Blind Fury III: An artist who has cleverly convinced the audience for years that s/he is visually challenged, by screwing eyes shut throughout the concert. The eyes will pop open occasionally during a thani, but close instantly, before the audience catches on.

Witty Waradachar: Makes quips in mid-phrase about the faulty sound system, or the concert organizer, eliciting polite laughter from the audience.

The Devaranama/Meera Bhajan destroyer: The sort that is clearly convinced of the superiority of music over poetry, and the irrelevance of the actual words being sung. Hence if Meera sang:"Maii thwo kirithara ge ranku raaaajee", Krishna would still appear, albeit scraching his nails on a blackboard. This artist is also convinced that all devarnamas are composed using the two imaginary kannada words "Hothle and Hidhlu" and will sing an entire purandara dasa kriti using them.

Nostril Nalini: Eyes permanently fixed at indeterminate spot on ceiling of hall. While Yashoda had the privilege of seeing the world in her son's mouth, the audience now has the dubious one of seeing asteroids and other formations in the artist's nostrils.

Footnote: For all those die hard fans of the artists lampooned here, freeya vidunga (leave off I say). I love 'em as much as you do.

Dankey, Sankey.

2007-09-21T03:06:00.000-07:00

When an enthusiastic colonel in the Madras Sappers regiment built it in 1882, he definitely had a different plan for it. It was meant to supplement the scarce water supply of thirsty Malleswaram and Sriramapuram. It cleverly channeled in water from the surrounding tanks and streams into a natural ravine blocked off by a stone bund. Col Sankey's tank turned out to be a disappointment though, when the water turned brackish from the mineral deposits in the soil, very soon after it was built. Its purpose since then has remained pretty much the same - to be a thing of beauty.

Legend in the family has it that my great grandfather actually had to swim across the lake to reach his property on the south bank of the tank, when he bought it in the 30s. The surrounding areas, once a fruit orchard of the Maharaja, was eventually replaced by a residential layout, that has developed its own charm over the years. The lake sees more vistors today than ever before, with its big new joggers park and pretty but rather bland landscaping.

In the 60s and 70s, lines of donkeys bearing laundry lined the bund, and the slap-slap of clothes being smacked mercilessly against the bund wall would ring clear across the lake's surface all the way into my great grandfather's dining room. The less-than dulcet tones of novice nadaswaram players practicing at the crack of dawn on the lake's edge greatly assisted in curdling the milk in my great-grandmother's kitchen. Strangely though, the lake was never really batheable. My rebellious mumsy once dived into the lake for a swim in the 60s to disprove this. She went down with typhoid instantly after.

The 80s rolled in, the donkeys disappeared and were replaced by love-birds of all kinds dotting the bamboo clumps on the lake's edge. A sight that we were well shielded from as kids by our protective grandparents. We would spend all our summer holiday afternoons poking around on the banks, trying hopelessly to catch fish to put in my great-grandfather's tank. A search party was once sent out for me when I had fallen asleep in the bullrushes while playing hide and seek with my brother and our cousins. Hey, it was a comfortable hiding place!

I also remember a time when my aunt stooped down planted a big kiss on my head for pulling her out of knee deep slush when we were looking for crabs as kids. She told my grandmother that I came and rescued her from deathly quicksand with my big muscles. I was 3 feet tall and weighed about 20kg then. I would valiantly assist all manner of people across doorsteps and imaginary dents in the ground for weeks after!

Thanks to BTS (now BMTC)'s dubious reputation for being Bekaada Timealli Sigolla (Never there when you want it), the best bet was to trudge across to Malleswaram 18th cross bus stand to catch a bus to college. My joy knew no bounds when I discovered a secret path on the west side of the lake that I needed to jump across a culvert and several lake inlets to negotiate, to get me there faster. The ethereal morning mist would send white wisps out to the beautiful grassy knolls on the lake's edge for me to catch. Kingfishers would pierce the glassy surface of the water at bullet speed, and emerge with their breakfasts moments after. Water snakes would scuttle away into deeper water the moment they sensed me coming. Man, those mornings!

I'd even made friends with the forest department gardeners, who'd actually time their day with my comings and goings. On my way back from college, they'd say "Swami bandawre. 4:30 aiyth kanrroiyy". There was a secret nook where black magicians would fling vermillion and turmeric at bizarre looking clay effigies by the water's edge. When they saw me slink by trying to look as unobtrusive as possible, they'd laugh loudly, blowing powders in my direction as I passed. I never had the courage to go look at the idols more closely when they were not around though.

When the boat club opened in the mid 90s, the family would dutifully take all visitors out for an obligatory boat ride on the lake. OK lets face it, the lake's pretty and all, but its not really large enough for a scenic boat ride or anything. I still remember an aunt muttering to herself as she got off the boat after a 15 minute circle around the lake: "Ippadi kodakku kodakku nnu poi enna sugaththa kandon?" (What pleasure did we get by rattling around kodakku-kodakku like this?)

The late 90s saw a few bizarre instances of mass fish-suicides. All of us were certain that the water was poisoned, until the fisheries department discovered that the fish had overbred and died of oxygen starvation. Needless to say, the hundreds of cormorants, dabchicks, kingfishers, snakebirds and kites that lived around, had month long foodfests whenever that happened.

The lake, which would earlier dry out partially in the summer, now brims over with water all year round, thanks to the successful efforts of local residents to unblock the water inlets. Bangalore's recently aquired heavy monsoon pattern, and a Lok Ayukta's decision to raise the spillover weir by two feet have in fact caused it to flood heavily of late. The monsoon of 2005 completely washed away the recently completed 4 crore BMP landscaping, and submerged large parts of greatgramps' garden.

The jogging track is back now, bigger and higher than before. The old trees that perished due to water logging are now replaced by promising looking saplings. The wild serenity of the west bank is gone forever, replaced by a vast tract of landscaping that is no longer mine alone to enjoy :(

The Sankey Tank has metamorphosized dramatically over the hundred-odd years of its existence: from an almost-forgotten failed project, into a charming and much needed oasis of calm in bustling Bangytown. It still serves to ease the lives of thousands of people around, albeit in a completley different manner from what was intended.

The two most beautiful things about the lake however, are what nobody can ever change: The glorious sight of a full moon shimmering over its placid surface, and most importantly, The warm fuzzy feeling of finally being home!

Duruflé the organ?

2007-09-18T01:44:00.000-07:00

6:30am today found 17 of us at the beautiful St. Marks cathedral for a rehearsal, shivering our timbers in the morning draft . A few minutes later, the young organist climbed nervously into his seat, high up above us. He's good. A little shy and perhaps not used to the exacting standards of the choir director (aka Girl 1), who chewed him to bits during the first run through, but he survived. The sombre acoustics of the cathedral seem to suit the choir's voices exceedingly well though, especially that of Blonde Counter-Tenor (baritone this time) who sounds clear as an elven bell.

Those of you that have never heard a pipe organ in a church must rectify this immediately. It is the only instrument that can fill you with awe, fear, calm, sorrow, joy and peace all in the span of a few minutes. You can easily imagine it to be a huge living breathing being, capable of bursting into a thousand booming voices that occupy every corner of your brain. The recently restored pipe organ at St Mark's (MG Road, Bangalore) with its huge flues and reeds almost a storey high each, is the only one in Bangalore that is in concert condition.

The organ accompaniment to Duruflé's requiem, a tough 20th century piece that we are performing this weekend, is melancholy, disconnected at times, and breathtakingly beautiful at others. When the organist pressed his foot tentatively down on a deep d, we all went silent for a couple of seconds, savouring the funny quiver that aimed itself exactly at the middle of our chests and set the entire requiem alight.

Practice was gruelling. The organist has his back to the conductor, and the music is tough as nails. We might have to resort to using the cathedral's fine electric organ- almost indiscernable to the untrained ear from the original, so that we can co-ordinate better. But I'm hoping against all hope that we might be able to use the living breathing goliath with some practice. To hear the wind rush in and out of its great throat as it sings to accompany us.

Modern classical music is free from the traditional mores of composition. Varying time signatures, crazy passages and bizzarely beautiful chords make it a treat to listen to, provided your mind is open to it. It is madness to perform, but completely worth the effort.

Here's what we're doing, among others:
Duruflé's Requiem - A haunting, sombre, yet tender modern requiem by Maurice Duruflé, a famous French composer.
Agnus Dei - by Samuel Barber, originally an adagio for strings, re-written for voice and organ. You might have heard the strings version in the movie Platoon.
Rejoice in the Lamb - A modern composition by Benjamin Britten, a brilliant English composer, set to lyrics written by Christopher Smart, a delightfully mad 18th century poet, who actually wrote from a lunatic asylum.

How exactly a monsoon audience on a plateau in South India is going to react to it remains to be seen :) If youd like to react too, stroll over to St marks Cathedral, MG Road Bangalore, on Saturday 22nd Sep at 6:45pm for an evening of contemporary sacred music accompanied by the beautiful organ at St Marks.

It's in a church, and it's free, so be nice :)

Aa Yent-ne Craaass banniiii!

2007-09-12T02:25:00.000-07:00

I wandered into Veena stores this weekend and was surprised to see that they have become all streamlined and modern. Instead of screeching over peoples heads for idly, you now pay up over people's heads and get a coupon which you then give over people's heads to get the idly.

The idly however remains just the same. As does the hot-and-cold staff who, on a good day will reward you with radiant toothsome smiles, and completely ignore you the next time around. There are several strange things about the store though, which I shall compile into a compendium of coschans below:

Why is it a shop and not a hotel? What sort of shop sells idly anyway? How can pasty idly taste this gorgeous? How on EARTH do they get those vadas like that? Why do BTS buses have a special wail when they brake to a halt at the bottom of the slope in front of the store? Why does the same idli taste silly when parcelled and taken home? What on earth is Brahmi juice and who is going to drink it when they can have wonderful filter coffee?

To all these I have only one answer: Mwah.
Veena stores, 15th cross, Margosa Rd, Malleswaram.

Needless to say, the idly vada only whetted my appetite, so I waddled over to TRFACTR (The Restaurant Formerly Known as CTR), who are planning on changing their name officially to a heiroglyph of a benne masale stuffed with a goli bajji. Another slew of questions hit me instantly:

Why bother changing the name of a restaurant when nobody cares? How in the name of all things heavenly do they get their benne masale like that? Why don't they hand out xeroxes of the coffee maker's foot for daily worship? Has anyone benefitted from the poster of wise sayings installed on the wall in 1753? Has anyone cleaned this poster since 1753? Can I please sit in the family room? Hello table-sharer, which cross and main are you from?

And to all these questions is another simple answer: Silence.

Just eat your dosa, do not talk. Central Tiffin Rooms (aka Shree Sagar, 6th Cross, Margosa Rd)

Terribly satisfied and strangely unable to move, I decided to roll down the rest of Margosa Road, crash into the flyover-in-progress and worm my way over the debris to Bhagyalakshmi Butter Gulkand store.

Established in the latter half of the jurassic period, they have successfully evolved their menu to support 4 items: (a) Butter (b) Gulkand (c) Butter Gulkand (d) Special Butter Gulkand.
Apparently there are 7 people in Malleswaram who actually buy items (a) and (b). As for me and several other people who like the feeling of being gobsmacked with an industrial strength sugarbuzz, (d) is the perfect choice. To make it, take a plastic sheet, slather on a years supply of homemade butter, add three spoons of gulkand (rose petal preserves) , top up with tutti frooti and sweetened banana.

I ate four spoons of the good stuff, whirled around 5th cross screaming "Sugarbuzz.. sugarbuzz.." and miraculously found myself at 8th cross. Walked into Janatha Hotel, once famed for its sweet sambhar and monster-sized vadas. Still lovely, but considerably less crowded. I think it's because people can't spot it after the strange Palm-Like Dracaena tree in its mini courtyard got walled in.

The vada in my stomach assisted greatly in rolling me down to Asha Sweet centre (8th Cross, Sampige Rd). After loading up on basundi and badami haalu, yodelling Bantu reethi kolu 28 times, whirling around 8th cross and collapsing in a dead faint, I decided to document the remaining Malleswaram restaurants, food shops and wannabes of note below. Kindly do the needful and oblige.

(y) Rajanna's chaat, 8th cross, 5th main. Easily identified by a stertorous "Kotte shiva, kotte!" emanating from a buzz of humanity surrounding a chaat trolley.

(e) Villa Pottipatti, opp Rajanna. Beautifully restored Malleswaram Bungalow, now a Neemrana hotel. They have a french restaurant that you have to call ahead to reserve. Whatever!

(n)New Krishna Bhavan, 3rd Cross, Sampige Rd. Nice, but fairly average always-been-there joint. South Indian Naarth Indian Mini meals type place with an ok-ish speciality restaurant called Gopika.

(r) The Basil, 3rd cross, Sampige Rd. Hmm. Sorry you cant be called that in Malleswaram.

(i) Cafe Coffee day, 13th cross Sampige Rd and 18th Cross 8th main. Eh, you know the deal.

(s)Om shakthi Mess 2nd Cross, Sampige Rd. Palakkad aakum. Their rice servings come on a side plate covered with a layer of rice exactly one grain thick. Fantastic. Oda-oda resaththa vittu aathula panna chorum koottaanum kuduppaalaakkum. Enna, manassilaacho dee?

(w) Shenoy Stores: 8th Cross Margosa Rd. Chakli, nippat, thindi.. y'know... Not my favourite to be honest.

(a) Sri krishna Sweets: A recent entrant into Malleswaram from Tamil Nadu, they haven't bothered changing the spelling of their speciality sweet from its Tamilized version : "Mysurpa". A bit overrated, though their freebies are fun.

(m) Iyengar bakery, Vyalikaval main rd. Lovely benne biscuit, baked nippat and sponge cake. Good stuff. Try maadi nodi.

(i)Butter sponge: An offshoot of the Basavangudi version. Not really great, though their speciality sponge cake: Butter Sponge, is rather nice in an eggless, chavukku-chavukku sort of way.

(a) Amrit Nice Creams 11th Cross, 7th main. Uyyo what a lovely. Run by nice Melkote Iyengar mama and husky voiced mami. Home made vanilla, pyoor saffran and manoranjani ice creams served vith or vithout vooden spoons. Warning: Since the ice creams are made with milk without mixing in lard, they have a distinct paal vaasne (milky smell).

(r) Love Luck stores: 12th cross, Sampige Rd. Well if they can survive with a name like that in the 2000s they've got to be old as the hills. Chutney pudis, pickles, condiments and the like. Good stuff.

(a) HaLLi mane: 4th Cross, Sampige Rd. A faux village restaurant. This newish entrant has gained insane popularity among the locals, and blends right into the food scene in conservative Malleswaram. Skip the North Indian Thali and try out the local specialities: Ragi and akki rotti, ragi mudde, cocum saaru etc. Quite nice.

(ma) Sri Rama Coffee Works: 9th Cross, Sampige Rd. Good old fashioned coffee powder shop. They also sell something called Mammary tea, which I havent had the courage to ask them about. Mumsy has developed a unique communication system with the shop lady. She'll pull up silently by the kerb and pretend to ignore her. The shopkeeper will scoop our weekly quota of filter coffee powder straight from the grinder into a packet and hand it over to her silently with a 10 rupee note. Mother will make blank calls to random people to pretend she is busy and wordlessly hand over Rs 100 and drive off. Strangely though, you can't tear them apart when they meet each other in different circumstances, such as in the 12th cross market or at an oxygen bar.

Acknowledgements: Veena store and CTR pics from the lovely blog of Bellurramki.

Mad gals in Madras

2007-08-29T23:57:00.000-07:00

What do two sweet Malayalee sopranos, one blond Swedish counter-tenor and a jolly green Tambrahm bass do when they get together?

Open a nursing college cum online matrimonial agency with inexpensive designer furniture?

No.

Well then?

Elementary, my dear Bhaktavatsalam Seetharam Kumar Korraguntla. They take a deep collective breath and sing 15th century European music.

Hmm. That sounds like err.. fun. 15th century eh? Did Europe have oxygen bars yet? Chicken teeka masolla? Rock shows? Oh wait, they wore afros and shiny costumes, didn't they?

Yes. Life in the 15th century was one big oxygen bar. But since there were only 27 people around, rock show infrastructure was limited to medium sized dining tables around which they gathered, sporting trendy page-boy cuts and linen tunics.

To eat mutton biriyani and butter chicken boneless full?

Yes. And to sing songs and play on lutes.

Ah, dinner music, is it aano? Then sallright. What was it called? Bleat and eat?

Close. They were called Madrigals. Usually 4 voices, two high, one medium and one low, singing complicated music. Usually acapella

Who is Acapella? Is she cute? Single? Available?

All of the above. Acapella is also the word for music that is sung with no instrumental accompaniment. Which makes it harder to perform because there are no instruments to cover up wonky notes, and tougher to sustain the attention of a 2007 Adyar Audience.

Wait, you're performing in Chennai? Two sweet Mallu sopranos, one blonde Swede counter-tenor and one jolly green Tambrahm Bass?

No.

Then?

Two sweet Mallu sopranos, one blonde Swede counter-tenor and one slightly tense Tambrahm bass who has to set his tail on fire after the show and rush off to join his relatives at a jolly green wedding in Mahabalipuram yay.

Oh fun. So no instruments eh?

No instruments for the Madrigals, but lute and harpsichord accompaniments for the lighter songs about unrequited love, death and stuff.

Fool. They stopped making such things in the late Baroque period. Where you will get such instruments at such short notice in Madras. From your grandfather's anjanapotti or what?

In Madras, anything is possible. However, to be safe, we have cleverly transcribed the harpsichord and lute scores into music for piano and classical guitar, which are still in production, so there.

And it sounds the same?

No.

Oh. Because the instruments are different.

Correct. And because voices brought up on a diet of nadan kozhi curry and morkozhambu performing European music on a sultry Chennai evening 500 years after it was composed, are bound to sound different. Cooler, but different.

Can't 'ardly wait luv.

Then come over to The Unwind Center's Acoustic Music Fest at KRMM college hall (Behind Adyar Ladies Club), 3rd Cross, Gandhinagar, Chennai at 6:45pm on Sat, Sep 1, to hear us. Four voices, piano and classical guitar (played by a random jolly green tambrahm). We perform for half an hour or so, after which all manner of contemporary sorts will take over the stage. Don't be late ok?

No.

One rainy afternoon on St Marks road..

2007-08-24T03:31:00.000-07:00

(Translations in the comments page)

Clap Clap

Me: Wha..?
Aye Rajeskanna, Rajeskanna, lamba saal jiyega tu. Aao teri jindagi batati mai Rosy.
Me: (nervously) Ha ha maaf karo maaf karo.
Rosy: Arre kai ko maaf karna hai re, lamba saal jiyega, gaadi bangla rakhega re tu, chal, mummy ko kuch de de na.
Clap Clap
Me: Nahin mummy maaf kar do. (To friend) Polaama?

Rosy: Ayyo rasaa, Tamil pesuriyaa. Aye Sarasu, Monica, Daally, vaanga dee, raasa tamil pesudhu
Me: Uh oh.
(Chorus of claps)
Sarasu: Adadada yevalavu alaga irukku idhu. Nalla kelu dee, Rajes kannu kuduththudum
Daally: Kudu rasa kudu, nee nalla iruppai, azhagu raasaava iruppai.
Monica: Ippave ivvalavu superaa irukkiye kannu. Indha Monica sonna innum perivana valaruvai chellam.
Rosy: Rajessu, kudra kanna. Naan Rosy kekkuraen illa? Kudu raasa
Me: Aiyyo illai ma (err pa). I dont have any change.
Rosy: (Switching back to Hindi to compensate for my embarrassed English) Toh change kyun deta hai re. Sau rupya de de na Rajes.
Me (idiotically): I dont have 100s. Only 500s
Sarasu: Toh 500 de de na mere Sarukh Khan, Salman Khan
Monika: Kuduthudu rasa, nee periya aakitru aaguvai. Yellarum unnaiyeyyyy paaaaathukittirupaanga. Apparam nee indha Monika vai marakka veyyyy maate. (clap clap)
Me: Ainooraa? Ungalukku 500 kuduthein na naan yenna aaguvain?
Rosy: Aiyo yen kutti Siranjeevi, ainoorla nee suberstar aaguvai, Kavaskar aaguvai, Tata Pirla aaguvai, Yen kannu kutti chellon aaguvai.
Me: Err
Sarasu: Ada po rajesu, ainoorla nalla sandal kooda kadaikkaathu ippa ellaan. Naan pesaveyy maatein unnoda.
Daally: Chalo, tum 500 de do Rajes, main 450 ka chutta deti hoon
Me: Abba ozhinjudhu. Indha ma. Sillarai kudu.
Rosy: Vangikka dee Monica
Slurrpy kiss from Monica
Caress from Sarasu
Two heavy cheek pinches from Daally.
Chorus: Yen Kannnnnu, mavaraaasa, Raaajessu. Nalla iru kannu. Poittuvaren Rajesssu
Me: Err.

Sniff.. Nobody's been so nice to me ever!

Tag-a-raja Kriti

2007-08-17T02:32:00.000-07:00

I have been commanded by the infamous KA to write 25 random factoids about my existence. Muhuhaha what you hawe let yuvarself in for I say muhuhahaha.

I like zoning out. I've done it all my life and regularly go "wha...?" in the middle of important conversations. Bunches of friends have named me Zoney M, Blanko, Bladdy Phull etc on account of it. I am also known to make unrelated stupid remarks to save myself from being caught out but only get myself into more trouble.
I will order anything on the menu that I havent tried before. Even if it Kissan jam sauteed with yoghurt and egg noodles.
I love biking in the rain. Love it love it. Until the first drop of water seeps through into my chuddies. Then I hate it, hate it.
I went green last year and sold my mobike to buy a Reva. I have subsequently hit my brain several times with my father's ancestral hawai chappal. Insanely proud though, that good old Jog Falls can give good old Dubya a run for his money. But I want my old chugger back!! wail!
I love Mangalorean food. I also love Mallu food. And Coorg food. And Rasam and baby potatoes. And pretentious chi chi pooh pooh food. And thair sadham. And wadakina wendekai. And.. err ok I like food.
I've joined a gym 4 times in my life and have never gotten past the third month. Whenever I feel flabby I watch a fitness video and instantly feel better.
The world's best masala dosa exists in a pokey little hotel called Central Tiffin Rooms in Malleshwaram. In fact its location is so top secret that they have even changed the name of the hotel so that people dont kidnap the cook. Be nice to me and I might take you there - blindfolded of course.
I adore roller coasters! I'm considering living on one for a few years. I dont even have to use two tumblers to cool my degree coffee. Just pour it off the top of a slope and catch it on my way down. Fun fun.
I play guitar with the skill of a cotton fluffer. I can get away with murder if I threaten to play it amidst company.
I always have an out of body experience when I go to Purple Haze and realize we're headbanging to death metal in a pub on a plateau in South India!
I cannot remember birthdays. Even if I am reminded the day before. Always compensate by being extra nice to the person a month later. I dont think this has worked very well.
When the price of cucumbers goes down in Malleshwaram market, the vendors will cry out with mock incredulity : "Yeld rupp yeld rupp. Yenri idhu?" (Rs 2, Rs 2, What is this (insanity)?)
In 1987 the Bangalore city corporation decided to substitute the water in the Sadashivnagar Olympic swimming pool with dil. HCl. I owe my beautiful pink peeling skin tone to this.
My lifetime ambition is to sneak up to someone in Beijing and say "Are you Chwyneeeeeeeeeeese?"
I want to sign up the person who writes the captions for Page 3 pics in Bangalore Times for a therapeutic public stoning.
Enid Blytons are best enjoyed atop a mango tree.
My mother has steadfastly deprived me of potted meat sandwiches and scones all through my childhood.
Andhra's speciality mango pickle was so named when a famous Australian called Nan Dandee tasted it for the first time and said "Its Awkay mite".
A schoolboy looks ridiculous when he walks through a rice paddy in Trivandrum with his shoes held above his head and his shorts fall off.
Sparrows left Bangalore in 1999. I did not receive a message thanking me for the sunflower seeds and caterpillars. Where are you my little ones? Come back I say.
When your cousin says "They have cleaned up the Adyar" and offers to take you on a bike ride down the bridge, do not go. "They have not."
The best way to get out of a Hijra's clutches is to fold your hands, say maaf karo and dive at their feet.
And just to be contrary, I will stop at 23.

I shall now tag rustyneurons to kindly do the needful and oblige.

The hellos

2007-08-08T03:41:00.000-07:00

If you thought Javed Jaffrey invented this latest lingo that is all the rage today, you are the wrongs. It has been around for quite a while in the Benglurs. It is terribly uncool and gets on your nerves, but is also hopelessly addictive. The trick is to intersperse colonial governmentese with random prepositions, throw in a tass-puss accent and vernaculo-pluralize the whole thing. Simples.

"The hellos. How it is?"
"Sallrights. Vat is to be doings?"
"The tv watchings, readings, chumma sittings and generally jolly lo janardhanings"
"Vary the goods. I will to come in 10 minutes ok va?"
"Comes in won'nour times. I am going for oil bathings"
"Oh yes aa, wokay I will do the aforementioned."
"Yes kindly to be doing the same."
"OK byes the."

It is perfect for corporates the communications:

Dears the employees,

I am to notings with growing the concerns that ppls are coming into office wearings vaterveritis they are vantings. It is with great the regrets that I have to announce that is unaccept-the-bles. The chuddis wearings, the hawai chappal with yellow toenails showings and product-free hair is just appalling I tell you. Howitis you can wear the aforementioned items in proffessional the atmospheres pls to telling. I therefore request one and all to kindly take note of the same and pulling up socks till navels and tying tie around head if your overfed software engineer's neck is beings the too thick for it. You follow?

I remain sin-the-cerelys
Semi evull HRs the Managers.

Or pre-recorded multi-voice railway station announce-the-ments:

(squeaky voice) Gaadi nembers ... (Deep voice) The threes, the fours, the twos, the threes ... (Mallu squawk) Lyaaalbaaguhs the Essprruss .....(Squeak) fraam .....(Deep voice) The Channis.....(squeak) is expected to the arrives at platform numbers..... (Deep voice) the Twos .......(squeak) At ........(Mallu sqawk) Den dherty pms.

Or a break up letter:

Dears the Johns,

It has been many a day since I have been the thinking about writing this to the yous. Boss it is not the happenings. Please to kindly finding ettanother appropriate ladies for maritals the purposes.

Thanks and best the regards,
It is I.

Or perhaps a recipe for exotic continental dish

1. To takings the freshly picked aspara-the-gus from alpine mountain tops and blanching in haats spring vaatrs for 13 seconds.
2. Taking anchovy-fed guinea-bissau pheasants, turning inside outs and stuffings with a mixture of the fresh eidelweiss, juniper lichens, antarctic olives, a dash of dijagaboranjo vinegar, the potetos and the taametos.
3. Then to be marinatings in white wine reductions for 28 days while talking to it in cooings the voices for 3.2 hours per diem.
4. Finally boilings in the salt vaters for 2 hours, drying in suns, and depositing gently in dust-the-bins.

Due to to extreme efficacy in conveying the meanings, in my humble opinionings, this language is to be adopteds univers-the-lly for all communications in the futures.

Tellin' it like it is

2007-07-24T04:34:00.000-07:00

A consortium of authorities has recently concluded that all foreign songs are actually Indian in origin. To prove this fact irrefutably, they have presented the following compilation of contemporary foreign songs and their secret Indian origins for all the world to see. Long live India.

Daddy Yankee on the petrol wars (Gasolina):
le gusta la gasolina - Dame mas gasolina.
Is actually: The song of a multilingual potter lavishing family funds on wife Kunthala:
Kunthala, kaasu lena. Kalimann kaasu li, na?
(Kunthala, take this money. You already took money for the clay, didn't you?)

Enrique Iglesias asking you to sing and dance (Baila Mo):
Baila mo.... let the rhythm take you over, baila mo...!
Is actually: A chiding remark passed by Gajalakshmi Vaidyanathan to her husband for scolding their daughter Latha:
Vaiyyalaamo? Latha report cardai paathu vaiyyalamo?
(Can you scold her? Can you scold Latha after seeing her report card?)

Beatles on their French muse, Michelle:
Michelle ma belle, sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensamble, tres bien ensamble.
Is actually: An expression of pride and joy made by M Pachaiyappan on the financial prowess of his foreign returned son-in-law:
Meesai, maaple, sony camera vaangi vandhaan, vangi vandhaan
(My moustached son-in-law bought me a Sony digicam)

Salif Keita in his best tribal dance mix of the decade (Madan):
O laka lama le, O laka lama le,
O laka lama le dja, O laka lama le
Ori taal ma'jeye.. Ori taal ma'jeye...
Is actually: An expression of the frustrations of an irate Shivarudrappa to his artistic son Ramakrishna, with an aside to wife Jankamma on his dietary preferences for the day:
Aye Raama, baro lei! Eshtanth heLli ninge?
Ee drama geema butbuttu sariyaag odho lei
Gorikaalu maadey. Gorikaalu maadey
(Raama, how many times must I remind you to give up the theatrical arena and start studying for your internal board exams which are coming up in a few months time, conducted at the Begur municipal school under the supervision of strict officials? I would like clusterbeans for dinner.)

Cheb Mami singing his heart out in the intro to Sting's Desert Rose:
"Ya leil ya leil wah... yah leil ya leil waaaah.. ya leil wah hos sein didee, ya leil ya leil wah.."
Is actually: An anguished expression of sorrow by a grief struck Papamma bemoaning the disappearance of Samikannu, her spirited husband:
Aiyyyaaaaa aiyyyoo, pootaanda aiyyayoooo
Aiyya nethu kudchtu thaaan Bus-la yeri pootaney
Aiyya varaveyillaiye bus-la yeri pootaaney
(I languish in the absense of my alcoholic husband who left in a bus last night and never came back.)

A mesmerized Tarkan threatening to spring out from the bushes at his lady love and kiss-kiss her (Simarik)
Seni gidi findik kira..n,
Yilani deliginden cikara...n
Kaderim puskullu bela..m,
Yakalarsam... *muah muah!*
Is actually: A passing remark from Mr Munraju of Kyatsandra distt., about a series of unfortunate circumstances that befell his friend Mr Srinivas:
Seenvasa beedhiyal bidda..a..a..a.,
Biddid takshana yedda..a..a..a
Yedmel matte bidda..a...a..a,
Paapa yenaaytho. *Tsk tsk.*
(Mr Srinivas fell and got up repeatedly from the road. Wonder what the trouble is.)

Los del rio on the joys of the Macarena:
A la tuhuelpa legria macarena, Que tuhuelce paralla legria cosabuena A la tuhuelpa legria macarena Eeeh, macarena (A-Hai!!)
Is actually: Fashion advice from Hijra Gulbadan to colleague Reena.
Kal bhi main tumse yahi kah rahi thi Reena
Arre meri baat ko tum thoda seriously toh lena
Apni kameez ko tumhe khud hi hai seena
Hema kare na. (hai hai!)
(Take my advice Reena and stitch your own clothes. Hema tailor is unwilling to undertake small jobs any more)

Now that you know all this, go away and let me be me.

Sumer is icumen in and I have gone cucu.

2007-07-16T02:17:00.000-07:00

i So I finally moved into my lovely flat among the treetops all excited to wake up to the call of the cuckoo through the crisp morning air. Um, didn't quite pan out the way I imagined it would.

4am:
Cooo.
Ah, the Indian koel, otherwise known as the asiatic cuckoo. How lovely.
Coo-ooo!
Oh look it's really happy. I am happy too.
Coooo-oooo!!!
Im so glad I am in this bed listening to this wonderful koel. Hi koel.
COOO-OO!!!!
Yes, very nice.
COOOOOO-OOOOOOO!!!
Err, yes I get it. Another note perhaps?
COOOOOOOOOOOO-OOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Correct.

Silence
What a lovely bird. What pleasant cooing in the morning.

4:03 am
Coo
Ah poor thing, must have been alarmed last time.
Coo-oo
OK that must have been the practice note. This is quite a nice pitch indeed
COOO-OO
Yes da raja.
COOOOO-OOOO!!!
Nee paadu da kanna
COOOO-OOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Sigh. Koel ki kook nyaari, papiha ki bol pyari. Very good. Now go away and let me sleep. OK? OK.
COOO-SHRIEEEEEEEEEEKKKKK!!
Hey!

Silence
Sleeep. Bird gone. Must sleep. Slleeeeeeep. Mmmmm.

4:05am
Coo.
Shoo birdie, enough. Papa must sleep. Go, shoo.
Coo-oo.
Dai!
COO-OO
Oh shut the hell up freakshow, or I'll wring your neck now!
COOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Whimper
COOO-OOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Wail. I cant take this any more
COOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOO!!!!
Crash thud (chair flying out of window at source of sound)
COOOOOOOOOOOOOSHRIEEEEEEEEEEEKK!!!
Sob Sob!! Mommieeee!!

Several hours and many, MANY Coo's later:
Coo
Haha. Hello hello, what is name? I want lolipop.
COOO
Yes yes, yesterday only took headbath. Hi Snehalatha. I have 3 cans of buttermilk.
COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Yaaaahahahahahaha.
COOOOOOOOOSHRIEEEEEEEEK
Hahahahaha. Subbanna, please bring my friend Prince Ivan a rosy cheeked apple and some chocolate fondue.

Yes thank you I have officially and truly gone cuckoo.

I love you, my big jamoon tree, but just let me get my hands on your little blue neck, you, you... 'orrible, 'orrible bird!

PS: For those that are curious about the title of this post, look here

Maine aaj tak tumse kuch nahin MAANGA.

2007-07-02T01:18:00.000-07:00

Its almost the end of the Mango season and this has definitely been a bumper year. The trees in the garden are groaning with the weight of the enormous fruit they have produced this year. Squirrels and monkeys wear perpetually satiated looks on their faces. My mother, after patiently distributing fruit to all the neighbours for a month, now hurls them at the vacuum cleaner salesman. My brother spent a week talking lovingly to the first batch of ripening Raspuris in his bedroom. When 200 new ones joined them a week later, the love was quickly replaced by panic. He now threatens them daily with early decapitation if they all ripen on him at the same time.

They always say mangoes taste best when the summer has been infernally hot, and sure enough, this year has produced the best mangoes in a long long time. If the west savours wine and cheese, India definitely savours its mangoes. Sensitive, seasoned palates can make out the subtlest of nuances in mango flavours. Old timers can give long detailed discourses on the delicate differences between the same variety of mango grown in different regions in India. I'm getting to be somewhat of an oldtimer myself over the years, so here is a treatise on some of my favourite mango varieties from around Bangalore:

Totapuri: Big and parrot-beak shaped, this mango is best enjoyed unripe with salt and chilli powder. Always reminiscent of summer holidays and fun times in the sun.

Sendura: The first mango to appear in the mango season. Bright red, fibrous and turpentiney, this mango deserves mention only because of the joy it brings to people's hearts at the thought of the oncoming mango season.

Raspuri: My personal favourite. Also an early bird in the season, these round, slightly hook-nosed mangoes are the most popular variety in Karnataka. The fruit is pulpy, sometimes tart and slightly fibrous, though their most endearing feature is their divine floral aroma.

Badami: very closely related to the alfonso, this is a mid-season mango. The perfectly shaped fruit is perhaps the most sought after mango in the south. Dark orange and smooth as silk indside , these supersweet mangoes are the most expensive in Bangalore's markets. Tipu Sultan's famous mango graft- the Srirangapatna Badami - is definitely the best among the badami varieties

Mulgoa: These sweet yellow-fleshed mangoes appear very soon after the badamis. Their amazing sweetness more than amply comensates for their slightly gamey odour and itchy sap.

Ratnagiri: A gracious long mango. Reveals a shockingly red inside when cut. Native to maharashtra, these are quite a delight especially if you want to dress up your dinenr table with some alarming colour.

Mallika: A recent introduction to the Indian market, this is the only hybrid that I will admit into my favourites list. I am definitely partial to floral fragrances in mangoes, and a good strain of Mallika can rival the best raspuri with its slightly orange-pineapple-champa scent.

Banganapalli: Native to andhra, this is a favourite of many, often called the most harmless mango. Banganapallis can be heavenly sweet at their best, and a bit flat at their worst. The skin of the banganapalli is sweet and thin and can be eaten with the mango as long as you remember to wash the itchy sap off thoroughtly.

Sakkarepatna: These tiny little bundles of joy appear on market shelves towards the close of the season. This is a mango that you cannot slice, because it is no bigger than a lemon. The trick is to press it all over and squeeze the juice straight into your mouth (and clothes and feet) :)

Rasalu: Another Andhra variety, this is the big brother of the sakkarepatna. The enormous coconut like mangoes need to be held under a tap while being pressed all over, so that the skin gets a little wet and the sap washes off. You then bite a hole at the bottom slightly towards the right of the seed, and out gushes a whole litre of delicious mango juice. Best enjoyed when sitting in a tub!

Rumani: A sour, turpentiney mango, desired only because of its perfectly spherical shape. More common in Tamil Nadu, this mango is more pretty than tasty.

Neelam: Neelams end the mango season with a flourish. These ochre yellow mangoes pile onto shelves in the market in June. The best neelams are sweet, pleasant- and invarably have a bug in the centre. My honest advice to true mango lovers is to turn a blind eye to the bugs and eat the rest of the fruit, as mango bugs choose only the best neelam flowers to lay their eggs in.

A cinematic Rosetta Stone

2007-06-28T03:15:00.000-07:00

Several gems of Nohthern Injun musical history will be lost to history forever if drastic steps are not taken. Being the altruistic soul that I am, I have decided translate the following shining jewel of contemporary musical poetry into various southern tongues, in the hope that it shall remain alive forever, albeit in different languages:

Nohthern Injun
Subah subah main khidki kholoon
Baju waali ladki hai!
Dil mera bole hello how are you (Oh how are you)
Dil mera bole hello how are you

Kunigal Kannada
Kitki inda Nanjammange
Oota aaythaanth keliddike
"Aythappa, nindh aaytha?" andidlu. (Oh andidlu)
"Aythappa, nindh aaytha?" andidlu.

Bengloor Kannada
MG road nal hogovaga
Yaavno goobe adda bandha
Sudden aag break haak chakk anth shtop maaddhe. (Oh stop maaddhe)
Sudden aag break haak chakk anth shtop maaddhe.

Malleshwaram Tamil
Vidi karthale kitki tharndhe
Pakthaath haidiye paathoot chonne
Namskaaron, nee apdi ikkande, (Oh ikkande)
Namskaaron, nee apdi ikkandhe

Austin Town Tamil
Morningle windows tharndit keeren
Naibors veetle ledis paathu
Hello yepdi keere nu ask panne(Oh ask panne)
Hello yepdi keere nu ask panne

Mylapore Tamil
Janna-kadhavai tharanthu paathaa
Ambuja maami paathu siricha
Yenna-oi, sowkyama nu kaetootaa (Oh kaetootaa)
Yenna-oi, sowkyama nu kaetootaa

Mangalore Kannada
Enthadhu kodali? Anna saaru
Halasina happala, gashi saha vuntu
Ella bittu Gadibidi hodiyuva? (Hau..du....)
Pabbas ige hogi Gadibidi thinnuva

Kottayam Malayalam
Vindows oapen cheythappoley
Jincy Kutty parayunnathu kaettu:
Randu thenga irakku, Ouseppey (Oh ouseppey)
Randu thenga irakku, Ouseppey.

Nellore Telugu
Yera babu, kitki ninchi
Ammailu emi kanapada ledhe
Nann odhulesi yaeda poyero (Oh poyero)
Nann odhulesi yaeda poyero.

The Bengalooru Slonguaze Dictionary

2007-06-19T02:04:00.000-07:00

If you are dying to be hip with the latesht Bangalore street slang but do not know how, look no further I say! For here is a yo man service rendered unto the kanglish slanguage, compiled by Vidushi PriKutty and Vidwans Kasyaapagowdru and Bykaradoddanna (ie, my kindself), otherwise known as:

The Bengalooru Slonguaze Dictionary

A compilation of the latest slang words in the Kanglish language for daily use.

Aa? : Universal question tag. (is it? are they? was she? shall we? etc.) Often mistaken by non - south indians as mispronunciation. When an auto driver asks you "Leftaa?" he means "Left, is it?" Variation: "na?" used when the last sound in the question is a vowel. "Koramangala na?"

Adjushtu: adjust. Most important word that originates from the accomodative nature of all Bangaloreans. "Solpa adjusht maadi shiva." "Sir one more banana buying means it will adjusht within 10 rupees." "Sir traffic signal jump fine kodi." "Urgent ithu saar, solpa adjusht maadi"

Adu bere : That also. (That was all I needed). "Adu bere kedu"

AJM: Short for Akkan Jusht Missu (Lit: Elder Sister just missed) 1. Minor disappointment 2. Narrow escape. "Aye ticket siktheno?" "Illa lo, AJM agoythu." Do not use in polite company!

Bekitha : Was this required? A sort of "I told you so". "Boss, idu bekitha antha."

Bombat : Fantastic, excellent. "Aye hows your car doing?" "Oh bombattagide kanla."

Boss : Term of address. Used to call friends, auto drivers, waiters, conductors etc. Should not be used much aside from among friends. "Boss, one gobi manchuri dry."

Budding: Short for Brigade road Up and Down. bangalore's most popular pastime. (Also Mudding - MG road Up and Down)

Byawarsi : Lit: heirless. Useless, vagabond, ne'er do well. "Aye thoo byawarsi, sumne iro"

Chindi : Lit : Torn piece of cloth. Fantastic, fabulous

Chitranna : Lit: flavoured rice. (1) Fantastic job (2)Broken to bits (3) Badly botched job. "Sariyag madthini anth helbittu full chitranna maad haakidaane nodri."

Da : Term of address for friends, inferiors or younger people (borrowed from tamil). Rude when used in a non affectionate sense or with strangers. Fem: di. "What da, where y'all went yesterday?"

Deal : Nefarious activity. "Yeno deal maadthaane maga"

Escape : General departure. "Naan oota maadbit escape aagtheno, don't mind aitha?"

Free kotre phenoylu kudithaane : Lit: If its free, he'll even drink phenoyl. Curmudgeon, compulsively economical person.

Goobe : Lit: Owl. Stupid person. "Lei goobe, yaar ninge license kottiddu?"

Goodhlu : Scam. "India nalli education fullu goodhlu boss."

Gumpal Govinda : Lit: Govind in the group. To blend into the crowd. "I have gone gumpal govinda to see movie"

Guru : Lit: teacher. Also used jokingly to call a friend. "Yen guru, aaraam aa?"

Gubbal : Dumbass "Loose nan maga gubbal thara aadbeda lei."

Hawa : Lit: Air. To scare someone. "Full hawa itbitte aa loafer ge innond sali illige barodilla"

Hengythe myge? : Lit: How does your body feel now? i.e, Im going to beat you black and blue. "Yendande? Dhuddilvaa? Yengythe myge?"

Hinde inda Urvashi, munde inda Bevarsi : Looks like the celestial nymph Urvashi from the back but a vagabond from the front.

Jai : With enthusiasm. "Naan jai antha hog koothkonde alli". "I went off to college jai antha"

Kachko : Get stuck. "Sorry maga naan traffic nal kachkondiddene"

Kanjipinji : Meretricious object/activity. "Why you're making so much fuss for one kanjipinji job boss"

Kui : To lie, to bore. "Kui beda maga."

Loafer : Vagabond, flibbertygibbet. "Thoo loafer, get out I say."

Macha(tam) : Lit: Brother in law. Used commonly among friends, though not in polite society. "What da machaaa, not coming uh?"

Maga : Lit: son. Dude. "yeno magaa, yellidde isht divsaa?"

Mane haaLu : Lit: Ruiner of a household. Use to describe expensive things, and people who don’t act in your good interests. "Mane haaL maadbeda", "Aiyo mane haaLa, ningen bantho roga"

Maneyalli hel bandya? : Used for reckless drivers Lit: Did you tell the people at home? (ie, have you informed your family that they have to make arrangements for your funeral?)

Meetru : Lit: (autorickshaw) Meter. Gumption/cheek. "Yeno, eshto ning meetru?"

Mishtik : Lit: Mistake. Used for errors, leave, illnesses, sudden departures, misunderstandings, deletions, etc. "Yeno nenne officege mishtik aa?" "Haudo, nenne mai mishtik aagithu. Yake, manager yenadru andra?" "Yenantharappa avaru. Full mishtik aagbittu solpa hothu kirchaadidru. Aamele full scope itkond ondu dodda mail kalsidru. Adhara bagge yaak sumne thale mishtik maadskobeku antha odhdhe mishtik maadbitte." "Thoo manager emails na yaako mishtik maadthya? Adhe neen maado dodda mishtikku. Eega avaru nin mele mishtik aagthaare. Matte neen mishtik maadkolthya. Full situationey mishtik aagoguththe."

Naayi Paadu : Lit: Dog's work. "Nanage yaake ee naayi paadu?"

Nan maga : Lit: My son (ie son of). Usually used in conjunction with some other word. "Thoo, waste nan maga he is". Not a polite phrase at all. Has complicated undertones. Use only among close friends.

Nimmajji : Lit: Your grandmother. Another phrase that has hidden meanings. Do not use in polite society.

Off : Transliteration from the kannada "bidu" : "I came off quickly" (Naan bega band bitte). "I sat off there only." (Naan alle koothkond bitte)

Oh what a. : General exclamation. "You won lottery aa? Oh what a!"

Ooshtu : Prob from the english Oust. Exhausted. "4 ghante basket baal aadbit full ooshtaagbitte."

Osi jeevana Janma pavana : Pile on (Lit: Free life, happy existence).

Pigaru : Figure. (girl) "Machaa, aa piagar nodo!"

Pitilu : Lit: Fiddle (violin). Braggart. "Avan bidu. Bejaan pitil aadthirthaane."

Saavu : Lit: Death. Terrible or Awesome as per context. "Boss that movie was saavu only".

Raiyya: From the English "Right" (used by bus conductors after passengers have got off or on at a bus stop). To leave/depart. "Boss picture mugdid takshna naan mane tava raiyya."

Scopu : Yap/boast "Lei, sum sumne scope thagobeda"

Simp-simply : Translated from the kannada sum-sumne. For no reason at all. "Aye don’t simp-simply come and dishtrub me I say."

Sisyaa : Lit: Student. Patronizing term of address to a friend. "Sisya, ba illi, koothko."

Siwaa: Lit: Shiva. Another term for dude. "Alla siwaa, naan en helthene andre...."

Suryanige torchaa? : Lit: Are you shining a torch to the sun? "Boss are you teaching him kannada badwords? Suryange torchaa?"

Ucheyal meen hidithaane : Lit: Catching fish in urine. Cheapskate who looks for opportunities in the most shady conditions.

Uh? : The anglicized version of "aa?" above. Usually blends into last syllable of the previous word unless it is a vowel. "What daa, didn’t go to college juh?" "Not well, luh?" "Wont come tomorrow also vuh?" "Watching movie yuh?"

Yaar nin chair na alladsidru? : Lit: Who shook your chair? Why are you so perturbed?

Bass Kar Bhagyavaan!

2007-06-08T00:51:00.000-07:00

A colleague, worried about her deep voice, asked her friend "Mere voice mein baas zyaada hai na?" The friend, taken completely by surprise said no, but told her to use breathmints if she felt that bad about it (baas in Hindi means smell). The colleague is now scarred for life and refuses to talk to anybody without gargling 27 times and practicing "Jhumka gira re" in her bathroom all night.

To avoid such misunderstandings in the future, I will now explain what all this Bass Tenor rubbish is all about. Why am I doing this to you? Because (a) I'm jobless, (b) I'm fed up of explaining why you need a huge choir to sing "such a simple song" and (c) I just like confusing people.

Indian melodies are complex and note-intensive. Though Western melodies appear to be simpler, they actually have the same degree of musical complexity because they combine many notes together and play them all at once. The resultant sound is called Harmony. You can't achieve harmony using a single human voice obviously, and that's why a song sung by a western choir needs to be broken up into sections, with each section singing a different note at any point of time. A conductor (or conductini amma as the case may be) waves a stick about furiously and coordinates everything.

There are typically 4 sections (or parts) to a choir:

Sopranos: Squeak squeak (Leddis)
Altos : Coo coo (Leddis)
Tenors : Howl howl (Jants)
Basses : Growl growl (Jants)

Sopranos are flighty, well dressed, giggly and female. They sing in the voice range of Lata Mangeshkar and Minnie Mouse, and are invariably the slowest to learn their parts. They are also in perpetual danger of their heads exploding when they hit impossibly high notes. Most Sopranos are fresh out of school and happily pile onto the few senior sopranos in the section to carry them through the piece. A pretty section to look at but not hear, especially if you are a champagne glass.

Altos are pleasant, salt of the earth women who sing sensible notes in the lower female range. They weave the wonderful web of harmony that the Sopranos usually shriek their melodies out of. Alto parts are often cruelly complex and involve sharp and flat notes that only geniuses can execute. Most female Indian classical musicans are altos. They make very pleasant friends, especially to the Basses, who are also terribly cool people.

Tenors are the male equivalent of the supersonic sopranos. The sort that could easily out-howl a wolf on a full moon night. Twitchy eyebrowed, pouty lipped and unpunctual, they are the SP Balasubramanyams and Pavrottis of a choir. Unfortunately they are also in maximum demand, as few men will sing those torturously high notes and enjoy them. Since you can't ignore a loud howly shriek easily, tenors usually manage to get all the juicy melodic sections in the piece. Altos can never understand why tenors go red in the face and bust a gut singing notes that they can hit without batting an eyelid. Some Tenors will try unsuccessfully to sing along with the basses during their more macho moments, but they are usually shushed into silence by the conductor.

Basses (pronounced Bases btw) are the coolest people in a choir. They provide a nice growly background for all the singing. They make ghastly grimaces when they hit very low notes, and blend into a pleasant rumble for the tenors to chirp their twitchy-eyed parts off. Bass parts are simple, deep as a well, and have long, never-ending notes. Basses react to the few and far between melodic sections in their parts with an enthusiasm akin to that of schoolboys at a games period. Most composers don't utilize them to their full growly potential, except for ol' Bach and some East European composers, who really give them a run for their money. A choir without a Bass section is like Sambar without curry leaves. Besides their musical essentiality, Basses are also invariably the most eligible men in a choir.

And now for the wiggly-scrawlies - the neither here nor there varieties, that are occasionally used in a choir to compliment the 4 main parts:

Mezzo Soprano: Slightly lower than a normal soprano. Most really good women soloists fall in this voice range.

Contralto: Lower than an alto. A deep woman's voice, usually in the D.K Pattammal voice range. My favourite.

Castrato: Sung by not quite a man. In India this type of singing is done with heavy clapping and lurid dancing. The methods of creating a castrato in the west have been banned for over a century, and so castrato parts in a musical piece are now sung by counter tenors.

Counter Tenor: Usually a tenor that sings falsetto (in a little girl's voice). Quite strange to an Indian musical ear, but extensively used in Renaissance pieces. Every tenor aspires to be a counter tenor, though deep down, he really wants to be a hot looking deep voiced Bass.

Baritone: An effortless Frank Sinatra/Jesudas male singing voice, lower than a tenor, but higher than a bass. Not as popular for solo parts in western classical music as a tenor, but is often used to relax a note-intensive piece with a soothing passage.

Second Bass: As their name implies, second basses aside from their prowess in other departments, have the deepest voices in the human range. Tibetan monks probably make the best second basses, next to M.D. Ramanathan, the dude from Boney M and the sky train in the Singapore airport.

Those that guess the part that I sing in a choir correctly, will be rewarded generously with a growl of appreciation.

The diary of a mad brown concert-goer

2007-06-04T02:26:00.000-07:00

Saturday Jun 2, 10am:

zzzz
11am:

beep beep.

"Wha...? Glug.

"Cmg 4 asmth cncrt? "

Bloody nonsense I refuse to read smses without vowels.

zzzz
12pm:

Aiyaaaaaa. Aiyo, aiyo. Ticket, ticket. What to do, how to do. Aaaa.
1pm:

It's useless men. Mad I am not to have bought. Anyway I'm sure they'll sound terrible in their old age. Humph.
3pm:

Waiiiiiil I want to go!! Everyone is going!!
5:20pm:

Rinnnnng.

"Hello?"

"Aan hello. KeLilli. Extra ticket ide, barthya?"

"OMG Yes!!"

"OK We'll meet you there at 6".

"Gasp ok" (click)
5:40pm :

Snarl, Grrr, kaf kaf (gridlocked traffic outside vasanth nagar entrance)
5:43pm:

Suiiiiinnnn (Reva parking between flower pot and gutter of irate house owner on Palace Road.)

"Saaaaar, pleaaase saaar."

"Seee.. police comes means I am not response."

"Sir they will not say anything sir."

"Very difficult I say. When you will come back?"

"Sir very soon sir." (Muhahaha.)

5:45pm:

(Stares incredulously at 1.5km queue to get in)

"Err, excuse please, is this the line to get in?"

"Yes."

"Err even for the expensive section?"

"Dooooood, yeah da."

"Err ok"
6:00pm:

"Yaar thiz line is nod like, matlab, move hi nahin kar raha".

"Yeah wonder why. Must be some reason." (Long live Bangalore complacency :) )
6:05pm:

Rinnnnng.

"Hi."

"Aye where are you? Im in the queue already."

"Oh. We're in jaynagar da."

"SHRIEK!! When are you coming?"

"We'll come no, why you worried? Ha ha you are in queue and you don't have ticket only. Haha."

"Yaii! Come soon I say you nonsense people."

"Aan ok coming." (click)
6:15pm:

beep beep

(Msg from Vikster - already inside) "Wr r u??? Its awesm in hr. Golden fountains r spraying champagne and beautiful ppl from 6 continents r fding me grapes as i snd u ths."

WAIIIIIIIIILLLLL.

6:20 pm:

Queue motionless. Watch punju bunch in front get progressively drunker, and paavam type Naga crowd behind me chatter nervously pointing at the gleaming palace walls 1 km away.
6:30pm:

Rinnnng

"Aan heLu."

"Where are you boss?"

"Jaynagar, I told you no?"

"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!!!! Wheeeeeeeze."

"Coming coming twennnnnty minutes thats all."

"YAAARGH." (click)
6:50pm:

Rinnng

"What?"

"AAAAAAAAAA".

"Chill, We're in Vasanth Nagar da, another 10 mins thats all. But listen, my brother has the tickets and he hasnt come yet."

"YOWWWWWWWL". (click)
7:15pm:

(Line has progressed somewhat. Friends saunter in and blend themselves into queue. Too tired to pelt them senseless with all manner of stones.)

"Have you called your brother? Where is brother? Why he is late? Where are they? Give me minute by minute update on their itinerary"

"Chill daaaaaa. They'll come no."

"What come no. Concert started 15 mins ago. Whats this."

"Lei!! Theppak ninthko silentaagi."

"Bu..bu..but..."

"Shu."

"Sob!!"
7:55pm:

(Queue has progressed to the gate. We start letting people get in ahead of us)

"Err you guys can go ahead. We're waiting for our friends." (Simper simper)

"Thanks man".

"GRAARGH where ARE they boss??? EEYAARGH."

"Coming coming. Mwah. Relax relax. You go ahead ma Naga girl. You also go pa Coimbatore boys"
8:05pm:

"Boss lets go home. This is madness. Yeah dreadlocks, go on ahead. Stamp on my head only and go. " (Sob inconsolably)
8:07pm:

(friend's brother and gang saunter up and join queue)

"Oh hi. Cool, so youre at the front uh? Cool man. Here, take ticket."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE" (grab ticket and disappear screaming through gates)
8:10pm:

(Arrive at second gates after 1 km jog) "Gasp gasp wheeeze."

(To frisker) "Boss I dont have dope, ciggies, alco, nothing. Please! Just grab my ass quick and let me through or I will do all manner of unmentionable things to you here only."
8:15pm:

(burst into concert) "Aiyo, aiyo, everything must be over."

8:15pm: "GOOOOOOOOD EVENING BANGALORE!!!!"

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYY!!!

Moral 1: Aerosmith waits for good people.
Moral 2: The rest of you who waited from 1:30pm to see an elderly gentleman hawk spit burp and call you names from a stage in exchange for money - are silly fellows.
Moral 3: Never miss an aerosmith convert. EVER. Even if your mother tells you to.

Moral 4: Thank you dear friends for extra ticket, and thank ME dear friends for putting towel for you in queue! Nonnnnsense.

Yay Ro Smith

2007-05-31T22:32:00.001-07:00

Things to do before Aerosmith concert in Bangalore:

1. Curse DNA networks for obscene ticket prices.
2. Curse Aerosmith for coming to India at age 107.
3. Curse fate for being the only freak who didnt get free tickets.

4. Call all the cool people you know for free tickets.
5. Call semi-cool people for free tickets.
6. Call mortal enemies for free tickets.
7. Call gardener's wife for free tickets.
8. Call the single person you know who works for DNA 150 times, take out to drinks, press foot and watch them walk away saying "I left DNA last year, but listen, we must hang out again." with smirk on face.
9. Enter every single "Win a free ticket" concert on Radio Indigo.
10. Give up translating "Jaded" into malayalam in order to win "sing Aerosmith in any language" competition.

11. Buy Aerosmith double CD with every song composed by them and their extended families.
12. Practice making gaspy catfish faces in the mirror while singing "Crazy".
13. Spend a frantic night mugging up lyrics to look cool at concert.
14. Plan clothes that look better wet than dry (its raining, men, in Bangalore).
15. Rush to Palace Grounds in sheer desperation an hour before concert to buy tickets which in all probability will be sold out.

Glaaaaa.

ANYBODY has tickets? I will do foot massaging for 1 month.

You fallow

2007-05-28T02:24:00.000-07:00

I have gone and asked this very important theological koschan to various Bangytown residents at various locations:

What if god was one of us. Just a slob like one of us.

Jason M, student St Jo's Commerce: Matsssa, what da? Don't 'ave any better work kuh? Some f*&^all question you'll ask off on a Monday. Coming to Aerosmith thuh?

V Putnanjappa, Lecturer, Vijaya Dental: Alla kanri, seeee, yif gaad vas vun aaf us, vyyy he is naat visibal? If he is visibal, then vy ve have to build tempal gimpal and aal? So... gaad is naat vun aaf us. Is it naat.

Snehalatha P, Student NMKRV: Aye nooo yaaaan, god is one of us only yaaaaan. Evvvry day when we pray for poor people's health he listens yaaaaaaan. Aye tell him nooo.

Shirley da Cunha, MCC: glowers, rolls eyes, turns on heel, looks over shoulder.

Manjunath S Gowda, BIT: Lei, baa illi. Yenande? God aa? Yaake, kannada barallva? Slap Hogu silentaagi. Firshtu, full aagi Kannadadal maatadak kalthko. Gothaytha? Bandbudthaane shtylaagi English maataadkondu.

R A Varadachar, Scientist : Seeeeeeeee it is immaterial what we think, because in the bigger picture nothththting is relevant. You fallow?

K P Vedavalli, ageing aunt : As long as we pray evvry day, do good deeds and have kind thoughts, it dozzzznt matter who or where God is da kanna. (bats eyelids and smiles beatifically)

Gigglemol Kuriyakose, nurse: Nyo nyo. Goad snote van oaf us. Jusste he is uh kamming from heavenly boadice.

Pullala Venkata Sai, software engineer: Jushtu, I want one clarificationnu. When it is naat paajbull to prove thissu, why we are trying? Arriving at conclujon is naat praababul. Therefore attempting to saalve this praablem is naat feajbul.

Bikram Soni, real estate agent: O yaar, daffynutely yaar. God ij vun of us. Yasterday only I saw him eating butter chicken bonelass near Forum yaar.

Assad Eddappa, page 3: I reeeely don't think he's one of us. How would he let Bangalore close down at 11:30 if he was, dahling. And seriously, if he were one of us, the least I'd expect him to do is dressss well. You know- wear clothes that fffit him. Bangalore neeeeeds a role model. You know?

MN Seshadri Iyer, branch manager, SBI (retd), Malleshwaram: You maadarn generation people koschan yevverything I say. Simply aping this weshtern idea of rationalizing yevverything is naat necessary, isn't it. Some things are naat meant to be understood, and Gaad is vunnaaf them. Better you accept it.

But.. Is he a stranger on the bus?

No.

OK.

Aye Wot yaaaaan

2007-05-15T00:10:00.000-07:00

"What it is?" I asked my friends, pointing at a brown dish that looked like dal makhni.
"Wot." said my friend.
"Yeah thats what Im asking you", I said.
"Yeah. Wot."
"You don't know, do you?"
"Of course I do. It's Wot."
"You foolish fool of a foolish fool, I will make chakli out of your brain and feed to wild animals."
"Arre Its Wot. I cannot help if you can't figure out what's Wot and what's not."

This intellectually superior conversation took place at the Addis Ababa restaurant in Houston, where my friends had taken me for some authentic Ethiopian. When they told me we were doing Ethiopi Khana, I pictured a large communal dinner with piles of fragrant rice and large legs of mutton, followed by thick black coffee, all to the accompaniment of lively African music and drums. I was not disappointed. Everything was as I expected- except that the food that we ordered was entirely?
Hi. Vegetarian!

Happiness. First came a large plate containing something that looked and tasted like a soft neer dosa made out of Ragi. I learnt that it's called Injera, the main staple of Ethiopian food. In quick succession followed a series of pulses - boiled and half mashed like daal but each with a certain something different to them that I couldnt place. A couple of spinach dishes, a large salad of tomatoes and a bowl of curried potatoes followed the lentils and made for a wonderful meal, all tied together with the Injera. It was like a perfect mix of South and North Indian except for the distinct absense of oil and spice. Beauteous I say.

"Excuse please", I said to the pretty waiterni. "Why y'all are hawing so many vez item on your minu?" I asked in my best Desi Texan drawl, expecting her to tell me about a nouveau vegan movement in Ethiopia that resulted in these world fusion dishes. The waiterni gasped, whacked me with an injera, emptied a bowl of wot on my head, screamed "Dubaara mat poochna" and flounced off into the kitchen. Apparently Ethiopia has had mainstream vegetarian food for almost as long as India has. Ethiopia's Orthodox Christian faith - the oldest surviving in the world - requires rigorous abstinence from meat during Lent and so their cuisine adapted itself to the habits of the people. Arre how lovely, I thought to myself while I wiped the wot off my face with the injera.

I certainly don't mind sampling the odd meat dish, but am unfortunately a guilt ridden veggie at heart. So I was delighted to know that there's actually another countryful of cud-chewers in the world apart from good old Desland. Even the music sounded vaguely like a South Indian Raga. Or perhaps it was the relief of having eaten something so refreshingly un-Texan (ie, not attached to a cow) that was playing tricks with my head.

Here are some Wots (gravies) and Atkilts (veggie dishes) that I definitely recommend when you order veggie at an Ethiopian restaurant, though most restaurants offer platters with a sampling of everything.

Aterkik Alitcha - split peas prepared with light sauce
Atkilt Wot - cabbage, carrots, potatoes simmered in sauce
Atkilt Salata - boiled potatoes, jalapeno mixed in salad dressing
Buticha - chickpea dip mixed with lemon juice
Inguday Tibs - mushroom sauteed with onions
Fasolia - string beans and carrots sauteed in caramelized onion
Gomen - collard green cooked with spices
Misir Wot - pureed split red lentil simmered berbere sauce
Misir Alitcha - pureed split red lentil simmered in mild sauce
Shimbra Asa - chickpeas flour dumplings cooked in wot (brown sauce)
Shiro Alitcha - mild split peas are milled together slow cooked
Shiro Wot - split peas are milled together and slow cooked
Salata - Ethiopian salad, dressing: lemon, jalapeno & spices
Timatim Selata - tomato salad, onions, jalapeno & lemon juice

The hops

2007-05-02T00:37:00.000-07:00

Part of my mixed up childhood involved growing up in the capital of Gods Own Country. I'm not sure what exactly was in those vitamin tablets that my parents kept feeding us during our childhood, but most of what I remember of growing up in Trivandrum now seems like some sort of surreal dream.

We lived opposite a wooden Devi (mother goddess) temple set in a grassy plot of land under a brooding peepul tree. The temple was called Idiyadikkodu (temple of booms and crashes). You could buy and set off crackers there for good luck. Boom! Crash! Luck! Fun! Needless to say my Bangalore mother would never let us near them.

I was petrified of the fierce temple priest who would scream "Daaaaaaaaaai!! Samayam ethrayaayi?" (Hey you! Whats the time?) at my brother and I whenever he saw us. My brother, the owner of the only watch in the neighbourhood would faithfully say "Naalu mani" (4 o'clock) , which was invariably the time at which the priest caught us. And all the kids around would laugh at his slight jesuit-school accent. My brother was a good head taller than everybody so he took it with a pinch of salt. I was a lot smaller and would titter nervously and make a mental note never to go near the temple during the priest's dinnertime.

But importantly, Idiyadikkodu, among many other temples dotting the countryside, was the favourite destination of the possessed. I would watch in fascination as people (usually female ) would be brought in shaking all over and and muttering incoherently, while the priest would attempt to exorcise them. A few hours later, the shaking and quivering would stop and the possessee would go home cheerfully. It never struck me as odd. I guess to a child, nothing really is odd. People would speak casually everyday about it like they were discussing the flu or a ear infection:

Yentharappi, kandittu kore devasam aayallee? (Trivandrum malayalam: Been a while since I saw you, child)
Aan shariya. Njaayaraazhchayeennu thullaan thudangiyathaa. (Thats right, I started hopping since Sunday)
Oh, appikku thullalu pidichaa? Kshethrathi pwaayillee? (Oh did child get the hops? Did you go to the temple?)
Aan innale pwaayi, ippa ellaan shari aayi (Yes, I went yesterday, now it's ok)

Most temples and traditional Kerala houses also housed the mysterious sarpakkaavu (snake cove) - A shady corner of the garden filled with eerie stone snake figurines. A lamp would be brought out of the house every evening and placed there for the serpent gods. Rat snakes (cheras) being quite common in Trivandrum gardens, you would almost always find one coiled up somewhere near the sarpakkavu. I was never very sure if that was a coincidence or whether snakes could actually sense the security and protection that the sarpakkavu offered them.

The devi kshetrams and sarpakkavus are just two out of many, many really bizarre things that are a part of every day life in Kerala. I've seen and heard about hosts of practices, rituals and phenomena that absolutely boggle the rational mind, but seem perfectly normal to a Keralite.

While its all very well to ooh and ah about mysterious Kerala and hope that her secrets are never fully discovered, here's my issue: While on the one hand Kerala has this dubious reputation of being the centre of the dark arts of wizardry, superstition and the surreal, it also has a contrasting image of being one of the most enlightened states in India. Long before all the rest of them started clamouring for infrastructure, the socialist government in kerala had already put in roads, hospitals, schools, and small scale industy units in every remote region in the state. I rode buses and trains in Kerala watching normal people sitting opposite me read Naom Chomsky and books on Differential Calculus. But many of the same people would talk cheerfully about Gaiian social systems and the benefits of an exorcism at the chotanikkara bhagavathy temple, in the same breath.

I don't know if it's even right to reconcile these two contrasting images. Maybe Kerala does have more spirits per square inch waiting to get into people's heads. Perhaps Kerala's muggy dark weather does indeed provide the perfect foil for ectoplasmic manifestations.

Or is all the mumbo jumbo just an old fashioned excuse to go nuts for a while, as my rationalist momma would say? I honestly don't know. I do know though, that as a kid, I always secretly hoped that I'd get possessed some day too, just so I could participate in conversations with the neighbour.

Cyberabadu, I am comingu

2007-04-17T03:58:00.000-07:00

Jusht I hawe gaan for the Pearl city losht week. The dusty streets outside the airport that my taxi was crawling through made me wonder if anything had changed about it at all. I looked out of the window and saw the same dry rocky Hyderabadi landscapes, the same tumbledown buildings and the same people named NTRBSKV Maruthi Krishna Prasad that I remembered from my last trip many years ago.

I asked the taxi driver where the new face was Hyderabad was, and he very politely told me to shut up and wait. The crawling traffic was because of a flyover that would completely bypass most of Begumpet. As soon as we crossed the construction zone, my jaw dropped as I saw a huge field of petunias in the middle of a monstrous traffic island. Before I could react to it, we sailed down beautiful broad tree-lined roads with similar gargantuan traffic islands all the way. The sides had manicured lawns with buxom concrete maidens perpetually emptying their pots into gurgling ponds. Several multiplexes, restaurants and gorgeous roads later, I reached Banjara Hills, where my friends asked me anxiously if the traffic in Hyderabad was too stressful. I answered them with a half-awestruck, half-jealousy-crazed gurgle.

The 25 km trip from the center of town to Hi-tech city the next day was on similarly desi-ghee'ed roads. I dont think a teleporter could have gotten me across faster.The road dividers went completely crazy after a point, and housed dense artifically cultivated woods and japanese gardens. Huge flyover projects all along the way vied with each other for modernity. In fact one of them was going to be so modern that if you uttered the magic words "Jamakku thaa, Kasakku rro" into a mike at the top, robotic arms would swiftly pluck you off the flyover and place you on a vast mobile lawn where you could dance telugu duets with other commuters on your way to work.

And where do these splendid roads lead? Not really anywhere in particular. High Tech City (Cyberabad) at the end of the beautiful road turned out to be about 1/10th the size of e-city. Here is a shining example of a city that has geared up its infrastructure and is now rubbing its hands in glee waiting for business to pour in.

I was whisked off to the lake's edge by my lovely friends one evening for fun times and food. A huuuuuge food court on one side run by B.B.H.S.K. Rajasekhar Reddy and friends stretched out as far as eye could see, with tables all along the lake's edge. Spic and span, span and spic. Uff what a lovely. The pesarattu was ghastly but the view more than compensated! In the centre of the lake, a rather pointless looking Budhdha glowed yellowly at us while traffic buzzed about cheerfully on Necklace Road on the other side. Jushttu too beautiful I say. Chandrababu, pls come to Bengalooru. I'll even let you rename Cox Town V.V.S.B.S.U.M. Shastry Nagar if you wantu.

Hyderabadis have names 3 times longer than Bangaloreans and a third of their attitude. It's half as crowded and twice as efficient. Rents are low and the people laid back and courteous. Even auto drivers apologize for hours in charming Deccani Urdu about not having 1 rupee change. Commuting is a cinch, and the biriyani is, well, oily. The weather is slightly sad, the nightlife isn't spectacular and the Hyderabadi crowd is perhaps a little more mainstream-Indian than Bangalore's. But aside from that, why on earth isn't everybody moving to Hyderabad? Jusht I yam not undershtanding only.

Metro vs Retro!

2007-04-05T00:50:00.000-07:00

I retrieved Tuesday's newspaper from the gutter yesterday, where my paperman had considerately left it. A box item at the bottom of the front page caught my eye. Work on the Metro rail is finally starting on MG Road. Yay. As a first step, the beautiful Bougainvillea lined promenade will be removed along with all its trees. Ah ok.

WHATTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!! Gulp, choke, gag! You cant "remove" the promenade!!! It's been there 75 years! I want the Metro very much but can you imagine MG Road without its beautiful promenade, the gorgeous pink bougainvillea bower at Anil Kumble circle and its tree-lined walkway? MG will turn into one of those dusty main streets in any old Indian town without it!!! You cant just "remove" a bangalore institution, Metro People!!

Surely we can do something to let both the old and the new survive?? We managed in 2005 though, when the towering mango trees in front of Bishop Cottons were being butchered. It was really heartening to see so many people keep vigil all night to stave off those timber contractors (who had obviousy greased a LOT of palms to get at the wood). Finally the corporation relented and spared 700 of the 750 trees that were slated for hacking.

If you hear of any rallies or protests, please please let me know. I cannot believe Bangalore can let this happen.

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/NEWS/Cities/Metro_Rail_to_change_face_of_Bangalore/RssArticleShow/articleshow/1853064.cms