Gopalsworld

Ramu & the Tatas

2011-11-03T16:22:00.000-07:00

Ramu sighed. This was definitely not going to be a great day. (Not least because no great story/event had yet been recorded with the opening lines "Ramu sighed".)

He did not realize it but every morning of his in the last few days had started with a heave of his chest followed by an intake of air.

*SIGH*

While his past bi-yearly trips had been vacations filled with promises of catching up with friends and relatives, this trip to India had been to settle some long overdue personal affairs. He had grossly underestimated what it took to get any personal business done in India.

(It had to be said in his favour that his FIRPM status did not help.)

Today was "Tata Indicom" day. The task was ominously simple. He had to locate the Tata Indicom office, handover the phone instrument and surrender his mother's phone connection.

But Ramu did not dismiss the task lightly. He had carefully noted down the address from the bills that the company had sent him. Their registered office on the company letterhead was listed as

#2and3and4, Thiru Vi Ka road, Royapettah, Chennai.

Royapettah seemed like a familiar landmark. After all he had spent more than a decade in the city and in his teens had cruised through the very same lanes in his "Hero Bicycle". It was his "pettai" (area).

Thiru Vi Ka road did not sound familiar, but Ramu was not worried. The renaming of roads in Chennai was not uncommon. It had happened before even when he was living in Chennai. Roads and streets named after former colonial masters had been renamed after Indian freedom fighters and even in some cases contemporary (and increasingly corrupt) politicians. It was probably "Peters road" he mused.

#2and3and4 flummoxed him for a little while. He finally figured that the Tata Indicom office likely spanned three buildings and hence was listed as thus. But he did not want to take any chances. With his trusty MTS 3G connection (with incredible broadband speeds starting at Rs 2 per day) and his netbook with the irritatingly small keys, he was quickly able to locate it on google maps and narrow it down to a small area. It was next to Bharani towers as per the map.

It was time. All the signs were good. His Tata Indica A/C car arrived promptly at 10:00 AM to get him to the Tata Indicom office. He handed over the keys to his next door neighbor and said his Tata goodbyes.

Along the way, he casually asked his driver for the day, whether he was familiar with Thiru Vi Ka road. He remained unfazed when the driver confessed his lack of knowledge of the street or its surrounding areas. He plugged in his trust MTS 3G connection (with incredible broadband speeds starting at Re 2 per day) into his netbook and acted as the navigator.

The flyover to Royapettah (Yup. There it was)
Royapettah high road (look!!! there was the road to Gil adarash)
Seethapathy Clinic (Best for appendectomys)
Thiru Vi ka Road (Royapettah High road becomes Thiru Vika. Slap on the head)
And there as proclaimed was Bharani towers with ??????

Ramu hopped out of his car and spent the next one and a half hours fruitlessly walking up and down the road that google maps promised housed a Tata Indicom registered office. He closely cross questioned the security guards stationed outside Bharani Towers on their knowledge of the whereabouts of Tata Indicom.

He went back to his car. He refreshed his browser and stared piercingly at the results. He did it again and again and again....But the answer frustratingly was always the same

#2and3and4, right next to Bharani Towers.

Finally conceding defeat for the day....he headed back home. He had not done enough research, but he would be back.

Tata to Tata Indicom? Not just yet. Not if he had anything to do it.

"I'll be back" whispered Ramu the Terminator as he slid into the backseat of his Tata Indica.

He leaned back and refreshed his computer screen. Nothing. The first casualty to the cause. His MTS 3G USB flash drive had stopped working.

His flash drive had lost its drive.

As the crow flies

2011-11-03T15:14:00.000-07:00

Somebody needs to let Google know that any efforts towards mapping out Indian roads is a gigantic waste of time. Ditto for TomTom/Garmin or any other GPS device maker that has dreams of selling their wares to the burgeoning indian middle class. As for any fancy app for the iphone that can pinpoint the user's location, i think they made a movie for that. Its called "Chak De India" which approximately translates into (only in my own dictionary i must hasten to add) as "Chuck it kindly please".

The reason i can authoritatively state this is because, through careful empirical observation on this trip, plus flashbacks from my past experiences(just like in bollywood movies....thats how my memory works), the evidence is inescapable.

Everybody knows the way in India. Or to be more precise,

Every living person in India you dont know (a stranger) more likely than not will always be able to give precise directions to you, if you more likely than not look like you are lost and are seeking directions from them.

In other words. Everybody knows the way in India.

You just have to ask Ramu.

Note for the reader:

Who is Ramu you may ask?

Some of the experiences i am going to write about are easier to digest when you are visualizing a character called "Ramu". Otherwise you will find yourself constantly shaking your head thinking, "How could (Insert my name here) be so stupid?".

Ramu on the other hand...no justifications are needed for his experiences. He is after all a "Ramu".

The Burra sahib and the natives

2011-10-23T19:49:00.000-07:00

I was suitably amazed when in the course of languid conversations in Goa (meeting up with old friends), one of them informed me that any tax deductions made by banks could now be viewed online as long as i had my tax id or permanent account number linked to my bank account. With this i would no longer have to keep track of my Form 16's received in the mail to claim refunds. All i had to do was register my name, go to a TIN (tax identification number) center (in multiple locations so i could choose whichever was closest to home) show my identification and get my account activated. After which, I could simply get onto the web, print it out whenever i needed it. Amazing progress...The government was joining the Information Technology revolution. The beneficiaries of the revolution were not just corporations in the US, but common folks like in India who could now get their Form 26AS on the web.

It was all so simple. What could possibly go wrong?

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I followed the instructions. I went on the web, filled out a form, identified that the closes TIN center was just around 5-6 kms from my house and was in a location i was very familiar with. I had lived right opposite the TIN center close to 6 years.

When i walked in, it was around 2PM...(lunchtime in Chennai). There were a bunch of people sitting around doing a whole lot of nothing...and one fellow in the corner eating his curd rice. I had not printed out the form and was hopeful that somebody at the center would do it for me. (The hopefulness was more like the 2011 Obama "hope". Not the hype filled "hope" of 2008 where people would look back and remember that this was the day the earth started healing, but more of the 2011, "Its got to get better right. It cant be that bad?Right? Right?" kind of hope).

I was informed that there was "no current" (a.k.a electricity) and even if there was, they would not be able to print it out for me.So i went in search of an internet center where i could print out the forms. This took me another hour and a half. (The guy at the internet center had gone out for lunch and locked the place). When i got back, there were around 6-8 people seated in the little office waiting to be served. I was not sure what they were there for. Turned out that i did not have to wait my turn and so did not matter.

I was directed to a young girl sitting in front of a computer. She asked me to sign the printout i had obtained and ensure that my signature matched that on my PAN card (like a little driver's license which also served as photo identification). I signed it and handed it back to her. She took a cursory glance, gave me a little smile, and said
"Sir, it does not match. Why dont you try again?".

I gave a little "tch" of irritation as it looked perfectly fine to me. But as i was about to sign the document again, she quickly added

"Sir, why don't you first practice it in on this little piece of paper? I cant have more than two signatures on the printout".

I thought it was a smart idea, smiled and took the paper from her. And then i scribbled out a couple of signatures out on it, and handed it back. She smiled again, shook her head and asked me to try again. I tried a couple more times, and much to my chagrin was rejected both times. By this time, the whole office had begun to take interest. The 6 bystanders sitting in the chairs,started craning their neck, trying to see where i was going wrong. One "Uncle" shifted his chair forward, put his elbow on the table where i was trying out the signatures, and with undisguised interest stared at my signatures intently.

By around the 10th rejection, i had this strong sense of deja vu.I was back in school in the 9th grade. Kothadandaraman sir would not let me go home, until i got the answer right to the math problem. It was 5:30 PM. Everybody else had left....It was just me and him. Where was i going wrong in calculating the answer? Where was the mistake? Where? Where.

My consternation increased and i found myself soon in a mild state of panic. I tried doing it slowly, almost tracing it out to match what was on my PAN card. I tried it fast....I tried it slanted....I tried it straight. Nothing worked. Twenty attempts later, my signature was an unrecognizable scrawl,even to me. And slowly the panic was being replaced by a sense of irritation. My mom, who was with me whispered,

"Its ok. Take your time. Don't lose it".

The "uncle" leaned over and suggested that i needed to change the loop on the "R", and helpfully tried to trace it out for me with his pen. That turned out to be the last straw.

"YOU ARE MAKING ME FORGE MY OWN SIGNATURE." I spluttered incoherently...

I suggested to her in chaste english that she had no idea what she was talking about. I clutched my hair in frustration.

"How do you expect me to sign it the exact same way i signed it 11 years back? Are you a handwriting expert?", burra sahib yelled.

The natives just stared curiously back at the strange man, who looked exactly like them, but was mouthing words in a strange language.

Realizing that berating her in english was possibly the worst way of convincing her, i pointed to my face on the PAN card, i pointed to my face and yelled.

"ATHE MOONJI" (Its the same face, goddamnit !!!).

And then i grabbed the papers from her hand, and stalked out of the office. Ten paces, with a sinking feeling, i realized that there was nowhere else to go. The other TIN centers were miles away. I had no access to the internet.

So i called my friend up to tell him he had no idea what he was talking about and this online stuff was just utter rubbish. My friend did not ask me any questions. He simply asked me for my PAN number, called me back in 5 minutes to tell me that it was done and that my Form 26 AS was in the mail.

Thats how it ended. Really. 5 minutes of talking to my friend, and i had my Form 26AS. My friend was right as usual. India was forging ahead.

Forging ahead ....

2011-10-21T10:19:00.000-07:00

I realize that anybody reading my ensuing posts is going to stereotype me as "one of those NRI's....Non Resident Indian that go back to India and bitterly complains about the weather, the traffic, the noise, the pollution, the lack of cell phone etiquette, . I also expect that they will point that i have lived less than a decade outside of India and that it is hypocritical to complain of any of the above, given that my years spent in India still outnumber those within.

To those readers i would like to assure them that i am still a resident in the eyes of the tax authorities in India, (In fact one of my experiences that i am going to write about has to do with trying to change that status). In addition, i would also like to point out that one of my endearing qualities that makes me so lovable is the ability to forget any wrongs that have been inflicted on me fairly quickly. A quality that is more a byproduct of poor memory that in it is a saintly temperament.

So, for future reference, if you do wish to censure me with reference to my India travelogue, please dont throw me under the NRI bus. Instead watch out carefully for the vehicle with the number plate that reads "Former Resident indian with a really poor memory" and then stick it to me.

India Travels

2011-10-20T11:17:00.001-07:00

The path to every India travelogue attempt of mine is paved with great surreal experiences that deserved documentation . So you may well ask yourself, what are the chances that this new series is going to be any different? My advice would be to write that down on a piece of paper, or on a word document on your computer and file that question in the folder "R" for "Rhetorical.......".

But what can i do? Every time i return from India, i get overwhelmed by the potential writing material that it gives me. And i start off in right earnest....until...yawnnn...what was i talking about?

I really really really want to give this India trip the writing treatment it deserves. I want to....So i am going to break it up into really small posts.

There i am done...That was the first one.

Flute Maami

2011-04-19T16:47:00.000-07:00

The first few hours of practicing new instruments have to be the most exruciating for both the person playing the instrument and to any non parental ears. It ranks right up there with fingernails on a blackboard.

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I was 14 years old, when i first picked up the bamboo flute. An 18th century explorer would have described my initial efforts thus.

"Day after day, the young boy holds a small wooden hollow bamboo stick against his lips. There are 8 round holes on the stick. 7 of them are spaced roughly an inch apart from each other. The 8th hole is placed further apart from the remaining 7 and it is through this hole that the young boy tries to expel wind. The sound that emerges is best described as "Phoo, Phoo, Phoo". Clearly this effort has significance as for some reason his mother and grandmother watch him admiringly from a distance, nodding encouragement. It strikes me that the ritual must date back to the times when coal was the primary fuel for cooking and blowing wind through a hollow tube was a means of stoking the dying embers."

My cousin, considerably older than me, was kind enough to serve as my first teacher and gently lead me from the coal blowing stage to a point where a layman without any recourse to ear plugs or cotton could make out the base 7 notes . That took around a year before my impending 10th grade board exams allowed me to excuse myself from any further practice.

(One of the joys of being raised Indian if you could call is that, is that academia pursuits always trump any other field. Irrespective of the level of talent i may have displayed, nothing could take precedence over the 10th standard board exams or for that matter the 12th standard board exams.)

I renewed my efforts at it once i entered my 1st year of college. Or perhaps it would be more appropriate to state that i was made to renew my efforts at it.

I was 17 years old. I had moved on from emitting involuntary "Phoos" to voluntary "Phooees".....the dismissive sound employed the world over by teenagers with their parents. I expressed my displeasure in no uncertain terms when my mother suggested that i take up my flute training up again. But my cousin, had in all his kindness already arranged with his flute teacher to take me under her tutelage. It was agreed that she would stop by my house twice every week for lessons. My mother bore my many tantrums on the subject with the same saintly patience she had exhibited before and has exhibited since.

My flute teacher or "flute maami" as i called her was a wizened old lady in her later 70's and extremely passionate about her work. Most of the time she would teach at home, but for a few chosen pupils, she would make the trek to visit their houses to teach them. My status as one of the chosen was more a testament of my cousin's goodwill and the passion he had displayed with her.

After every lesson, she would give me detailed instructions on the length of time that i needed to practice before her next visit. More often that not, she would catch me hastily practicing 5 minutes before her next visit. On the rare occasions that my mothers exhortations prevailed, i would sit down to practice, only to find that it served as a trigger for my next door neighbor to start his practice sessions. In one of those coincidences that can happen only in real life, he not only played the flute but also was an "A" grade All India Radio artist. His practice sessions were impromptu concerts, that were an exhibition of his extreme mastery. All of us would simply stop whatever we were doing to listen. My practice sessions in relative terms was an exhibition of my extreme mastery of charcoal blowing skills. Lets just say he did not help my cause.

Flute Maami was extremely patient with me, but it must have taken all her resolve to not whack me over the head during our lessons. She tried everything to evoke more discipline. In one of her lectures, she told me that even if i could not appreciate it now, i would find appreciation for it later in life. My response as usual was

"PHOEEE"

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Over the course of two years, i had tried every excuse to rid myself of the lessons. But now i was about to enter my final year of college and had finally found a seemingly impregnable excuse to end my lessons. Ignoring my mom's entreaties, i decided to broach the topic with my teacher as we sat down for the lesson.

ME: "I have my final exams coming up in March. So i think we will need to stop these lessons in December"

Flute Maami: "Why wait till December. We can stop right now".

And with that she picked her little cloth bag with her notebooks and her flute and walked out of the door never to be seen again.

It was the month of June, 1995. I had just had my last flute lesson.

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Over the last 17 years i have carried my bamboo flute everywhere with me. It has resided in suitcases, on mantelpieces, on my living room sofas, collecting dust but more or less intact. A few weeks ago, i picked up the flute again and started playing it. I have one captive audience in my 9 month old daughter who does seem to appreciate my most recent efforts at charcoal blowing. She shakes her head from side to side, when i start playing and then continues pottering about with her toys. When i stop playing, she stops doing whatever she is doing, looks up at me with her cocked to one side and...emits a loud "Huh?"......seemingly asking "Why did you stop" .

Thank you Flute Maami, wherever you are. You were right. I do appreciate it more now.

Day 2 - "Ramu"

2010-06-06T09:49:00.001-07:00

So my 2nd day of writing and i am already stuck...Nothing comes to mind. I suppose in keeping with the spirit of the blog, i am putting pressure on myself to have something interesting to say in a humorous sort of way.

So i shall try and write a little story...And try and keep it simple. And annotate my story as i go along (like the director's cut in the DVD).

His name was Ramu. (Why ramu? Because ramu is a simple name. Conjures up images of a simple little boy, probably some sort of helper in a house or perhaps he is a 8 year old boy who lives in a village, and plays with his friends by the river everyday, goes to a local government school where he is made to learn lessons by rote...

He was having a bad day. (Why was it not a good day? Perhaps his father had boxed his ears in the morning because his teacher had complained about his playing truant in front of his cousins)

But he was optimistic that tomorrow would be a better day (Perhaps it was the weekend coming up. He did not have to go to school. And he would get to play with priya, his first crush).

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Ramu got into his fire red Ferrari, threw it into gear, and screeched into traffic, causing a couple of cars to visibly swerve out of the way. What a nightmarish day...The stock market had gone into a tailspin for no apparent reason. His boss had given him a dressing down for taking the positions he had in front of his peers. He had warned him not to expect any bonuses if he continued down this current path. To top it all, his wife had left him a voicemail demanding an explanation about a jewelery bill she had found tucked away in the pocket of his suit.

He slowly calmed down as he weaved his way through traffic, his car's speedometer eventually reflecting his mood.

Monday would be a better day. Yes. The stockmarket had to recover. He would get his bonus. That way he could continue paying for the apartment where he had his mistress. He would come up with a story to explain the bill. Perhaps buy another necklace and give it to his wife. Ofcourse that would mean another expense to add to his growing debt, but it could be done.....

He smiled sardonically. "Ramu". It was ironical. The only thing simple in his life at the moment was his name.

He heard a siren behind him. He looked into the rearview mirror and saw the flashing lights of the traffic cop behind him...

Can i write everyday?

2010-06-05T16:03:00.000-07:00

See....Its more than 6 months since my last post....And i want to do this little experiment...Starting today, i am going to post everyday. About nothing generally, in the hope it will resurrect the muse, address the elephant in the room and ask it a question why??? In fact...makes me want to hum a song....

Musee musee haathi....kyon why why...musee musee haathi kyon....

Who said anything about quality?

Marathon Post

2009-10-16T10:59:00.000-07:00

Before you start reading about my efforts at running a marathon, please be warned that it might take a marathon effort on your side to read this entire thing…
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“The Journey is the destination”

Back in April, running a marathon was just an idea although it was somehow something I had always wanted to do. That makes it sound a little more dramatic that it actually is… Some of the other “somethings I have always wanted to do in the past” include..….. learn Kung Fu after watching “Fist of Fury” , join the army after watching “Fauji”….(a television program from my childhood days.)

All through my adult life, I had never managed to run more than 4 miles at a time. (“Adult life” makes it sound as though I ran a lot as a kid, but perish that thought…”). But slowly over time, as I stuck to the weekly runs and the weekend group runs, my confidence grew and the pace and the length of my runs increased. I found myself running around the Charles River in Boston on weekdays, wind in my face, sweat on my brow, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my skin, watching my fellow runners go by…(listening to the background score of “Chariots of Fire” would enhance the reading experience at this point”).

The typical marathon schedule includes running 3-4 miles on weekdays and doing long runs on weekends on a Saturday. So in May, the long runs started at 8-9 miles and every subsequent weekend, we would add a mile to the run.

By end July, as I was doing 14 and 15 mile runs on the long weekends, I was convinced that running a marathon at a 9 minute mile pace was just a matter of time….Add to it, that I found fairly significant physiological changes….face thinned out…dropped a few pounds and (best of all) all of this even though I was eating the vegetarian equivalent of a horse everyday.

And then on August 2nd, (to use a running metaphor), the shoe dropped….
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One of the main pieces of advice given to novice runners is that you should always listen to your body during your runs. (Basically the theory is that if you feel any kind of pain, don’t push it, otherwise you could make it worse.)

So as I was out on a 17 mile run…Around the 6th mile, my body decided that it wanted to have a conversation…

Muscle : Hey. You….You there?
Me: Huh? What????……Wassat?
Muscle: I’m talking to you. Do you know where I am ?
Me: Nope…..But you seem to be a bit of a pain…..
Muscle: Hmm…I thought so. Bad comment. You realize you just added an insult to an injury?

And just like that my knee locked up. It was the 1st week of August. The announcement from my muscle happened in the 12th mile of a 17 mile run. I was on a biking trail, 5 miles away from civilization (i.e my cell phone). So I hobbled off the trail and went in search of a phone. (When you run long distances, you try not to carry anything as it tends to weigh you down). I eventually found an empty church under construction and with a working phone line in one of the office rooms. (If that sounds farfetched please remember it’s a church. Miracles happen.)

Eventually my running mates found me inside the Church, which aptly enough was called the “Follen Church”. (This miracle was tinged with a little irony.)

The muscle I found out later was called the IT Band (Illio Tibial band), (not to be confused with geeky amateur music troupes found in large software corporations), it runs down the side of the leg from the hip to the knee. I was advised to take a couple of weeks off.

Two weeks later…..

It was time to join my running mates. Having missed two weekends in a row, the long run this time was for 19 miles. I had done the required, icing, stretching etc that was recommended for the injury. But then on the 10th mile it happened again…

Knee Joint: Hey you…
Me: Who are you now?

Knee Joint: You realize what a privileged existence I have had in the last 34 years? And now all this pounding. This just aint right….

IT Band: Listen up….I don’t feel so good…..

And so on the 10th mile, I stopped, hailed a cab and went home. I had added “runners knee” to my injury list. I spent the next couple of weeks making trips to different physiotherapists, but by end August I was seriously doubting my ability to run the marathon on October 11th. (The long runs are very critical to the marathon preparation.) .

Some more rest, icing and stretching followed. I decided to hit the trail again around September 10th. This time the run was for 22 miles. And one of the last long runs leading up to marathon day.

(The last 2-3 weeks of the marathon training are called the “tapering” phase. This is basically to let the body recover from all the hard running of the previous months. So the runs taper down to 5-6 miles 2 or 3 times a week leading upto the marathon.)

Around the 10th mile, the pain started again. This time I ignored their jabber and continued on. I eventually made it through the full 22 miles much to the relief of some of my running mates, who were wondering if they should have had a cab dispatched to pick me up somewhere in the middle stretch.

(One of the best parts of the the lead up to the marathon was the running group I was part of. The camaraderie that develops over the course of time makes you really look forward to the long runs. And having them along with you for the ride is a big part of what makes it memorable. )

After this run, I had to face upto it. With two more long runs left to go and my left knee the way it was, there was a very strong possibility that I would not run the marathon. After a lot of soul searching, I decided to make it my last long run. For the next few weeks, I avoided running completely….(from a training standpoint…the worst possible thing to do)…

Instead I spent an hour in the gym everyday on the elliptical to keep my cardio (stamina) up and tried some rehab exercises my physio had recommended. It did not help that I could not visit my physiotherapist as I was traveling on work all through that month.

But, I was determined to show up in Chicago and run atleast a few miles even if I could not run the whole course.

And so I went to the nearest DMV and changed my license plate to “Chicago or Bust” . (Ok. That did not happen).

D-Day Countdown

In the weekdays leading up to the marathon weekend (the marathon was on October 11th a Sunday), I was like a little kid on Christmas eve, waiting for Santa, wondering if he would get any gifts at all. (Ok. That means I was really excited…just in case you were wondering)

On Friday afternoon around 3 hours before my flight, I got a sudden panic attack that I had forgotten how to run….( An elliptical is no compensation for the real thing). I wore my shoes and headed out. I ran two miles before I calmed down. (You now have an inkling of what my wife had to put up with in the weeks leading up to race day.).

Finally it was time to catch the flight…. which of course was delayed. We reached Chicago close to midnight where my wife’s relatives were on hand to pick us up.

Saturday morning. The plan was that my wife and I would make our way to the Marathon expo where we were supposed to pick up my “bib number” and my shoe chip, (an electronic chip that would help track my progress through the race). We had also made plans to meet up with my running mates.

We were all so excited that we wandered round and round the exhibition until finally it dawned on us that exhausting ourselves was no way to prepare ourselves for race day. So after a nice pasta meal that evening organized by the Chicago Asha running group that we were part of, we adjourned to our respective locations.

(Running uses up a lot of Calories. One of the best parts of the training, is the ability to eat as much as you want knowing that all of it would be burnt away through your runs. The fuel that the body needs for these long runs are Carbohydrates. And so just before marathon day, all the runners are advised to do a “Carbo load” roughly 12 hours to the lead up. This just translates into indiscriminate consumption of Pizza and pasta.

The runners are also advised to drink lots of water the previous days in order to “hydrate” properly before a race which also translates into lots of trips to the restroom)

Sunday, October 11th, Race day

All the running textbooks warn about 1st timers excitement prior to race day and that the chances of a good night’s sleep being minimal. I was a textbook case.

(Our plan was to wake up at 4:30 AM to catch the train into the city. We were supposed to meet at the Asha group tent at 6:30 AM. The actual race was scheduled to start at 7:30 AM.)

To say that my sleep was disturbed would be an understatement. Around 12:30 AM, I woke up convinced that it was 6:00 AM and I had missed the marathon. Between 12:30 and 2:30 AM, I made approximately 60 trips to the restroom. Finally at 2:30 AM I dozed off. At 3:30 AM my wife’s alarm went off (she had set it for east coast time, while we were on CST).

Finally false alarms notwithstanding, we made it to the train station at 5:00 AM. And were greeted by around 2000 bleary eyed fellow runners with the same we had.

(Time for some statistics. The Chicago Marathon has roughly 40000 entrants and on race day, over a 1.5million people converge into downtown. Again we had been warned not to drive in, but it was still a surprise to see the number of people at the station that early in the morning.)

Finally after meeting up at the Asha tent and some last words of advice, we headed to the start line.

The weather that morning was just over 30F (-1 C). And was expected to go upto 50F (10 C) through the course of the day. From the runners point of view, 50F is perfect running condition, as the body warms up fairly quickly on the long run and the cool weather actually helps too keep the body temperature down and reduces the chances of dehydration.

(In 2008, as an example the temperatures during the same period in Chicago had been closer to 85F, and the marathon had to be almost called off, after one of the runners died of dehydration.)

We were advised to wear an outer layer that we could toss to the side once we warmed up. So in my case the preferred mode of clothing was a trash bag.

The “elite” runners (people who can run the marathon in less than 3 hours) typically start at the front of the group. Runners such as I., the amateurs and the first timers and I were much further back. When the race kicked , off, it was not a bunch of people racing away. It was more like a slow shuffle to the start line. And so even though the race started at 7;30 AM, it took me around 20 minutes to reach the start line.

Mile 1 – 5 – The pain in my left knee started almost immediately. But the adrenaline at the start of the race, combined with the race atmosphere made sure that it was nothing more than a slight pain. I soaked in the race atmosphere along with Tarang, one of my fellow runners. I had worn my name on my shirt, and so I was pleasantly surprised to hear my name called out by a total stranger. So surprised in fact, that I turned to them and said “Thank you”.

Every 2 miles or so there were tables on the side of the road, with volunteers handing out Gatorade and water, followed by aid stations for emergencies.

With the pain in my knee, I decided to take it slow for the first half and not force the pace.

My wife was waiting for me at mile 2, but in all the excitement I missed seeing her.

Mile 5-10 – I had settled into a steady pace, but the knee was still bothering me. Tarang parted company with me at mile 9 and decided to forge ahead. Sandeep a fellow runner also passed me at this point. At mile 10, I spotted my wife in the crowd, jumping up and down, trying to cheer me on. It was exactly the boost I needed. After a quick hug, I settled back into my running

Mile 10 –13 – I made it through the next couple of miles, on the strength of that hug, but by mile 12, the pain was bad enough that I decided to take a restroom break, stretch a little bit and “walk”/”run” my way through the rest of the marathon.

(No. The Kenyans doo not take bathroom breaks. But for the rest of us humans not looking to break records, drinking as much as we do through the course of the race, taking a bathroom break is not a bad idea). I lost 10 minutes in the whole process as there was a long queue to the restroom and worse got a real scare at the end of it.

When I tried to start running again, my left knee “locked” up. Every time I tried to bend it, the pain was excruciating. I was petrified that this was the end of my race. I hobbled over to an aid station to pop a couple of Tylenols in. I tried again, gritting my teeth through the initial steps and after a few minutes the pain settled into a dull ache. That was the last time I tried to “Walk/run”.

Mile 15 –20 – At mile 15, a fellow Asha runner from the Chicago chapter spotted me and accompanied me for a mile before forging ahead. At this point, my goal was to reach the 20 mile marker. Physically apart from the knee pain, I was feeling very good. I felt that I had more left in me and the medicines had also kicked in. So I deliberately slowed down to a point, where I could barely feel the pain, saving myself up for the last few miles. At this point, one of fellow runners Abhishek caught up with me briefly and we ran for a little bit.

At mile 17, I spotted my wife again. One more quick hug , recharged, I settled back into my run. I was very focused in this pace as the miles and kilometers rolled by.

Mile 20-23 – The l5-20 mile phase had been so good, that thoughts around “finishing strong” slowly made their way to the front of my brain. I contemplated increasing my pace over the last 6 miles to get a strong “finish”. So at mile 20, I tried to step it up…And then it happened…

Left Knee joint: Hey….Hey..Whoa there Usain Bolt…Wait a minute here…You feelin me??

And boy did I feel it. I quickly slowed down….and settled back into my jog. The miles rolled by 21….22(my wife was here again..but I did not see her)….23…..At this point, I could not think about stopping or walking. I just wanted to cross that finish line. The big posts marking the miles and kilometer signs helped. I glanced at the 35km sign in passing and found myself thinking about it…

“35 kms. I have actually crossed 35 kms”…..Plod, plod…plod

At mile 24, I looked up and glanced around after a long time at my fellow runners. And found myself smiling. We were all doing the zombie shuffle….Just trying to keep one foot in front of the other and trying to get to the finish line. And just as suddenly I was overcome with emotion….I was almost there…

At mile 25, there she was again.. This time, I could not even slow down for a hug…Stopping was not an option for anything….I had to content myself with giving her a big wave and blowing her a kiss…She ran along the side for a few seconds…That was the last I would see of her before the finish line…..

And then I was into the home stretch. I passed the sign that said 40kms… The road curved to the right and then to the left….And finally there it was… …”The Finish line”….

And just like that with a smile slightly wider that Julia Roberts and roughly the size of my shoulders, with my arms raised…I crossed the finish line. I had just completed my first marathon and felt like a million bucks.

Fall Day

2009-07-12T05:36:00.001-07:00

A beautiful fall day. And on a day like this, he could say with conviction that of the four seasons, this was his favorite.

Winters were unpredictable, and on really cold days with the gray overhang, and the sun a distant memory, seemingly interminable.

Summers were nice. But then there were expectations that came along with it. Every day had to be bright and the temperature just right. Too hot and you would have to lather yourself with sun screen, wear a hat and sometimes a thin layer of sweat as well to go along with it. And even that was ok. If it stayed that way. But just a few rainy days, and every conversation would begin with "Can you believe the weather.......?".

Spring was fall's sibling, but the temperamental one. Restless.Impatient. There were reminders in the air of bright sunny days, happy faces, picnics, hikes and on some days there were even promises made. ....But there was the moodiness that you had to deal with. A nice sunny day could regress into a cold blustery winter day. And with that all the hope from those promises made would get sucked right out of you. Some people could deal with that. But it was not for him.

Fall was his season. He loved waking up to the crisp morning air and heading out to his favorite nature trail. Feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin as he walked under the trees. The trees themselves a cornucopia of colors. To him this was nature showing off her artistry, the leaves the palette with which she painted her magic.

He had brought her here to show her this. Hand in hand they walked the trail, the leaves crunching satisfyingly under their feet. And there were more every second. All around them, the leaves floated gently to the ground.

Very little was spoken. Though she had wanted to tell him all morning, right from the moment she had woken up bleary eyed, sacrificing her precious morning sleep, she had not find the right opportunity. His enthusiasm was infectious and she had been caught up in it.

They reached the edge of a clearing. He stopped. Took her into his arms. She looked up at him and started to say something.

"Shhhhh". He said. "Just listen." And they stood like that. In the middle of a clearing, the sun's rays streaming through the trees, the birds chirping in the background, until she could not hold it back any longer.

"I need to pee"

The Great Indian Horizontal Queue

2009-03-29T11:07:00.000-07:00

To understand Customer Service in India, one has to have a basic comprehension of the Theory of HIQ or in its more expanded form, the Theory of the Horizontal Queue.

The Theory of HIQ - Beginners guide

A queue by definition involves a straight (or perhaps slightly meandering) line of things or people standing one behind the other. To this definition, we apply the ABFNS function to arrive at the HIQ.

ABFNS is something that every Indian child hears when growing up. However since this dissertation is intended for a mass audience, a brief explanation is warranted.

The ABFNS theory states that in order to survive and be successful in one’s endeavors one must always strive to be at the top of anything (or anybody) in the performance of any task. The theory in its expanded form reads

“Always be first, never second because there are one billion people waiting to take your place".

So when you take your average Q and apply the theory of ABFNS, it results in the HIQ or the Horizontal Indian Queue. That is a line of people standing parallel to each other,(in line with their parents instructions and their parents before them), to avoid the possibility of being second.

Mathematically, this can be expressed as

Q(ABFNS)= HIQ

A practical demonstration of the HIQ theory can be seen in everyday life. The shopkeeper selling prepaid phone cards and other assorted stationary. The very popular bakery selling vegetable puffs and other assorted goodies. And perhaps the most evident …..the line at the airport terminal and the Railway station ticket counters are great demonstrations of the Horizontal Indian Queue in its purest form.

It follows that the theory of HIQ has over the years, has led to some significant developments in the field of marketing and more specifically customer services. The Japanese have TQM, the Americans have Six Sigma and India’s contribution to this ever growing field of management is the ECF approach.

ECF or “Everybody Comes First”, is the Indian solution to the challenges posed by the HIQ. Initially, the theory came under some criticism as having no practical significance as it suggested that the number of customers service personnel would need to equal the number of people in the HIQ.

To address this criticism, LMC theory or “Let me check” theory was offered as a counterargument. The LMC theory postulates that by calculating the probability of a decisive response from a customer to a question (see note below), it is possible to determine the average time that is available to a service rep can toggle back and forth between customers.

(Note: The probability of a decisive response or PDRC is a function of the availability of clear and lucid instructions made available in advance to the customer (CLIAC). In other words,

PDRC= Fn(CLIAC).

In an Indian context, CLIAC is always closer to zero. It follows that PDRC will always be closer to zero and therefore application of the ECF principle is almost always possible.)

A simple exchange between the author and a bakery shop assistant is provided below as a practical demonstration of the above mentioned theories.

Author (Entering bakery and shouting above the head of other customers) : I need One bread peas masal.
Customer Sales Rep (to other customer he is serving): One minute....Sir.
CSR (to Author) : Excuse me. Could you repeat?
ME : I need one bread peas masala.
Shop Assistant: Rs 15 Saar.Do you have exact change?
Customer : Err...Let me check
Shop Assistant : Hold on
Shop Assistant(to the next Customer): Sir. Excuse me. Could you repeat?

Of Ancient Indian practices

2009-03-26T14:30:00.000-07:00

"Good Morning Sir. How can i help you turn into a raving lunatic frothing at the mouth, a pitiful mass of self indignation?"

The ancient Indian philosophical theory of "Maya" is not easy to comprehend for the layman. To realize that the life we lead, that our everybody ups and downs, that the sufferings we undergo on behalf our family and everyday livelihood is all our imagination, a trick that the gods play on us, so we can appreciate the true simplicity of life when we finally comprehend it, can (like this insanely long sentence) be quite difficult to swallow at one go.

But not after you have had a phone conversation with the Income Tax Department Permanent Account Number Services Unit. Here is a brief excerpt from a conversation that my wife (lets call her W) and a Customer Services Personnel (lets call him P) in the aforesaid department.

W: I have provided my passport copy to you and it has my first name and last name as proof of my identify as you had requested. So why is my form for a PAN Card not being accepted?

P: But Madam, you had filled your first name and last name in a single line on the form. But in your passport your first name and last name are in two different lines. We need some form of documentation where your whole name is in a single line.

W: You are joking right? Who the %&*$@ is this?

Me : Dear. Its Maya

Food Raman

2009-03-22T08:48:00.000-07:00

So i probably finished around 2 weeks back,what in all likelihood has been my best vacation ever. There were quite a few highlights. And so instead of trying to write one single long enormous post about it, i thought i would break it up into manageable chunks for blogging. So am going to list them out here...

a) "SIR....Enna SIR" (a.k.a "Vanga Vanga") -Customer Service in India
b)The jetsetting baby (Getting your kicks on long flights)
c)"Beep Beep...Ring Ring...Swoosh Swoosh"- A new day dawns in Chennai
d)For whom the Bells Toll...A Brief description of my wedding and post wedding celebrations
e)Return to Ariyanayagapuram - The sequel to "Temple Tours"
f)The incredible pit - A gastronomic tour of Old Delhi and Chandni Chowk as described by my stomach
g)If you can drive a car in Delhi..you can also be a dentist - A treatise on Traffic in India

So that should take care of my blog updates for the next 20 years (taking my current rate into account).

So where do i start?

Arizona Vacation

2009-01-02T11:50:00.000-08:00

Is this how FDR and Churchill felt on the eve of the landing of ships at Normandy, I pondered, as I woke up early on a cold Friday morning ready to go to work. (An opening line like that lends gravitas and a good travelogue needs Gravitas). T&I had laid out the plans for this trip a month back and finally the big day was here. We would be ready to launch our plans that evening. The weather of course would be key to our carefully laid out plans.

I checked the weather forecast. Heavy snow was predicted beginning that late afternoon. I was a little wary of the weather but T even more so. Those years in Boston had done nothing to diminish her sense of foreboding when it came to driving in the snow. I,on the other had, with my years of driving experience in the borderlands of the US and Canada , where “lake effect” snow was as common as the sighting of a flannel shirt and a pair ot jeans and workman boots, was unfazed by the weather.

It would be all right. After all chance always favors the prepared mind and no mind came more prepared than that of T. Wasnt it Churchill who said, “A Captain well rested, look no further than his crew to know why”. (At this point, in case Churchill did not say it, which in all likelihood, he did not, I would like to claim copyright over that.) I had slept well, secure in the knowledge that she would be there to remind me of any forgotten eye glasses, keys or wallet.

I headed out to work early, with a plan to head back early, before the heavy snow set in. A short trip to the gym, , given the days of unbridled consumption of food and beverages that lay ahead, was prudent. By the time I left the gym, the snow as predicted by the weatherman was falling in copious amounts. My car struggled to gain traction on the slippery snow. For a brief moment it slid backwards and I pondered my prudence , but thankfully my trusty steed of 5 years found its footing and I soon found my way home to T.

And thus it was, a few hours later, we were ready to begin our trip
The plan was to park ourselves at an Inn (The Holiday Inn for those who demand more precision) the night before the launch of the aircraft, which was scheduled to depart early the following morning at 6:40 AM.

We stopped briefly at a restaurant called the “Dabbawala” in a small town in New Jersey for dinner. Our hostess informed us over a meal of excessively salty dal and slightly rubbery rumali roti that it was this very same restaurant that were the caterers to transcontinental flights of the carrier Jet Airways. I inadvertently let is slip that I had flown by the very same airline through Brussesl and that I loved Belgian chocolate, where upon she took it upon herself to interrogate me on my preferences in chocolates of that variety, declaring indirectly that she herself was a connosieur, having lived in that city for 8 years.

She was a talkative one that hostess, she was. But her interrogations were to no avail. I remained tightlipped secure in my ignorance of branded chocolates,. T pointed out later that we could have saved ourselves an inquisition if I had been a little less hasty in professing a preference for Belgian chocolates and perhaps a little more critical of the amount of salt in the lentils.

By and by ,we made our way to the Inn and called it a night happy in the knowledge that tomorrow, 8 days of unadulterated pleasure lay before us in the form of rocky mountains, cactus strewn deserts, red baked earth.

Sedona, Arizona was the first phase of the plan.

Day 1 – Saturday

T&I left the hotel at 5:20 AM the airport just a couple of miles away. By the time we parked our car and made it to the Aiport checkin lines, it was 5:40 AM. Our flight was at 6:40 AM and the line to the checking counter at Newark airport resembled the lines outside the Tirumala Temple in Tirupathi.

But we were lucky. A kindly Continental employee, took pity on us and cut through the lines and checked in our baggage for us. With the riff raff darshan at Tirupathi behind us, we only had to get past the special darshan line a.k.a Security

Finally past the security check, we rushed to our gates, only to find out that the flight had been overbooked and that we had to settle for the next available flight on Monday. I pleaded my case to the airline guy behind the counter to no avail. And there it was ”The best laid plans of men and mice”…We were stranded. Until T decided that this was the time to pull out the ultimate weapon. Her big doe eyes slowly teared up. Every mans Kryptonite. And just like that we had tickets for the 4:00PM flight. And we had been upgraded to first class too and had also got a $900 refund. Amazing what a little saline water can do.

Given that the weather was incredibly lousy and a lot of flights were being cancelled, we spent the rest of the day at the airport trying to get on any earlier flight that we could find.

We tried to get ourselves on the noon flight to Phoenix. And things looked promising. There seemed to be a lot of no shows. We were asked to line up on the walkway leading to the airplane door and were informed that as the names were called out, we would be let in.. And shuffling slowly forward we soon found ourselves at the threshold of the airplane door.

The airhostess told us to take a couple of steps back while she shut the door on us. The plane was full.

%&*$&$*#&$*% doesn’t describe our feelings at that point.

T went into overdrive. I watched in awe as she called up her company travel desk, find out alternate routings and then proceeded to bombard the airport personnel with questions. The answer was always the same.

“Sorry Maam. All flights are overbooked”.

But she would not give up. Once she found out that our 4:00 PM flight was delayed, she switched from overdrive to hyperdrive. I was exhausted by this time. Mainly from watching her . So I left her to her wanderings and decided to curl up with a good book. (Oops. I meant I decided I would take care of the luggage.) T would return from her wanderings from time to time, sit for a while, rant against the injustices of the airline system, muse on the fickleness of the weather gods and then jump up and run away as soon as a new idea struck her. I continued my role as luggage guardian and sounding board until it was finally time to board the flight….(Actually I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. I was completely engrossed by a book “White Tiger”).

By the time our flight took off, it was 8:30 PM, meaning we would only land at Phoenix at Midnight on Sunday. Sedona was alteast 2 hours away. But we decided to drive all the way. Our car had XM radio with 250 channels and so I spent almost my entire journey twiddling through the 250 channels unable to settle on any one. (As T likes to point out, women flip channels to see what is on TV, men flip channels to see what else is there.)

As we approached Sedona, the only lights anywhere in the vicinity were the lights from the headlamps of our car. And so just for the fun of it, I decided to switch off the lights to see how dark it got as I drove.

It was an interesting experience. I realized that switching off the headlamps while driving at 80mph in the middle of the desert at 2AM in the morning, while thrilling for me, made T hyperventilate.

We finally reached Las Pasada, a Bed and Breakfast inn we had been booked into at 3:00 AM on Sunday Morning.

Tired but happy at having made it, we hit the sack.

Day 2 – Sunday

The next morning, we awoke at around 9 AM to find ourselves in the midst of gorgeous red mountains dotting the landscape…(Do mountains dot landscapes?).

Breakfast was between 8:00 to 9:30 AM and so we hustled our way to the dining room, where we were greeted by our host Carlos. After a hearty breakfast, we decided to hike up Cathedral rock, a popular hike which promised spectacular views. It was a gorgeous day for a hike, around 18 C, sunshine and a perfect day for a hike.

So we went to a nearby factory outlet and spent an hour shopping there for the perfect clothes for the hike in perfect weather.

We reached the start of the hiking trail, only to find that there were no parking spots available. Unsure about what to do, we drove around aimlessly for a little while until the parking gods…(Hindus are supposed to have over 3Million gods…I am sure a parking god is in there somewhere…) took pity and opened up a parking spot. But not before testing our faith by jamming the front wheel of the car, between two rocks.

Now a little bit about Cathedral rock. Sedona has certain designated areas called vortex fields which apparently are caused by strong forcefields emanating from the earth or in this case red rocks. So it is supposed to be a thingy that you can use to balance your ying and yang (or male or female side) so you are suitably effeminate in your temperament if you are a guy and suitably butch if you are a girl. (So after reading that explanation you feel this urge to google Sedona +Vortex, go right ahead. I will understand.)

It’s a fairly steep climb and so T accompanied upto a point beyond which her yang took over and so being the yin I decided to venture a little further ahead to check out the sights. All in all it was a fun outing. On our way back, we did our bit to help the local ethnic populace by purchasing some fancy Indian ornament from a genuine Indian. (I will let you work that one out. )

After that it was time to explore the town of Sedona and find a good place to have lunch at. As fate would have it, we picked the 2nd worst Mexican restaurant in the United States. The top contender for that award is on the way to New Hampshire if anybody is interested, and yes we have had the privilege of dining there as well.

For some strange reason, perhaps the result of the vortex fields and its share of kooky people it no doubt attracts, Sedona has a bunch of art galleries, filled with exotic art and glass figurines that you could buy for a few thousand dollars. Actually when I say “you”, I probably mean somebody else, as “you” would have to be either kooky or a multi millionaire to buy them and I don’t know any multi millionaires (and I don’t want to call you kooky). And if by any chance you ARE a millionaire and you ARE reading this blog, how about patronizing my art huh?

So we toddled in and out of a few galleries before deciding that it was time to head home. The Mexican lunch had so killed our appetites that T&I literally didn’t have the stomach to eat out and so we went grocery shopping, picked up a couple of DVD’s and headed back to a simple meal of sandwiches and fruits.

Day 3:

This was the day we had picked out a standard touristy thing to do and so we decided to do a Jeep tour into the redrocks. The weather forecast was for a gloomy morning with some strong showers in the afternoon.

So we headed out to do a quick “B” in the “B&B”.

The tour was set for 11:00 AM and so we carefully prepared ourselves for a long day out.

T packed our sandwiches.
T packed our Snacks
I packed our Rain Coats
I packed our Ipods
I packed our 3 layers of clothing
I packed our gloves
T took our keys from the table
We took our wallets and purses
T took our reading and sun glasses from the bag
I took the camera out of the bag and placed it on the table
We wore our hiking shoes

And soon we were ready to leave.

And we headed out and reached the Pink Jeep tour, registered our presence, patiently listened to the tour guide walk us through……and just as it was our turn to get into the jeep, it dawned on me……

Have you figured it out yet? No? See, there you go. It could happen to anybody. I had left the camera on the table. But as Shah Rukh Khan famously put it in DDLJ with that slightly constipated look that he has patented

“Bade Bade deshon main choti choti baatein hoti rahti hain, hain na?” (Roughly translates to “Small small things happen in big big country).

So our trip got pushed out by an hour as we headed back to the hotel, picked our camera up and came back , registered our presence, patiently listened to the tour guide walk us through his lines.…And finally we got assigned our pink jeep and hopped on to it along with an Italian couple from …you will never guess it….Italy.

Our driver/tour guide was an old lady probably in her early 60’s. She was earnest, cheerful, talkative, full of information and unfortunately incredibly boring. I don’t know what it is, but I think my tour guide God (yes…its one of those 3 million I mentioned before) has just decided that she (why not?) doesn’t like me. It doesn’t matter where I am, New York, London, Boston, I always get a tour guide that brings out the psychopath in me. I listen for the first few minutes and then get dreamy eyed thinking about different ways of slitting their throat.

So when I refused to provide her any encouragement and when she realized that the other couple’s English was only slightly better than her own Italian., her only hope in that jeep was T.

And T did not fail her. She was magnificent through the entire 2 hours of the jeep tour. I watched in admiration as she singlehandedly motivated the lady .

Old lady: Old mouldy joke. (think of any one you know..she was full of them)

T: “Tee hee hee”

Old lady: “That old rock is around 2 million years old”.
T: “Wooowwwww”

Old lady: People hike here in winter..
T: Really??? That’s ammmaaazzinngg.

Old lady: Would you like to drive over that steep rock?
T: Noooooo. I could neevvverr do that.

So on this went on for an hour

At our first stop, I offered T the option of tossing our guide out over one of the steeper rocks. But T, she of the gentle heart, refused to entertain my request.

Notwithstanding our guide, the jeep trip was quite a lot of fun otherwise as we climbed up rocky roads and rocks. I would recommend it to anybody.

So after the tour, we decided to head out to Jerome, which apparently had an old abandoned mining town from the 1920’s that had been preserved as a tourist attraction.

We finally got to a town that looked like the ghost town mentioned in the tourist pamphlets. I walked into a candy store and enquired cheerfully of a really old lady whether this was the famous ghost town of Jerome. She looked offended by the question.

I found out from her that this was a proper town and that I was in a proper store and the ghost town was a couple of miles away. I got back into the car feeling suitably sheepish and drove up to the ghost town.

It was full of old things from the 20’s. Old rusted carts, machinery and cars and trucks. There was even an old sawmill that was operational and a really fat mule called pedro. The cause of Pedro’s obesity lay in his feedbag. Every person who came to visit the town, felt obliged to give it something to eat from the feedbag. I did my bit to add to Pedro’s medical bills.

Other points of interest included a functioning restroom, which T&I used. (For the record, in case anyone is interested, there haven’t been any significant developments on the restroom front since the 20’s.) The novelty quickly wore off and we decided to head back to town for dinner.

We dined heartily at the Wildflower bread company café, to a simple meal of soup, sandwich and pasta of roughly 8000 calories each. (They had HUGE portions).
Our best tasting meal on our trip to date and thus ended Day 3.

Day 4:

The weather forecast for the day provided for a sunny morning heading into rain and snow showers in the afternoon. (Weather in America is a huge topic of conversation as anybody who lives in the US well knows.)

So we decided that we would have a nice relaxing hike in the morning and end the day early as we needed to head out to Vegas the following morning.

We spent the first two hours of our hike driving up and down the road trying to figure out where the trail head for the hike we had marked out was. Finally, after calling the park rangers we were informed that the trail had been closed down. He gave us an alternative hike to a place called Doe mountain.

It was around a 30 minute hike up the mountain to some magnificent views of the Arizona mountain ranges. After 30 minutes on the mountain top, we decided to head back down to lunch.

Years of being a vegetarian in the US has convinced me that the best possible cuisine for a vegetarian is Indian. It is the only kind of cuisine designed around vegetarians. So my stomach always longs for Indian food on these trips.

And having noticed an Indian restaurant on our way to Doe mountain, I decided that we should give it a try . Now most Indian restaurants, especially in remote areas in the US are almost invariably North Indian and almost always serve the most unhealthy kind of food you can find in the Northern Hemisphere. But my faith in the God of Indian Cuisine in the US has been of the purest kind. Pray long enough and hopefully he will provide you a miracle. This has been fortified by a selective memory that quickly forgets any facts that may have the power of questioning the basis of it.

At the end of our meal at the restaurant, my faith severly shaken, I resolved to subsist on Oatmeal and cereal for the rest of the year. (Only a few days away.)

By this time the storm clouds had gathered, ominously portending snow. We had only one item left on our list. A scenic drive through Oak Creek Canyon.

We drove approximately a half hour in the opposite direction, while T prayed to the GPS gods to provide us a satellite signal.

(This involves taking the GPS, smushing your nose and GPS against the windscreen, while uttering chants to Ra, the Sun God of the Ancient Egyptians. If that doesn’t work you get out of the car, thrust up your arms, GPS between your palms, and turn round and round, peering into the sky in the hope that somehow it will help you spot the signal .)

Our prayers answered eventually, we turned around and started driving the other way. By this time, T was suffering the effects of our long hike and heavy lunch. (the latter more likely) and managed to sleep most of the way. The drive was largely uneventful. Just slushy roads with some nice views.

We came back to the hotel and packed our bags for the next stage of our journey.

The Grand Canyon and Las Vegas.

I am the Walrus

2008-10-25T07:49:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, T& I went to a concert by a group called Rain, that do a tribute to the Beatles. The band dresses up exactly like the Beatles did back in the day and even change their costumes to mimic the evolution of the band through the years.

I was one of the youngest in the audience of roughly 4000 people. The remaining 3999+ were all atleast over 50 years old. In other words, no spring chickens here, just fall hens.Lots of them.

I was also the brownest member in the audience in a sea of white, which isnt very difficult to imagine if you have met me cos in most audiences i am the brownest. The color of rich deep chocolate. Yummmm. (Thats for rich deep chocolate ofcourse).

Now there are certain advantages to concerts such as these. It nice to have 50+ year olds as your audience members. Everybody looks like your friendly TV stereotype grandpa and grandma. (Assuming you are 15 ofcourse. If not, thats your parents i am talking about.)

For starters, you feel young. Something you certainly wont ever feel if you go to a Hannah Montana concert or the Jonas Brothers. The fact that i even know their names should let you onto how clued in i am to teen pop culture. ( I know.Yuck!!!.)

T& I were a little late getting into the concert and our seats were right in the middle in a row in of 20 seats. 18+ white hairs and bald heads watched us with (grand)fatherly/motherly concerns as we stood there waiting for the usher to usher us in. (Cos thats what they do). But she took her time. And so T&I decided to wait.

But the grandpas and grandmas would have none of it. The lady in the aisle seat whispered into the earpiece of her companion, who turned to her right and did the same. And soon all 9 of them stood up and sat down. And the end of that impromptu game of "telephone"....our middle seats had turned into two aisle seats.

(Please call 1-800-888-DUH, if you want to know how that happened.)

Another nice thing about this kind of concert, is that you already know all the songs.

Chances are , when you go to a concert, it is "somebody you know"'s favorite band, and you just want to go along cos you were asked and you think it will be fun, and you really only know two of the songs, but you decide to go and buy the bands album two days prior and listen to it all day and night so you are familiar with the rest of their songs.

Go on. Confess. You went to the "Green Day"/"Motley Crew"/"" concert and did that didnt you? (Yes. My teenage years were traumatic. Conforming was so tough...Sniff sniff. )

And who hasnt heard the Beatles? (Except ofcourse your desi parents..cos while "Beatles Mania" was going on in the rest of the world, they were being scandalized by Rajesh Khanna singing "Roop Tera Mastana" to Sharmila Tagore .)

So as they churned out their rendition of Beatles hits over the years, T&I sang lustily with the audience to every song. We shook to "Shake it up Baby", promised to "feed and love when we were 64", stood up when we were asked to...(50+ audiences have to be asked.), Imagined there was no heaven and even no countries too, finally ending the night with "Na Nah, nah, na na nah, na na nah, Heyyyy Jude".

Nothing like Beatles Mania...Is there?

"Na Nah, nah, na na nah, na na nah, Heyyyy Jude".

Notes on an Indian Vacation 3

2008-02-24T19:40:00.000-08:00

I decided to remain awake the whole day to get into a normal sleeping pattern as early as possible. The first thing to check of course was whether the house was internet enabled. I fished the wireless router out my bag, hooked it to the Airtel modem and in a flash had a wireless internet connection up and running. I was pleasantly surprised. 3 years ago it had taken me almost a week and a half to figure out the set up for the wireless router using the SIFY connection. Also the internet connection as i recalled although touted as broadband had a tendency to time out every now and then.

But no more. I had budgeted a few hours to do the set up. But instead i found myself wired and ready in less than 10 minutes. The rest of the morning was spent unpacking and cluttering up my mom's spotless apartment.

That afternoon in a bid to stay awake i decided to make a trip to adyar to visit a friend of mine who was expecting a baby at any moment (literally). My mom and i after a brief bargain with the auto driver, (more out of habit than any real need) that was as successful as my attempt at obtaining an airline upgrade, (this time it was my Vijaykant impression...."Enna prabu" (pronounced brapu)....Adyar variya") i found myself inside an auto. Once again, the amount of traffic on Old Mahabalipuram Road hit me.

Well. Almost. For the first five minutes i found myself clenching my fists, closing my eyes, everytime i saw a truck heading down towards us.......convinced that this was the end. By the end of the ride, muscle memory being what it is, i had adapted. Old lines immortalized by drivers past made their way back into my database.

"Dai porampoku, Veetu la sollitu vandhutaya?" (Hey porampoku. I hope people back home arent expecting you back.......... I have no idea what porampoku means.)

The inside roads unlike the main roads were reassuringly different. With the exception of houses converted into glitzy shops (with names like Jazzhead, Impressions, Fashionstate...), nothing seemed to have changed significantly. Over the next couple of days as i got to travel a little bit more, the impression was further reinforced.

We made our way back home after an hour or so. The rest of the day was spent in a haze of visiting relatives, until it was finally time to hit the sack.

I had resolved to wake up early the following morning and visit Chennai's best kept secret. An oasis of calm in the midst of city life, it had been my sanctuary during my CA days, my place of Zen. To me, literally and figuratively the coolest spot in Chennai.

The Indian Institute of Technology Madras.

Notes on an Indian Vacation 2

2008-02-22T04:02:00.000-08:00

After two long 9+ hour journeys, our flight finally landed in Chennai. The aircraft on the 2nd leg of the flight from Brussels was practically empty. Possibly another reason to recommend Jet airways. More leg room. You could keep your feet up on the seats next to you.

As soon as we landed, the Captain let us know that he had trouble finding parking space. All the gates were taken. Aha. Clearly a sign of the infrastructure issues i had read plenty about while i was in the US.

After about a half hour, the Captain finally found a parking spot. I had my second temple moment, when all the passengers got up and quickly got their luggage down and streamed past me, while i stupidly stared bleary eyed, hoping that the line down the aisle would stop to allow me to join in. Finally i stuck my leg out, tripped up a fellow passenger and used the opportunity to get in line.

As i walked down the stairs the first thing that struck me was that there seemed to be a lot of airport staff in blue uniforms simply standing around doing nothing. The first of many times that i would feel that.

The luggage took about an hour to arrive. I watched in half amusement as my fellow passengers took turns doing "opparais" (ancient ritual involving sitting crossed legged on the ground and slapping your head to your forehead as you mourn your loss) to their luggage as they waited for it to arrive. As always, there was that uniquely indian feeling that i could sense all around me. A sense of urgency, a feeling that if let your guard down for moment, you would lose your place by the conveyor belt, that somebody would spirit away your luggage the moment you looked away and that if you didnt study hard and top your class and take care of your luggage as your elders told you to, you would soon be a homeless hobo standing on the street corner begging for change. (Well...it could happen you know)

While we waited for our luggage, airport staff continued doing an outstanding job of staring at all of us.

I made my way out of the airport. At the far end of the aisle leading out, there were two counters. One of them had an usher who caught my eye a 100 yards out and maintained it all the way as i made my way down to the counter.

"Yes Sir. Please come. Yes. You are almost there. No. No. Dont look at the other counter. Bad counter. Bad counter. Vanga. Vanga. Focus sir. You can do it Sir. Only 3 more steps sir."

After i paid the requisite amount, he took me down to an old dilapitated ambassador car and woke up the driver. For a moment i stood there pondering if i had been suckered but then decided to embrace the moment. There couldnt be a better way or reliving the past. The Ambassador car. Flagship of a generation gone by. A car that was almost completely mechanical in a digital world with perhaps the exception of the gaudy LED "disco" lights that blinked above the picture of Lord Shiva on the dashboard. This was a car that that had never required a shock absorber. Not while the human back was available.

As we made our way out of the airport, i was struck by the ongoing construction all around. I threw it out of the car and continued staring out of the window. The roads were better lit and were certainly a lot broader than i remembered them. Familiar landmarks like Kathipara Junction looked very different. The car crawled passed some familiar sights but more often that not a lot of unfamiliar one. I found myself a little disoriented as i couldnt make out which side of the road was the right side to drive on. This was because my driver kept driving down both sides of the road. I attributed it to a combination of jet lag and poor traffic sense , but somewhere the next morning i realized that it was because a lot of the roads had been converted into one ways and was not necessarily a reflection of my drivers driving skills.

The car turned down into Old Mahabalipuram Road and it was only then that the pace of change in the last 3 years struck me. (I get hit a lot). The road was near unrecognizable. It was now a 6 lane highway. And at 3 am in the morning there was a mini traffic jam by Tidel Park. Who would have thunk it.

So on we trundled until finally i spotted it.

3 years back the apartment complex was the most dominant on the landscape. Now it was dwarfed by buildings all around. Brightly lit, shiny steel towers housing IT companies where thousands of young workers toiled away industriously serving customers all across the world. Thomas Friedman was right. The world was indeed flat. Sri Jayendra Colony, Flat E to be more precise.

I decided to wake the driver up. He had had driven the entire way with his eyes closed. (A skill that while admirable was not very conducive to spotting miniature apartment complexes by giant buildings.)

But i had made it. It was good to be back. Home Sweet Home.

Notes on an Indian vacation

2008-02-21T17:58:00.000-08:00

Now everybody has their own way of picking their airline. I picked Jet airways simply on the basis that it had the best chance of having the best airline food for somebody like me. A vegetarian. My theory is that if you are vegetarian, there is only cuisine designed around vegetarians......Indian and accordingly picked Jet.

At the check in counter. i tried turning on the charm to get myself an upgrade. (This technique involves leaning across the counter and asking in my best amitabh voice "Any chance of an upgrade? Iyyain?".) It of course never works.

As expected at the gate, most of the people waiting to board the flight were Indian. I was on the phone engrossed in a conversation with a friend of mine when the pre-boarding flight annoucements were made. When i looked up i found myself the only one still sitting in the chair. Everybody else had congregated near the counter. Deja Vu happened right there. I had my first traditional Indian moment......The kind you have in temple lines

"Oh my god!!! Oh my god!!! I have lost my place in line.... i am not going to get a seat, somebody else is going to get my seat. You idiot. Why did you have to speak on your cellphone. You blew it. Everybody else is ahead of you. What do i do? What do i do? Sharpen your elbows. Dig to your right. Now to your left....Shove that old lady aside...,,Get closer. Get closer.

There he is . I might get the darshan after all. Is that the flight attendant? I think i see his shirt sleeve? Shove harder. Whats this thing by my leg? Its a kid. Hey kid, do you wanna play superman? Here let me pick you up and show you. Up, up and away.

Finally made it to the front of the line. Quit shoving people. No manners. Cant you see i am busy getting my personal time with the flight attendant? Sir. Excuse me. Have they announced my seat number? No? Oh Almighty Venkatachalapathy. Thank you. Thank you.

Darshan over, i turn to the guy next to me and ask him, "Hey did you check out the diamond stud on his left ear?".

I reached my seat and looked around for luggage space. And suddenly came across a really old acquaintance that i had last encountered in a train journey in Delhi.

"UnKal Ji".

Trying to find space in the luggage bin above my seat, i removed a coat with the intention of shoving it back in, once my luggage was stowed. UnKal Ji magically appeared by my side.

UnKal Ji: "What you doing? What? What?"

Me(politely ): UnKal Ji, i was trying to rearrange it to get my bag in. Your coat can be stuffed in

Uncle Ji removed the coat and showed me a gaping hole where my bag aside, he could have stuffed himself in and triumphantly declared

"No space. No space. See? See? Take your bags elsewhere". He shoved the coat back in and banged the lid shut.

Seething with rage, i turned to the other side and found some luggage space. But my manhood had been severly damaged by UnKal Ji. So in my best Tambram "I am highly educated and above all this" way stared at the back of Uncle Ji's head, devising in my head imaginary comebacks.

"Excuse ME sir. We are not on the local bus from Ajmer to Jaipur, and i am not a chicken farmer SIR" in my best english accent. (Side Effects of watching the movie "The History boys" ".)

The rest of the flight was uneventful. But i was mightily impressed with the leg space and level of service. The seats had a power point to charge phone and laptops. Individual screens on each seat. And this was in economy.

Bottom line. Uncle Jis notwithstanding, Jet airways zindabad.

Jungle Boogie - The Art of aging gracefully

2007-12-01T07:47:00.000-08:00

Logic would dictate that age and experience should result in our becoming more broadminded and receptive to what life has to offer.

But paradoxically as we grow older, it turns out to be the opposite.

The need for routine becomes more pronounced with time. As we transition from our teens to our 20's, the 20's to the 30's and 30's to "we are really old now arent we", the nature of and the desire for activities undergoes a slow but steady change.

Perhaps a fable would better illustrate this point.

A fable from the heart of Africa. The tale of Oluwuyebe the Jungle warrior from the tribe of Mkolo-mbembe.
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From his early childhood Oluwuyebe (lets call him Olu to save time) had watched his father, go out into the jungle and bang his drum. Before your mind can turn to untoward thoughts about what that means, let me hasten to explain that in the jungle, the drum was used as a means of communication across vast distances. If you have read Phantom Comics, perhaps the term "Jungle Telegraph" might hold greater significance. ("You not read Phantom, you miss lot of racist insinuations ", Old Jungle Saying.)

So Olu's dad was one of those Jungle Telegraph guys. So guess what, there was nothing more that Olu wanted to do than bang that drum, just like his dad did. His dad initially was a little skeptical about Olu's choice of profession. Although banging the drum was a steady job there were a lot of other professions that brought more meat to the table. But seeing how interested Olu was, he decided to take him on as an apprentice.

Olu would watch his dad carefully as he beat the drum.

"Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dumakku Duma Dum Dumakku Duma..Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum..." (A beat made famous years later by a popular Indian Music composer).

And faithfully Olu would imitate it.

"Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dumakku Duma Dum Dumakku Duma..Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum..."

His dad watched proudly over the years as Olu faithfully banged his drum in exactly the same way that he had. Olu was talented. His messages were loud and clear.

Time went by.

Olu was now in his teens. Somehow banging the drum to his dad's beat did not seem to be enough. He wanted more. And so one day he decided to experiment a little bit.

""Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dumakku Duma Dum Dumakku Duma". He paused for a length of time.

then went on.......

"Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum..."

Later that day, his father took him aside and chastised him for not banging the drum the traditional way. His father did not recognize the significance of the gap between the drum beats. It was of course the well known "generation gap" that Olu had banged out that day on his drum.

The gap grew worse over the next few years...

"Dum Dum Dum"....On some days it seemed to his dad thats all Olu played. Olu meanwhile was having the time of his life. The different sounds he generated had all the beautiful young women in his village swooning over him.

"Nobody bangs like Olu" they would whisper to each other and giggle excitedly whenever they saw him coming. Olu decided to experiment.

"DumDumDumDumDumDumakkuDumaDumDumakkuDumaDumDumDumDumDumDumDumDum..."

His father when he first heard it could not beleive his ears. That night Olu and his father had a major showdown. Olu's mother tried to interfere, but his father had decided that enough was enough.

"First the gap, now the joint."

"If he wants to live in this house, he has to bang it my way".

"He will never understand, Mom. Why does he have to make a big deal of everything? Whats the harm in a small joint? Its not like people cant understand me. Everybody does it ".

With those words. Olu walked out of the house.

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Olu moved to a different tribe. He never grew tired of beating the drum, but it didnt seem to be enough. He needed a different type of banging, something more permanent. So one day when Mbhali walked into his life, he decided to take the plunge and get married.

They had their first child. A son. By this time Olu's drum beats had moved out of their staccato days into a more gentle rhythm.

"Tat Tat Tat Tat Tat Tat Tat Tat Tarararararara Tararara
Tat Tat Tat da da da da
Tat Tat Tat Ta da da da"

(Remember that beat? Qurbani.)

Years passed. His son learnt to bang the drum exactly like Olu. Until one day, his son came up to him and asked him...

"Hey dad..what do you think of this?"

"Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dumakku Duma Dum Dumakku Duma..Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum..."

Olu held back his anger. Later that evening he told his wife.

"I hate these new fangled sounds and the way kids bang about nowadays. I am going to have to talk to him".

Mbhali said nothing. But later in bed that night, she turned to him and said

"Do you remember when you were a teenager and were experimenting with joints? Didnt you tell me that your father never understood you?"

Olu didnt sleep well that night.

The next day, Olu called his son over and told him that he wanted to bang his drum with him. Olu began

"DumDumDumDumDumDumakkuDumaDumDumakkuDumaDumDumDumDumDumDumDumDum..."

His son couldnt beleive what he was hearing. His father was actually playing a joint with him.

He had the coolest dad in the world.

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For those of you who havent got the moral

"Depending on their age people will always bang their drums differently. The trick is to remember how you used to bang it at that age".

Thats the secret to becoming a well respected, venerable tribe member.

The Button Paal Warriors

2007-10-31T07:55:00.000-07:00

The Aavin milk depot next to the house was open for a mere thirty minutes in the morning and evening. Missing this window, would involve walking an additional twenty minutes to the main depot located roughly a mile and a half away.

Pacchai Amma, our faithful family retainer of over forty years rarely (if ever) missed this window. Every morning at 6 AM and then at 3PM, she would head to the Aavin Depot, with a big aluminium vessel tucked under her hips, to get the "Paal"(milk) packets required for the day.

She carried a Red Card (for Fat free milk) and a green card (For Regular Milk). Each card entitled the holder to 2 milk packets. She would hand over the cards, get them punched in and collect the milk packets.

In the evenings, my grandmother would sit on the steps of the front porch waiting for her. This was her break from her regular chores and she and Pacchai amma would sit there for a few minutes, under the sun shade and catch up on the days gossip.

Every day for 30 years this ritual was faithfully followed, until technology in the form of a refrigerator made its appearance at my grandfathers house. The fridge obviated the need for Pacchai Amma to make the evening trip.

The morning milk could now be stored safely, away from the strong madras heat.
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Every summer, my grandfathers house was invaded by assorted uncles & aunts and their kids.

To prepare for this influx, my grandfather would write out a letter to the local Aavin Paal authorities, stating his need for more packets of "Aavin" milk. With letter in hand , he would walk down to the Aavin Milk Co-operative Office in Mandaveli, patiently stand in line until his turn came along upon which he would hand over the letter and obtain the extra "cards".

Summer holidays at my grandfathers house was endless cups of Carromboard and tea. The additional cards that my grandfather had obtained were not always sufficient to meet the demand when the house was at its full capacity.

"We need more milk", my grandmother would mutter.

The call would go out.

"Find Kanna and Kumar. Button Paal Venum".

My cousin Kannan, elder to me by around 4 years, was always the one that my aunts or uncles would call on whenever they needed errands to be run. He was the "Chammatu" of the family

(Chamattu - A Tamil word that does not have an English synonym that does justice. It is a combination of looks/obedience/discipline that all elders seek in their children but rarely find.

It takes some doing to achieve a state of Chamattu as a child. Once achieved, it ensures that people older than you automatically pat your head all the time and you rarely get scolded. Moms will use your name as an example when chiding their children to do better.

However it requires a fine balance to maintain that state and carry it off as too much Chamattu can result in a flip over to the “Ashadu” category, unfortunately another word that does not lend itself to easy translation.

But I shall try.

Take Little Lord Fauntleroy. The kid is so good that, at the end of the book, it leaves you with a feeling of wanting to smack him on the side of the head, to knock all that goodness out.

That is risk of “Ashadu” that I am referring to. It comes out of being too “Chamattu”. )

So I used to hang around Kannan, hoping that some of that “Chammatuness” (Noun form of Chamattu and a word that I just made up), would rub itself off me.

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Although we were grizzled Veterans with plenty of experience in getting “Button Paal”, my grandmother like a good commander in chief would still unfailingly always give us this little piece of advice.

“Make sure you screw the lid on properly lest you spill the milk”.

(I am paraphrasing. Nobody ofcourse uses “lest” in real life.)

The pail was a little ever-silver one, that had a screw on lid with a little handle on top and was capable of holding 5 litres.

She would then proceed to decorate us with the pail and a crumpled 10 rupee note.

The strong May heat would beat down on us, as we walked down to the depot, located roughly a mile away, clad in the standard uniform demanded of such weather.

White Cotton Pajamas a sleeveless cotton vest and “Hawaii slippers”.

The walk down was full of philosophical discussions that only a 10 year old and 14 year old could have.

We would discuss our grand plan about opening a rental store for videocassettes that would house every movie ever made. It would have more than 7 floors and would have multiple copies of every movie, so when the summer holidays came around, there would be no chance of saying no to customers, especially little kids who were there just for the summer.

(Great ideas they say are born from personal experiences.)

At the depot Kannan would hand over the 10 rupee note, get the little tokens that we would need to insert into the milk dispenser.

I would insist on hitting the Button once the vessel was placed under the dispenser. (Hence “Button Paal”).

I would peer anxiously at the top of the vessel each time wondering if the milk would spill over. It never did.

The walk back would take slightly longer that normal. We would stop multiple times , taking turns in holding the cold vessel against our cheeks, seeking instant relief from the summer heat.

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“Kumar and Kanna Vandacchu”

One of my cousins would scuttle to the back of the house to inform the women folks that reinforcements had arrived.

The afternoon Tea could now be made.

As always we were greeted as heroes

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The next morning at 6:15 AM, the gate to my grandfathers house would swing open with a little squeak. Pacchai Amma would slowly shuffle down the path to the front door and deposit the milk packets on the front door steps.

Another normal day in the life of the unsung warrior.

Impulses

2007-10-19T11:14:00.000-07:00

I have this sudden urge to fire a gun....Not a AK-47 or any other gun...I want that revolver from that bollywood potboiler..The one that goes..

Dishkyaoon.....Dishkyaoon..Dishkyaoon...

Dishkyaoon....Dishkyaoon...Dishkyaoon....

With an ordinary gun i would need to pause to reload...But not with a bollywood gun....

Dishkyaoon, Dishkyaoon...Dishkyaoon...

Dishkyaoon.....

Charles Sreeraj

2007-09-19T18:55:00.000-07:00

I wonder if Karl Marx's inspiration for Das Kapital was a result of watching a tennis match at Arthur Ashe stadium.

Everytime i go to a tennis match or any other sporting event, the socialist in me wakes up. Because the best seats in the house are never available to the hardworking common man who has bunked office to watch live tennis. To add to the common mans woes, some of those seats never get filled.

Now like any other sporting fan with a cheap ticket, i have my way of dealing with it and so does my friend.

In my case, i carry a large cardboard box around with me that at a moments notice, can turn into a stage from whence one can rant against the injustices of a capitalistic system where only the moneyed or the influential are rewarded with close up views of Roger Federer matches.

My friend on the other hand calls out to his inner sociopath. His inner sociopath has a name. He is called Charles Sreeraj. Charles Sreeraj's sole mission in life is to find ways of getting past the ticket checkers whose mission ofcourse is to prevent the Charles Sreerajas of the world from getting past them.

Nothing is beneath Charles Sreeraj. Charles Sreeraj will stand at the entrance to the lower sections of the stadium armed not with tickets but with a variety of expressions, carefully practiced the night before, including

The Cool Dude look - A look that says..."Yeah Baby!!! Ofcourse i have tickets.Dont even bother asking me. Yawwwwwwwwwwwwnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn".

The Robert De Niro look - "You talkin to me? Huh??? u talkin to me???. "

Litle Lord Fauntleroy - "Excuse me, I am lost and my mommy is there....can i go in please? Blink Blink...my fluttering eyelashes"

The "Yaadon ki Baraat" look - Waving to somebody (ANYBODY)excitedly as you walk past the ticket collectors....

The 'I am interested in knowing you inside out look" - Nothing i want do more than chat with you on how to become a ticket collector...hmm...So you say you can sit anywhere you want????

I am with them Stupid = Yup. All these people i am following...I am one of them

As with any master villain, its the stupid sidekick that always causes the problems. And it doesnt help Charles Sreeraj, that he has to walk around with one that carries a soapbox to make speeches with and who turns into Porky piglet when confronted by a ticket collector...
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Continuing my little rant about the stadium, some of the sections demand their own weather report.......They dont call them the "nose bleed" section for nothing.

Now if you are a first time visitor to Arthur Ashe stadium, your jaw would admiteddly drop as it did the first time we made it to the stadium last year. It is a magnificent view rivaling another New York City attraction, the Empire State building. But once the mind has finished digesting the view and the brain slowly realizes that the lungs need more oxygen, reality sets in....and you realize that those two moving dots in the distance are really tennis players.....And that you really dont want to watch a tennis match from the top of the Empire State Building.

I suppose the only reason the stadium designers stopped adding layers is because tennis fans wearing oxygen masks would not make for a good television audience.

But i guess at this point it is only fair to tell you that neither Rama and I made it to Arthur Ashe stadium that day....

(Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat? your mind reels...What was that rant about then? What DID you do?)

Patience my one fan...There is more to come...

Labor Day Weekend Labors

2007-09-05T18:06:00.000-07:00

Yessir. Twas indeed a memorable labor day weekend. Spent at the US open watching pro tennis players slug it out at the US open.

So the night before i headed out to meet my friend at his aunts house in fairfield. We spent the night playing ping pong as a lead up to the actual event. (I used to be a serious table tennis player back in the day, but how do you remain serious about a game that is called ping pong and predominantly played in dinky basements with extremely poor lighting? In other words i lost an embarrassing number of games...at one point so bad that my friend rama switched to playing with his left hand for four points 3 of which i lost before i realized it...but enought about that...)

And so we planned to wake up really early to go hit a few tennis balls around for an hour or so...Was woken up by the worlds most irritating alarm clock...i.e rama. He is the type of guy who smiles when you wake him up, wakes up rubbing his hands, thumps you in the back with a healthy "Gops..."as opposed to yours truly who wakes up with an expression resembling a train passenger who after a long tiring journey had just been informed by the auto rickshaw driver that his meter does not work, halfway to his destination.

By the time we got to the train station, it was around 9:30 AM...We were slightly behind schedule as it took around 21/2 hours to reach Flushing Meadows, where the US open was being played.

We were both low on sleep after the exertions of the previous night. But after awe quick bite at the Grand Central station, we took train number 7 to flushing.

This was our second year in a row that my friend Rama and i were at the US open. Last year accompanied by my mom, he and i along with another friend binu had the best visit we could have wished for. We not only got to watch Federer play close up, binu actually wound up catching the autographed ball that Federer tossed up to the spectators. Three devotees at the tennis temple who had not just got a personal darshan from their tennis god but also had some prasad to boot. Add to it that we found our god's family, girlfriend mirka and all standing outside and got to have a photo taken along with the god's dad. (really its a story worthy of a post all in itself.)

But this is going to be about the 2007 US open.

So look out.....

Temptation

2007-07-21T15:32:00.000-07:00

I tried not to...I did. Valiantly. I tried dismissing it as mass mania....A fabrication by the media....I would rise about it...would resist it...It could wait...But i have succumbed...I am one of them

And now i am left with no choice....

The Dark Lord awaits

Ode to a Booger

2007-07-09T08:42:00.000-07:00

It is not an original, but it is certainly worth reproducing

"You can pick your nose
You can pick your friends
But you cant rub your friends on the sofa. "

The Pioneer Spirit

2007-07-03T15:36:00.001-07:00

Given that the USA is 10000 miles away from India, i believe anybody who makes the journey here to live here (for an extended period of time) has subconsciously found more positives than negatives compared to their homeland, regardless of what they express in public....

Obviously I realize that this could provoke a lot of indignation in the millions of people following my blog. I would be worried but for the small fact that they don’t exist.

So secure in that knowledge, let me continue…..

For the record, I am one of those people whenever I encounter somebody vilifying India over the US, immediately turn into a die hard Indian patriot, tie a towel around my head, wear a dhoti, hold one hand to my ear, stretch my other hand out and sing “Mere desh ki dharti sona ugle ugle here moti”

(For those of you that don’t understand Hindi, it translates into “My country’s soil breeds gold, diamonds and pearls” . No. It is not a song about something ugly.)

On the other hand, if you are in the USA and talk about how much better things are in India I see red, blue and white, don my best Tommy Hilfiger shirt and launch into a tirade about how the growing number of pubs in Bangalore is not on the UN’s list of criteria to chart development among the poverty stricken underclass in India.

This seeming dichotomy should not however affect this write up as I changed into a Tommy Hilfiger shirt to go along with my dhoti.

So are all the people who have grouses with life in the US or any other country they are living in, just talking through their hat? Why do they criticize it so much?

Is not an easy question to answer. Here are some of the reasons I think it happens

“We are Human”
The urge to criticize is driven out of an instinctive human response to change. It is a result of being taken out of one’s comfort zone. It is overcoming 20+ years of conditioning and adapting to new faces, new situations, new attitudes (friendly or otherwise) and new ways of doing things.

“Insecurity”
This is perhaps a harder reason to accept. I have found that the tendency to criticize is stronger in people who are worried about their long term status in the country that they have moved to.

It stems from a desire to not get “attached” to certain way of life as it may cause unhappiness in the long run.

This tendency can also be observed in relatives/friends visiting the country for the first time. They feel out of place and instead of fighting the feeling, rebel against the place they have been asked to put up with, however brief the time frame.

Exhibit A: “It is sooooo artificial how people are nice to you. You don’t know what they are really thinking. Back home everybody spits in your face and kicks you in your groin. At least there you know where you stand.

(Note: Original Statements from parties have been modified in the interest of protecting perspective.).

“Is Exposure enlightenment or is ignorance bliss?”

It is about getting the balance right. People caught on the extremes of enlightenment or ignorance always find things to complain about.

The enlightened ones are the ones who with the zeal of a newly converted missionary go around proclaiming the need to discard all things related to their home country. Their accents undergo a dramatic transformation. Their noses turn into finely tuned instruments…that go “twang, twang” and they switch to singing only mukesh songs. Understandable if it was just an effort to adapt to the locals. Unfortunately they go back home and harangue their countrymen with their newly acquired accents.

On the other side of the debate, you have the ignorant ones, who will insist on not reading the signs or the rules because they never did it back home. Who will walk into an Indian restaurant in Cleveland and proclaim that the “Sambar” back home is soooo much better. Who feel hurt and offended because the people in their new country cant understand their fine unaccented Indian English. (So stupid yaar….). They assume that locals are retarded because they follow the rules.

Be that as it may all be...... one thing is clear

Very few People (esp. Indians) move to the US because they are "forced" to, they move because their country of origin doesnt have the ability to fulfill their needs, whether those needs happen to be support during their old age or a desire to pursue cutting edge technology. They do it because subconsciously they know it is better for them.

It has to be that or else i am grossly underestimating people's willingness to travel distances, to find something new to complain about.

How well they adjust to their new life is entirely in their own minds. Those are not able to make the adjustment do one of two things.

a) They go back home without an ounce of regret and live happily ever after.
b) They sit here and are critical of everything that the country has to offer through the reminder of their life

The ones who adapt well ……….There is a certain amount of wistfulness about the old days, but not enough to impede their happiness quotient in their day to day living.

But without exception, all the people who make the journey across, are pioneers, because they have forced change on themselves. They could be characters in Louis L’amour novels.

But there is no one there to write about them.

Thank god for that one guy in a Tommy Hilfiger shirt and dhoti……

Another fascinating insight into music and my head

2007-05-18T17:41:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had an "Aha" moment when something goes "Click" in your head?

I was listening to a podcast ("The Changing world-PRI" ), that talked about the changing cultural landscape across India and how film music in india had transcended languages to become truly multi-cultural. The news programme mentioned A.R.Rahman as one of the pioneers in helping bridge the language barrier.

But on careful thought, i beleive the person to be accorded that honor should be M.S.Subbulakshmi (MSS), who brought the first piece of Hindi music to the southern Indian landscape and made it part of every household that proudly possessed an LP/ mono tape/cassette recorder. I am ofcourse referring to her rendition of the Mira Bhajans.

The rendition is in the traditional south indian classical style of music. Carnatic music to those who like to say it the right way. Karnatak to those who choose to pronounce it wrong and make me wish i could strangle them slowly as they gurgle..."You are right..i .....should not........ confuse it with (glug) a Southern Indian state...".

So one might ask what does this have to do with anything? The simple answer to that is "Its my blog, stupid. I write whatever i want". But that would be rather rude and quite unnecessary.

The real answer to that is that most famous of Carnatic music compositions are in a southern language that i dont understand a word of. (Telugu).

But i didnt know that when my untrained ears first heard that music. I just naturally assumed that the incomprehensability of the songs was part of the Carnatic music form and i never paid attention to the lyrics. (At this point i would urge my readers to sift through their own memory banks...... back to the first time they realized that their nose pickings had a sweet AND salty taste..... and therefore refrain from passing judgement on my intellectual capabilities as a kid. )

And so, in my mind, her rendition of the bhajans sounded like most other carnatic music numbers.

Until one day, after a few years, when the line "Vish ka pyaala rana jee ne becha" came up....something went click...."Oh, Rana Ji sent her a cup of poison". This was the first time i had understood the lyrics to any Carnatic music song.

The fact that she started the song with "Paga ga ru ree...." had thrown me off all these years. A warm glow infused me.

Thanks to MSS, Carnatic music suddenly had acquired a completely new meaning.

England Day 2

2007-05-13T07:28:00.000-07:00

Have you watched "Jaywalking" on the Tonight show with Jay Leno?. In one particular show he asks a woman

"Do you know where London is?". The woman ponders briefly and then blurts out

"Its in Paris".

I must confess that until this trip, i could have been mistaken for a distant cousin of the woman. (Oh. All right. Since most of you already know how intelligent i am, I will add "Distant cousin 10 times removed".)

Cos every time somebody asked me where my sister lived...I would promptly reply "London" even though i knew she lived in Shrewsbury, which we now know is well north of London and around 31/2 hours by Rail.

(If you are still having trouble placing Shrewsbury, just Ask Jeeves. it is one of the stops on the way to Blandings Castle.
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On Sunday morning, my friend insisted i make the trip to Eastham to savor the idlis at the local South Indian restaurant (Saravana Bhavan).

Eastham. Otherwise known as "Thambiland". All the people reported as missing from Mylapore, Chennai mavattam, can be found at the restaurant i went to.

Kancheepuram Silk Sari clad maamis walked along hand in hand with dhoti toting mamas...sacred ash smeared over their foreheads..humming "Kya karoon haiiiiiiii...Kuch Kuch hota hai".....

It was a humbling moment. I realized then how exposure to different countries and cultures could be enlightening. And how even the most deep rooted prejudices, those that are so well entrenched that they become part of the subconscious, could unbidden, uproot themselves when confronted with the mind broadening realities that traveling foists upon you,

What i mean by that is , i never thought i would ever see a Central Mylapore mama or mami, humming ANY hindi song, let alone a Bollywood one at that.

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It was time to board the train. I wandered up and down the compartment as most of the seats seemed to be reserved. (The seats that were reserved had ticket stubs attached to the chairs). I was tired. There was a brief struggle as my inner Englishman fought valiantly with my inner bihari. But as is wont to happen when i am tired, my inner bihari won as i plonked myself into the next available seat.

Now here is a traveling tip. Don't dismiss your inner Bihari when traveling abroad. It worked for me. I made the trip to Shrewsbury without being disturbed.

The train ride on the whole was very comfortable. I was really surprised on how scenic the English countryside looked. Everything was shockingly green and undeniably English.

Looking out of my window, i caught a brief glimpse of a cricket match being played on an open ground. The scene reminded me of India, of countless such train rides staring out of a window, and i was suddenly nostalgic. It reminded me of how much i had loved the game and those train rides. And how four years in the US, perfect roads, absent trains and the insularity of the US Sports Channels had managed to inure me until they had become dull distant memories.

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I reached Shrewsbury late that night and was picked up by Amma and Peter. My first impression of it was that the roads were really narrow, but i couldnt see much else given the time of the night.

We made our way home and after a lovely dinner, (everything my sister cooks is lovely), it was time to call it a night.

The One

2007-05-10T13:55:00.000-07:00

He loved the sea. The feel of the ocean spray on his face as he sat there watching the waves crash against the sandy shores.

So many of his memories had to do with the ocean.

“Please, Ma. Just this last one. It’s the last wave.” he would plead as his parents dragged him away from the water.

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Over a period of time, his range of acquaintances grew, but his friend’s circle remained limited. It did not bother him in the least. He knew however far apart they lived, whatever distances they traveled, they would remain his friends.

They all had that one thing in common, that they had discovered on the Ocean front.

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Today, there was a girl with him. His parents had sighed to themselves, when they heard his choice of rendezvous. Why did it have to be so important to him?

He trudged across the sandy beaches, the girl by his side, exchanging some idle chit chat along the way. They reached the edge of the pier. The waves crashed against the piles holding up the piers. It would happen now.

The ocean had never failed him.

The girl turned to him

“Wow. This is spectacular. The waves are huge aren’t they? Look at them. That one must be at least 3ft high”.

“3 ft and 4 inches”, he thought to himself.

It was time to head back.

His parents looked at him expectantly as he entered the house. He just shook his head. The inevitable refrain from his parents followed him as he made his way up the stairs.

“Don’t tell me its wavelength again”.

England

2007-04-25T05:45:00.000-07:00

It has been a greatly relaxed holiday.... Shall we take it day by day then?

Day 0 - The path to hell is paved with good intentions....

I decided to leave early for the airport. A good six hours before my flight. That would give me time to drive into Manhattan (1 hour), park the car at a parking garage (15 mins), drop the parking ticket off with a friend (10 minutes), take the subway (1.5 hours) and still be a good 3 hours early for my first international flight.

Everything was on track. Leave the house at 12:30...Drive up to new York...whoops...traffic jam outside danbury...s'ok..only 1 hour lost...Still have 2 hours of lead time...drive into manhattan...look for parking spot...look for parking spot...oops missed the turn...look for parking spot...find the parking stop...how much? you crazy? look for parking spot...look for parking spot...pick up cousin's friend to hand over ticket...look for parking spot...look for parking spot...3:50 PM....aaarrgghhh...screw the $$$......look for parking spot..park...hand over ticket to cousins friend....look for cab..sorry sir...no jfk..look for cab...same response...4:15....take subway....

step into subway...suddenly calm..realize missing flight...think up suitable explanation to family......tie handkerchief around my eyes..whip out last cigarette........life flashes in front of eyes...so promising...so young...Suddenly flurry of activity...guards confer...presidential pardon received... train arrives at station....Only 30 minute ride...not 1.5 hours......hallelujah....

Go upto counter...Lady at flight info counter says..."no bard code on passport...no travel"....Ok..Ok..Sorry. Sorry...next time ok? I am a nice man...this time ok? Next time..For sure...Ok?

Get into airport...Flight delayed by half hour......board flight...bored in flight...Watch movies endlessly...search for glasses every two hours...under seat, in the bag...on the head...

Day 1 - England
Walk out of immigration line.....Look around for thronging masses....Dont find them...Finally spot peter...who will have to do. Momsy and sis waiting at starbucks. Step into car...Time to get back to normal writing

My first impression of england was that it wasnt very different from the US...Everything was neat and clean. But the roads were certainly smaller. More Indians too...

The plan (yes there is always one in a vacation) was that Pete and I would travel around London while amma and shyamala would head upto Southhampton to meet a friend...

So off pete and i went to find ourselves an open top bus...I was surprised that the price for the open top bus was haggleable...Pete told the guy that he wanted to know how much the competition charged and the price dropped by 9 quid...(thats how the english say it...I was duty bound to polish my english accent as soon as i got off the plane. As you go along you will find more examples of this...Always do as the locals do. Thats the saying innit?)

It was a beautiful sunny day in London. Bloody good thing too...What? Not all of us are blessed to bring along good weather with us innit?

There you have a sample of how i spent my time irritating my sister for the rest of the trip. It was reassuring to know i had not lost my touch after all these years.

We hopped off the bus at St Paul's cathedral. Everything about London so far had impressed me. Including the prices. It was really high. So was St.Paul's cathedral. The original cathedral dated back to over 800 years, but the version we saw in front of us was built around the 1600's. The actual chapel with the frescoes itself was redone in the 1700's. The Dome was 365 feet high, one of the tallest building in london. Apparently it was one foot for every day of the year.

There were 567 steps to the top of the cathedral. It was a pleasent change that tourists were allowed all the way to the top. In most historical places with high views....think qutab minar, statue of liberty....most of them are not open to the public for some reason or the other. The whispering gallery was the highlight here. The dome was a perfectly round sphere...and so what that meant was that if you stood at a point in the sphere and had another person stand exactly opposite to you on the other side, you could hear the person as clearly as though they were in front of you, even if they were whispering. (Phew).

As you can see, buying the audio tour really pays off....From knowing next to nothing about the cathedral, i was now a veritable tour guide...

The second stop was the tower of london. Pete and i stopped to buy a couple of ice cream cones....Sunny, clouds skipping across the blue skies....two grown men skipping across the flagstones ice cream cone in hand, we happily trudged our way to the tower just in time to hear the tour guide regaling us with the history of the place. (Americans, look around you. This could all have been your history. Australians, your ancestors may have been imprisoned here!!! etc etc)

We made our way to the Jewel house where the queens jewels were stored. (The "House of bling" was how our tour guide referred to it...My sis calls it "The depository of illgotten gains". Envy i call it).

This is where the famous "Kohinoor" is stored. We glided past the jewelery exhibits (They have a moving platform to make sure people dont just stand there and stare)...There was a "HUGE" diamond from South Africa...I was so busy staring at it, i missed the Kohinoor...So i decided to glide past it again, got off and told pete it was impressive...until pete told me i had been looking at the wrong stone...so off i went again..till i finally spotted it...Impressive...Sudennly overcome by emotion i screamed "Give it back". (Ofcourse i did not..but i could have).

So after the tower of london, i decided to catch up with a buddy of mine. So pete, and I decided to drive across town to get there using the services of the GPS or as i liked to call her, GPS Mami cos she was a really moody thing.

We started off with Pete spending his time cajoling her to give us directions but she was not intersted. So we resorted to good old fashioned navigating. Realization suddenly struck GPS Mami that with a navigator of my caliber in the car, she could not afford to be moody. So she kicked in with directions. The crafty lady started off by sending us off in the other direction causing peter to look askance at me...(I am quite pleased to use the word askance in a sentence..) After around an hour and half of driving...we finally reached my friend's house...GPS Mami decided she didnt like underpasses and suddenly switched herself off in the middle of the trip causing quite a bit of confusion. Left to me, i would have chucked her out of the window...but Pete understandbly having invested a lot of time in the relationship, demonstrating admirable patience, finally got her working again.

Mom and Sis joined us at my friend's house in East london where we hung around till around 9:30 PM. I decided to stay on overnight with him while Amma, Shyam and Pete headed back to Shrewsbury.

He had a lovely flat with a magnificent view of the Thames. We had a bit of Tea, watched a good game of cricket...even if it was england vs west indies..

All in all a jolly good time..back again later for the next post

Pip Pip

Ottawa

2007-03-20T17:24:00.000-07:00

So have been in city of Ottawa for the last 3 days....Canada is a funny country...(Ha ha.)

It is a lot like the US, but not quite. So here is my attempt at putting the proverbial finger on it....

Two official languages - It is quite a refreshing change to hear a language other than English being spoken around you. Shows i have been in the US far too long..Ofcourse, it is also refreshing because while you hear French being spoken , whenever you talk to somebody, you get responses in English. With a nice French accent to it.

I was so enamoured initially hearing french over the flight announcements, i actually tried to reconstruct sentences in pigdin French and had an imaginary conversation with myself on the flight to montreal.

A good thing too...cos soon i had the opportunity to practice it with the nice bald french and english speaking gentleman at the airport.

"Oui....Zee plane..When it arrive? Tiens!!! Le Terminale Trois...zee plane has gone...? "

I had missed the connecting flight.

Here is a little tip. Never check in baggage when flying to Canada if you have a connecting flight..cos they make you go to the baggage terminale...and lift it off zee belt, go thru le immigration, lift zee baggage on again...by which time zee connecting flight in Le Terminale Trois..ees gone...

And when you finally arrive in Ottawa, you realize

"Le baggage, it ees stuck in Montreal. Tiens again."

So there i was in Ottawa, with the baggage still in Montreal. Luckily it was a Saturday evening, so i didnt particularly care about it cos the only thing i had planned for Sunday was a nice long snooze and a survey of downtown ottawa to stake out the US Consulate.

The Hotel Room - Dont have any wireless in their hotels and you have to pay for internet services. But is quite a nice hotel. The Chinese lady in the reception was extra nice and gave me a free bathroom kit cos she said i looked really tired...(read: you look like you could use a bath.)It looked rather tacky but i didnt mind cos it was the personal touch that counted...She had obviously brought it back from her last visit home and had handed it over to a complete stranger..cos it said "Made in China".

The room didnt have any microwave either. WTF?

So sunday morning, i went down to the reception, enquired about my luggage and was told that they had heard nothing from the airport. Meanwhile, the receptionist informed me that the US Consulate was a only a brisk 5 minute walk if i ran. I headed back to my hotel room wondering if i should wait a little bit longer for my luggage, when i spotted a sign for a restroom in french and inspiration struck.

After my french bath, i headed outside...or tried to...The wind, the biting wind, the cold, bitter, biting, i cant feel my ear or nose anymore wind, hit my face as i stepped out.....

BRrrrrrrrr......

As i made my way down, i noticed out of the corner of my eyes that there were some really old nice buildings with a lot of hair around them...... (On a bright warm and sunny day, when you see a nice building, you stop beside the building...throw a few oohs and aahs..maybe even take a few photos for the folks back home...On a cold blustery winter day, when you see a nice building, it is normally through the slits in the corners of your eyes cos your head is down and you are eyes are crunched up....and your eyebrows get in the way.... )

I located the US Consulate and decided to take the opportunity to visit the mall and buy myself some clothes. Which i duly did...Set me back by a couple of hundred bucks.

Observation : Everything in Canada is MORE expensive than the US

Having located the US Consulate and now armed with clothes for the Consulate visit i headed back to the hotel. Still no luggage.

So i called up the Air Canada baggage locator office which strangely enough was placed in India. The nice young boy on the line assured me that my luggage had been located in Montreal but had not found its way yet to Ottawa....Apparently they route all their baggage through India now...

But I decided that i would chance it and pay a visit to the airport to see if my luggage had arrived there...

It had...Luggage had been located.....I picked it up and ran out of the aiport door to my car..bursting at the seams with happiness...My suitcase apparently was happy as well...the zipper came undone and the clothes fell out..but what the heck...

I was happier than rupa that i had found my banian.

Monday morning - The US Consulate visit.

In all the time i had spent in Ottawa and Montreal traveling, i seemed to have been the only South Asian around...But i discovered the reason for that when i visited the US Consulate. There they were. They had been standing outside the US Consulate. I joined them thereby ensuring that the rest of Ottawa was briefly South Asian free....(by South Asian, i mean by fellow pakistan and bangladeshi brothers)....

The lady at the visa counter took my passport...and asked me to come back for my visa the next day.

So i did...I collected my visa...I also saw the movie 300 and wished i had not. (More to come on this later...)...Saw the museum of contemporary photography...the supreme court..the parliament building..drove around downtown ottawa..(no walking..too cold for walking...brrrrr)

And thats that...

Cos real life does not have punchlines and as usual i have run out of writing steam....

Why Dear Reader stories make sense

2007-03-11T07:07:00.000-07:00

I have finally understood, the reason why "The Dear Reader" letter works rather well. It helps the person reading the blog to connect with the writer. It is in a way more personal. In my case ofcourse, it is also statistically accurate, as given the erratic nature of my posts, in all likelihood i am addressing myself. And therefore in this case, the singular form of the noun works best.

Ofcourse there are times i feel like talking to my glasses, in which case i switch to the plural.

The Temple of The Family Diety

2007-01-28T07:33:00.000-08:00

Chapter 1: Lets Get ready to Rummmmbbblllleeeee

“When are your exam results due?”

“July 9th”. I mumbled, more preoccupied with stuffing dosas and chutney into my mouth.

A week later, my mother took me aside and informed me that she had consulted the astrologer and that that the only way to make certain that I would pass my exams was to propitiate our family deity in our ancestral village.

Apparently a lot of years had gone by since the time my great grandfather had left the little village of Ariyanayagapuram to seek out his fortunes. And it was possible that my family deity wasn’t too happy about being ignored for that long. So the long hours of studying I had put in and the four days of grueling 3 hour tests, could all be in vain, unless we did the right thing.

“We need to propitiate her now, kiddo”. (My mom obviously doesn’t talk like someone out of an American Western…but you get the tone . )

Two weeks of intense but futile protests followed. My aunt was roped into the plan as she too had two daughters that would require something or the other and it never hurt to play safe. And soon I found myself seated inside a 2nd class train compartment, chin to the window, peering out into the largely brown countryside that is so often the norm in India.

Seated opposite me were my aunt and mother with a beatific smile on their faces, chattering away intensely. Two teenage girls looking forward to the appearance of their favorite movie star on the sets of a talk show couldn’t have been happier.

I had the beginnings of a bad cold by then. But that did not stop me from stopping every hawker that went past our train compartment and stuffing my insides with whatever they were selling to go along with my increasingly stuffed nose.

I heard a rumbling. It was a low sound barely audible. And so I ignored it. But when the train lurched to a stop outside the station, I felt a second lurch. This time the rumbling was louder. It was my stomach. And…. we had reached our intended destination..

Chapter 2: Onto the Village of Ariyanayagapuram

Tirunelveli. Home to the famous piece of sweet, The “Tirunelveli Halwa” and of course my ancestors.

Arrangements had already been made. The town of Ariyanayagapuram was around 60 kilometers away. And there was the proverbial Ambassador Car waiting for us at the train station. The car was any other car you would find in small towns in India ten years back.

No Airconditioning and No Shock Absorbers

And the roads…Lets not mention the roads.

Lets just say that the car ride was to my insides what a blender is to a ripe juicy tomato.

For those of you who have trouble still getting the picture, maybe this equation will help

Virus + Cold + Indiscriminate eating + Bouncy ride = ……

Two old distant relatives and their house had been resurrected for this occasion. We trotted out of the car. I waited as politely as I could while pleasantries were exchanged and common ancestries established. But I could not hold it any longer. I had to find out

“Excuse me? Which way to the bathroom?”

Chapter 3 : Home Sweet Bathroom

The old gentleman pointed to the other end of the house. My heart sank into my stomach increasing my burden.

Perhaps I should pause for an explanation here. (Not the best time is it?)

The house that was to be my temporary residence was a few hundred years old. The climate being what it was in that part of India, hot and extremely humid, the architectural norms of that period dictated that the houses had to be built in a manner conducive to cross ventilation.

And so this house had eight long rectangular halls placed parallel to each other. Standing on the porch of the house, one could draw a straight line through all the doors to the other end of the house, which in my condition looked roughly like it was a mile away.

The bathroom in keeping with good hygiene from that period had been placed around 30 feet away from the house.

“There is no running water though. In the 6th hall as you go through the doors, you will find a big cement tub full of water and a bucket beside it.”

Before he could finish his sentence I was on my way. Roger Bannister couldn’t have competed with me at that point.

After a brief sharp stop to pick up the bucket I ran out of the house looking for the bathroom. It turned out to be a small hole in the ground. But by then I was past caring.

Ahhhhhhhhh…..Nirvana…

Chapter 4: The saga continues

I made my way back rather sheepishly back to the front porch where my elderly relatives, mom and aunt were catching up on past generations. I was offered a chair. I was about to sit down, when it happened.

“Excuse me folks. Gotta go”…And off I went again…..

The rest of the day was spent trotting back and forth along the long corridor. (They don’t call it “The Runs” for nothing.) A swoop for the bucket, a hop to the cement tub, a dip, the long weary trudge back...…I went at it all morning.

Meanwhile the old folks were discussing the plan of action for the following morning.
The current residents of our ancestral home had very kindly consented to our offering prayers to the family deity.

By now my cold had blossomed into a full-fledged fever and so I did not have the best night of restful sleep that is normally demanded on such occasions as it usually involves waking up pretty early in the morning.

Chapter 5: The Visual

We knocked on the door just as the sun rose on the horizon.

I must admit that as I entered my ancestral house I was more than a little curious.

After all this was the house from which the Ramanathans had set forth into the big bad world of plumbing and central air conditioning. (The overnight loss of fluids luckily had not resulted in any loss of perspective.)

Now then…where was the family deity?

My entourage had already asked the question and so we followed the owner down the long corridors of his house. He finally stopped by a small door around five feet high and beckoned to me.

“Go on in”.

I stepped inside.

And so there it was. The statue of the goddess, our family deity. An ancient sculpture carved centuries ago by an unknown artisan bedecked with jewels from head to toe, resplendent in the early morning light as the first rays of the morning sun showed up on the horizon. I dropped to my knees in awe, clasped my hands, tears pouring down my face………………

You almost believed me there didn’t you? But I don’t blame you. You are not alone. When you think ancient family deity that’s the image that occurs to most of us. Lets start over now.

I stepped inside.

Into a dirt floor. In the center of the floor was a large block of stone, black in color. Nylon wires were strung across the four walls to serve as a clothes line. Above me was plain sky.

I turned around to my mom with a questioning look. (My aunt meanwhile had dropped to her knees, hands clasped…).My mother pointed to the black stone and said,

“There she is, my son”.

So I spend the rest of the morning showering prayers and attention on our family deity who had chosen to manifest herself in the form of a large black piece of stone.

I was then offered a large bowl of brown rice pudding that had been cooked for the occasion and was informed that I needed to distribute it as “prasadam” ( food that had been sanctified by the gods) to the rest of the village.

Chapter 5: High Noon

The Sun shone bright in the sky. It was noon. The little village of Ariyanayagapuram was quiet. The dusty lanes bereft of people. This was a not a day to venture out unless you had very good reason to.

The man paused for breath as he wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. Half Naked, clad only in a light cotton towel, with another cotton piece around his shoulders he was a solitary figure on that dusty lane. But only for a moment. He waited, as the two elderly women following him turned the corner.

He looked up.

The sky was a pale blue. There was not a cloud in the sky to offer a patch of protection against the unrelenting rays of the sun. A few crows circled overhead causing little fluttering shadows on the ground below.

He made his way to the first house on the street and knocked on the door. The old couple who had been watching his progress down the road from their windows, shuffled across to the door, opened it and and stared down at the man.

“Sir, can I offer you some Chakkara pongal?” he asked looking down into the bowl, and looking back up again.

“We are sorry, son. But there is a problem. Both of us are diabetic……….”.

He looked at the bowl in his hands, looked up, looked at the bowl again and finally turned around. The two women behind him nodded their head understandingly. He sighed and made his way to the next house.

Chapter 6: Redemption

“How do you feel?”

We were back in the train on our way home.

“I feel fine. Perfectly normal. Thank you”.

My aunt turned to my mom with a slightly awed expression on her face.

“It’s working already ”.

And just in case you are wondering I did pass my exams.

Temples

2007-01-28T07:32:00.000-08:00

For a person who is not too much into temple visits…I have visited more than my fair share. One of them of course (if you haven’t already read it) being the visit to “Ram Nadi”.

All of these temple visits have been memorable for some reason or the other.

Therefore I have decided to write a few posts around them. (You can now visualize me pausing here…and while you are doing that I will visualize the applause dying down.)

Short Story

2006-11-19T03:35:00.000-08:00

Wrote a short story based on a cue.
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It's been 14 years. Will the "teacher" ever get it right?

The "Teacher" was ready to begin the class….

Yes. It was a school legend, that "Teacher" in the 14 years he spent educating his pupils had never managed to say Floppy Disk. It was always “Ploffy" Disk.

Always.

The Class was ready to commence. He made his usual start....

“Children…..Take out your Floppy…….”

For a split second, there was a stunned silence in the class.

Was he actually going to get the words “Floppy Disk” right for the first time in living memory?

Without realizing it, the entire class held its breath.

“Diks…”, he ended.

There was a muffled giggle followed by a few titters.

Normal chatter resumed.

What would you ask God?

2006-10-19T17:17:00.000-07:00

So i was having this interesting theological discussion with a Mormon who was giving me his views on religion in a Subway restaurant over lunch.

(Who says life isnt happening in Erie?)

And midway through the conversation he asked me a question that made me stop and think.....

What would you do if God came down and sat next to you right now...?"

I did my Regis Kelly impression.....with a clenched fist swinging in the air...

(The guy who comes on "Who wants to be a millionaire"..american version. The Indian equivalent would be Amitabh going "Bahut Badiya...")

"Thats a TERRIFIC question"......

My answer to him was that i definitely would never want that to happen.

This is why....

I think i would look at God and go

"Whaaaaa?"
"Why?????"
"How??????"

And then promptly keel over ....cos i would be too overwhelmed....

And then i would go to heaven, see god and be so overwhelmed i would go

"Whaaaaa?"
"Why?????"
"How??????"

And then promptly keel over.....And wake up to find God in front of me...get overwhelmed and.....

Get the picture

There you go. Thats why i dont want to.

Betcha that thought never crossed your mind. You are probably thinking

"Whaaaa?"
"Why?????"
"How????"

am i reading this junk?

If you are, you are closer to God then you think.......

Careful

Dont fall over now.

Thanks for visiting

2006-10-15T12:26:00.000-07:00

It has been 3 years, 1 month and approximately a few days. It had to happen someday…and although that day has not yet occurred, it will soon be upon us…

I wrue this for those people who came to visit me while i was in Erie........

Yes.Ye of a few days......Do you remember Erie?

In summer, it is the place that seems quite nice…with that lovely waterfront, the nice library and those picturesque boats…the nice walks along the state park…At some point the question would always pop up from you....

“What are you complaining about. It seems quite lovely…”

To you I would have said…”You haven’t seen it in winter”.

For those winter visitors….

To you it will be the place of too much snow…The land of “Brrrr…. Its cold here…… What the heck do you do here in winter?“

To you I would have said…”But summer is lovely…. And once you learn skiing. it isn’t too bad. "

And really the weather did not matter because i was with people who had come all that way to visit me....(Oh. All right. The Niagara Falls as well. ).

I will miss those summers

I will miss those winters

I will miss being the Cloakroom to the Niagara Falls.....

I will miss them like I did all of you, .the day after you left…

And for those of you who did not quite manage to make that trip to Erie, PA while I was there

Have I told you that about the exciting possibilities of Danbury, Connecticut?

Day 5 – Twas 1:15 AM in the morning

2006-06-05T21:12:00.000-07:00

Note: Reading the "Travelogue" In Chronological order helps....So Start here for the Travelogue

Once upon a time, there lived a certain man you all probably know in a city called Erie. He lived in a one room apartment just perfect for one person, (assuming of course that person did not suffer from even the mildest form of claustrophobia). He had in the course of the 21/2 years played host to a number of guest and relatives in the house. The various guests and relatives were unceasingly kind and never complained about the lack of space. Even when their noses were thrown out of joint when he thoughtlessly tried to stretch his hands within the confines of the house. The guests however did gently point out that the house brought back memories of India and the days of the British Raj.

Finally, one day the inference dawned on him. His house had a name now . It was “The Black Hole of Calcutta”.

Something stirred within him. Perhaps it was his desire to avoid subjecting another Englishman, one that was family, to a similar fate. But he resolved to find himself a new house to live in. So he searched high and low within the City of Erie for a house that would fit his needs and his budget. A house where he could wake up in the morning, yawn and stretch comfortably without having to apologize immediately afterwards to his guests. A house where he could make breakfast without feeling like a chef on a morning show as his guests (invariably awakened by the activity) watched him. A house where his guests would not need to perform a tap dance outside the bathroom door while waiting for their kinsfolk inside. A house where they would not need to remember to open the tap in their state of duress, so certain noises could not be heard by their near and dear ones now on the wrong side of the bathroom door…..

A house where……

For the sake of brevity….Lets just say he was looking for a big house…

Luckily this is a happy story. Because the man found the house of his dreams…….It was everything he had wanted. The house was called “The Brewster House”. Built in 1828 it was on the National Register of Historical places. The drawing room was 32 ft by 24 ft. It had 14 foot ceilings…A dozen windows a dozen feet high…. The 2 bedrooms upstairs were statuesque…It was a house his Grandfather would have been proud of….

It occured to the man that his gas bill in winter would probably be as big as the house…but he dismissed it. He rented the house and spared no expense in furnishing it because he knew it had to be just perfect for when his family came visiting.

And then one day, it finally happened. His family was in Erie.

So there the man stood,at the entrance to his house, holding the keys, looking back at his family with a proud smile on his face.

His family meanwhile stared back bleary eyed at him, wondering why their idiot brother was standing by the door, in the middle of the night, and smiling stupidly back at them, instead of letting them in so they could finally get to bed.

It was 1:15 AM.

Family Vacation - Day 4

2006-05-28T19:27:00.000-07:00

Note: Pls try and read in Chronological order.

Washington DC for those not in the know is known for its museums. There are of course the standard tourist attractions such as the White House and other things that I cannot remember and which I am not going to try and remember cos this is not the “Lonely Planet” guide and cos I feel lazy. (This happens to me a lot. ).

I woke up early, went down to the concierge desk to check out the easiest way of reaching the Smithsonian…(the area where most of DC’s museums are located.) I was informed that taking the metro was the easiest way and that there was a shuttle leaving on the hour from the hotel to the metro station that would deposit us directly at our desired location.

So with that decided, I went upstairs, and being the nice guy that I am, woke everybody up from their slumbers. After a lovely breakfast buffet, (given our experience at the NY hotel, everything about our current hotel deserved a superlative), we were charged and ready to go.

We checked ourselves out of the hotel, deposited our luggage into the minivan, and after a brief search for Pete’s jacket…I sniggered briefly into my mine when that happened…cos those kind of things along with the inevitable dirty stares that followed normally happened only to me.

At the metro station, the tickets had to be purchased from the vending machine. I couldn’t for some reason figure out what combinations of tickets to buy.

(Actually I know the reason. Have you tried using a vending machine with four family members breathing down your neck? ………

”Hit that button”.
“No.Not that button. The other one”
“What are you doing? Cant you read?”
“We are going to miss the train”
“Dear God!!! My brother has the IQ of a peanut.”
“Aaaarghhhh. Somebody Hold me. I am going to kill him”)

Luckily unconditional love in the form of my mother restrained my sisters. After around 20 attempts, Radha took over and secured us an all day pass that required us to wait until 9:30 AM before we could use it. (It was 9:15AM).

The 15 minutes seemed interminable. We hung around outside the metro. It was another bright sunny day. So wearing my dark glasses, (and encouraged by Shyamala, I must add) , I did my rendition of Stevie Wonder singing Beatles songs with an especially strong South Indian accent. Peter meanwhile spent the 15 minutes pondering deeply over his choice of travel companions.

We reached the Smithsonian and decided to check out the National Air and Space Museum followed by the Museum of Natural History.

The beautiful day it was, Shyamala and Peter strolled along leisurely around 30 yards behind amma and radha, who strolled roughly 150 yards behind me, stopping to smell the flowers (literally).

Anyways, after the two-hour stroll (or so it seemed to me….all that flower smelling drove me bonkers…), we made it to the National Air & Space Musuem. We got in just before a passel of buses, holding roughly a million screaming school kids, opened their doors to let them loose into the museum.

The museum houses a variety of exhibits ranging from the first airplane ever flown by the Wright Brothers to the various Apollo Spacecrafts that flew to the moon. I have been to this museum at least 6 times and never tire of it. It is fascinating to see the interiors of spacecrafts from the 60’s housing hundreds of switches and dials. It is a reminder of how the world must have been before the advent of the digital age.

Other exhibits include the pen that writes in space. Apparently NASA spent millions in developing this pen. And later on came to know that the Russians (who at that time were actively involved in the “Race to Space”), used a completely different technology. In fact you probably have it at home. Its called the pencil!!!!

I left them to their devices, while I got them admissions to the Planetarium and one of the IMAX movies playing there.

Because it was a weekday, the museum, (even with the million kids included cos normally it’s a million kids, their parents and siblings ), was at its least crowded and so we had the IMAX movie and the planetarium almost wholly to ourselves.

After the 1st hour, Peter realizing that it made more sense spending quality time, suggested that we shelve the museum hopping and instead do a bus tour once we were done with the Musuem.

So for the next four hours, (except for a brief pit stop for lunch) we hung around the museum, exploring the exhibits, buying t-shirts, and generally doing the touristy thing.

The last stop was a ride on a flight simulator inside the museum. (When buying the tickets, you have the option to go for the “medium” thrill or “high” thrill ride. The adjectives are mine of course. I can’t remember what they were actually called. )

I had asked for the “medium thrill” ride, cos I wasn’t sure amma was upto the “wild thrill”. I spent around 20 minutes giving her detailed instructions on how to shoot using the gun. I told her that I would be the one moving the plane around, whilst all she would have to do was press “the red button”

(Actually it took only the 30 seconds to give amma the instructions. The other nineteen and a half minutes, she spent looking for the red button.)

So we got on the thrill ride. I valiantly fought with the controls. Using my entire prior flying experience gleaned from (what else?) commando comics, I tried to get the plane lined up behind the other targets

But somehow the whole experience turned out to be very unsatisfactory. I could not get the plane to go where I wanted it to although my mom impressively enough did shoot down quite a few planes. All sweaty and worked up, I got out of the simulator and told the attendant that the experience left something to be desired.

It turned out that it was because the entire simulation sequence except for the shooting was automated in the “medium” thrill ride. In other words the Red Baron (me) could have just twiddled his thumbs on this ride.

Feeling slightly stupid, I made my way to the Bus Stop along with the rest of the family to being the bus tour.

The tour was a “hop-on”-hop-off” tour. The bus was just like any other normal municipal bus in the world, except it was shaped like a trolley . So you could say it wasn’t like any other normal municipal bus, except it was.

The tour took us through the historic museums and spots of DC (Duh!!!).

As I got on the bus, suddenly I felt like I was back in Chennai. (No. Not because it looked like the Pallavan Transport Corporation buses).

Chennai cos I felt the first salty bead of sweat begin at the back of my neck and make its way down. From a glorious sunny day, the day had turned into a “My T shirt is clinging to my back and I feel this intense urge to slap someone really hard, for no reason” day. So I made my way to the back of the bus and sat by myself, where I couldn’t hurt anybody.

While on the bus, Shyamala got a call from her friend, who she had planned to meet sometime during the day. They agreed on a place to meet, and Pete and she hopped off the bus, while amma, radha and I continued our sojourns through the roads of Washington Dc.

The plan was to stay on the bus. But as we made our way past the “The Holocaust” Musuem, (a museum dedicated to the 6 million Jews who died during World War II), I felt this sudden need to see it. So I hopped off the bus outside the museum, landing on my right foot, as I dragged Amma and Radha behind me.

It was now searingly hot. There was a long line outside the museum. This time around, the million kids had managed to get ahead of us. A few yards ahead lay the cool shadow of the museum roof. However, it seemed more like a mile as we progressed slowly down the line. Finally after around 20 interminable minutes, we made it to shade of the roof. We were still some time away from entering the museum. The glare from the sun behind us, I only needed to put up with the one Radha was giving me. (Her threshold for heat is non existent.)

Finally, we made it into through the security scanners into the building. (The extra security was understandable. I would have it too if I knew that were weirdos out there that still claim that the holocaust never happened.)

I had been warned beforehand that the museum was a very serious setting. As it turned out, I found myself deciding as I went though the exhibits, that I wanted to visit the museum by myself and didn’t really want to put amma and Radha through it . It really wasn’t a place for a family outing. I would do it another time when I had a whole day to myself.

We made our way to the exit and went back to the bus stop and hopped back on the next bus that was making its way to the Lincoln Memorial. After the usual touristy snapshots outside the memorial, (we didn’t actually climb up the steps to look at ol Abe, we were too tired), we decided to walk back to the metro (after I had to break the news to amma and Radha that we had missed the return bus. You know how they say its not a pleasant experience watching a grown man cry? It isnt easy watching grown women cry either.) where we were scheduled to meet Shyamala and Peter at 5:30 PM.

The walk along the reflecting pool was deceptively long. (Remember Forrest Gump wading into the reflecting pool ? ), but we finally made it to the metro after a 30 minute walk. By this time, the three of us were panting like a bunch of thoroughbreds that had just finished the Kentucky Derby.

Luckily Shyamala and Peter were waiting for us as promised and we took the train back to the hotel. There was no mattress waiting for us this time around. Only a 6 hour drive to Erie.

After around 2 hours of driving, I exited out of the highway and made my way to a local restaurant. Pete and I hopped out of the car first while the women, did what women do when getting out of cars after a long journey ……shuffle their feet, push each other around, start brushing their hair, get a manicure, giggling uncontrollably the whole while for no apparent reason…..(I am going to get pilloried for this… But as anybody who has been reading this blog knows, I dont exaggerate).

I stared at a family of five inside the restaurant realized that I had brought my family down to the boondocks. In the US, its easy to make out when you are in the boodocks. You suddenly feel like a fashion model, as you single handedly bring down the average weight of the populace down to 350 pounds. Also you get the feeling when talking to anyone that they have just seen their first Martian fashion model.

I went inside the restaurant and was greeted by the waitress. So i returned the greeting.

“Greetings, Boonie. I come in peace. Take me to your leader. Can I also have a table for five please?”

The waitress didn’t take me to her leader, but she did get me the table. The entire restaurant stopped whatever they were doing and decided to watch us having our dinner. After about an hour, we finally managed to finish the meal and made our way back to the car.

By this time, whatever light remaining had disappeared. It was around 9 PM. And we were still at least 5 hours away from Erie. I decided that I would have to set some new speed records to reach erie by 1:00 PM.

The same straight roads by day, by night became dark and winding. I drove at a steady clip of 85 mph. There was an oppressive silence in the car as I drove. There were no lights, just the car headlights reflecting off…well…the reflectors on the road. Except for the occasional “Aaauggghhhh…We are all gonna die!!!!, from the back of the van, whenever I braked especially hard on some corners, it was a relatively uneventful journey.

We finally made it in 4h 15 m, a new land speed record for yours truly.

It was 1:15 AM. We were in Boonie, Pennsylvania, Err….I mean Erie, Pennysylvania

Family Vacation - Day 3

2006-05-21T05:23:00.000-07:00

Note: Reading the posts in chronological order is recommended. Scroll down to start from Day 1

Day 3: Baltimore & Washington DC

Obviously 2 days was nowhere enough to see New York. Shyamala called for a return trip somewhere down the line and the motion was unanimously approved.

But it was time to head out. We had our breakfast at the hotel….said goodbye to our Bellhop and started the 3.5 hour drive down to Washington DC.

We circled the airport for around half an hour before finally figuring out the exit. We went in the wrong direction for a few miles…(par for the course as far as I was concerned. The first time I drove down to NY I had driven 140 miles in the wrong direction…), got ourselves back on track.

The plan originally had called for us to stay at my friends house in the suburb of Greenbelt in Washington DC, but he was recovering from the flu and so I had booked us at the Radisson a few miles from his house for us to stay in. (No. It was not near the airport. Thank you very much. We still haven’t learnt anything from our NY excursion have we?)

I was apprehensive about the hotel in DC, after our experience in New York. Did I mention that the food there was terrible?

My friend didn’t help my apprehensions on my informing him about where we were staying, he said that as we headed closer to downtown the hotels tended to get a little rundown.

It was once again a beautiful day. So I decided that it would be worth a lunch stop at the “Inner Harbor” which was right at the heart of the city of Baltimore. This would also give me some time to prepare my guests mentally for what lay ahead of them........The idea was to get them in a good mood before presenting the The hotel "La Folly of zee gopal"......(My French, leaves a lot to be desired. Ja.)

The waterfront had a lot of restaurants overlooking the port of Baltimore. The weather gods once again had blessed us with a beautiful sunny day and so we spent a couple of hours lounging by the waterfront eating lunch.
Lunch over, we headed back...."Destination DC".

The travel gods luckily were good friends with the weather gods. The Radisson hotel was anything but rundown. Everything was spanking new. Even the bed had settings that allowed you to configure the mattress…Sounds weird to anybody who hasn’t seen it, but you could actually change the mattress to become hard or soft based on your preference and on each side. (Or maybe everybody has seen it and i am just the village idiot here).

Suddenly I was a little kid. I played around with the mattress settings for an hour. (Look Mommy. The bed is hard.!!!! Mommy!!! The bed is soft now. Mommy. Where are you going???) Then once i got the perfect setting, out came the remote control and the TV switched itself on.

Ominous signs. Mommy and her daughters weren’t pleased. I was reminded that we were supposed to go meet my friend. And so reluctantly myself out.

After spending some time sitting on the lawn outside his house, (we didn’t go in not wanting to risk an infection), we took a walk down to a lake nearby. After a long leisurely walk around the lake, decided to move on to the next agenda item viz., to have dinner in Bethesda or Georgetown, both picturesque locations in DC known for their fine restaurants.

So we hopped back into the car but as we drove away from his house, visions of the mattress extraordinaire popped into our heads and we suddenly found that all of us were extremely tired and didn’t really want to eat out.

I hit the brakes, swung the wheel , the tires screeched against the asphalt, burning rubber and leaving skid marks, as the minivan did a gutwrenching spin. In the back seat, the passengers hung on bravely to the handles, an expression of grim determination on their faces, as they were tossed around in their seats.....

(I didnt do any such thing ofcourse...but i thought it would add a little drama to this post.)

So we headed back to the hotel, ordered a pizza, demolished it and hit the sack.

Yawn…!!! Tiring day.

Family Vacation - Day 2

2006-05-15T06:27:00.000-07:00

Note: Reading it in Chronological order is recommended

After the exertions of the previous night, by the time we woke up, It was almost 10:00 AM.

The plan for today originally included a trip to the Statue of Liberty as well as catching a Broadway show. Due to the late start, and flexibility in schedule being a key feature of my Master plan. (Ja. Mein master plan icht wunderbar) the Statue of Liberty plan was shelved and instead we decided we would do a Open Double Decker Bus tour of New York City as a substitute.

So off we headed to the City. Again, we decided that taking the cab was the easier option. I mumbled a few words about taking the Metro, but was outvoted 5 to 1. (The bellhop for some reason was included into the voting process). It also dawned on me that Shyamala and Radha didn’t need pins to stick into me, their piercing stares being more than sufficient.

The cab dropped us outside the Grayline bus tours office. And we hopped onto to a double decker bus that was headed uptown.

It was a beautiful sunny day in New York with a light breeze accompanying us throughout. It did get a little cold in the shade, but atop the bus, with the sun shining, it couldn’t have been any better.

The uptown loop would take us through among other things New York Central Park, American Museum of Natural History, Cathedral of St John the Divine, Harlem and Fifth Avenue, (famous for its shopping centers.)

Shyamala and Peter were fascinated by the architecture which apparently was a mish mash of different European styles. Interestingly, as I listened to them, I realized that European architectural styles and Italian food had a lot in common……….in that, I knew next to nothing about both.

Our double decker tour included a very loud guide, whose knowledge of the city (or lack of it) rivaled only mine.

After a few minutes of her insightful comments, “That’s a really tall building”, I couldn’t take it any more.

I looked around at the rest of the passengers and found them doing their best to avoid her gaze, hoping that would do the trick and she would eventually shut up.

The only time they would look at her was when the bus went approached the traffic light. Every time that happened, they would collectively hold their breath, hoping that this would be the traffic light that would eventually knock her out cold.

(The Traffic lights in New York were just a couple of feet above the passengers seated on the bus. Remember Jackie Chan in “Rush hour”, grabbing hold of the traffic light and jumping out of the bus?).

Unfortunately she survived all of them.

I found myself slowly turning homicidal. .

“That ladies and gentlemen is my favorite type of food…I love cold…aarghh..glug glugh”….

(That was me in my imagination going for her jugular.)

Towards the end, deciding that New York was too boring, she decided that she would “engage” the passengers by finding out where they were from.

If a passenger said “Australia”. She would repeat after him “Australiaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh”.. So after going past “Kentuckyyyyyyyyy”, “New Zealannnnnnnnnnnnnddddd”, Italyyyyyyyy, Wyomingggggggggg, and a few other assorted countrrrrrriessss and states, she eventually came around to me. I told her I was from Erie. She looked at me, couldn’t think of anything to say and suddenly went quiet.

There was a sob from one of the passengers. A couple of them turned too me shook my hand and thanked me profusely.

I was a hero.

As we got off the bus, Peter turned to me, his eyes red and brimming with tears. I started to reassure him that it was finally over and that the guide was truly gone. He wanted me to locate the nearest pharmacy.

(Turned out they weren’t tears of gratitude but were because of an allergic reaction, caused by the pollen from the trees that we had brushed past on the bus).

But now it was time for the next item on our agenda. Catching a Broadway show called “The Producers”. An old Mel Brooks play that had reopened on Broadway. (The remake of the original film was also released recently.).

The play was hilarious. The choreography was stunning. (The film apparently was a lemon).

Once the show was over, we headed down to “Little India”, (so called because it was full of Indian restaurants that had been settled by……….you get the drift I hope).

We went to “Saravanas” for lunch. The food was as good as one could hope for. But the service in the restaurant was pathetic. Our waiter it turned out had been trained at “Muniyandi Vilas”. The only thing missing was the traditional fingers in glasses when serving us our drinks.

Most Indian restaurants are owned and operated by Indian families that have settled down in the US. Not being professionally staffed most of the time, the service never is anything to write home about……..(Although strangely here I am writing about it….)

But overall it was satisfying and even entertaining. Especially since Peter did his imitation of a rainbow. His face turned pink, when the waiter brought his main course before his appetizer and tried to make him eat it. Then once he started on his appetizer his face went from pink, to a bluish green eventually settling into a beet red . Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and on top of his head, Tears poured down his cheeks. But he gamely went on to finish everything on his plate.

At the ceremony immediately after our meal, he was awarded a medal for outstanding bravery and indomitable courage shown in the face of Authentic South Indian food.

The next item on the agenda was a trip to the top of Empire State Building. It was heading towards dusk by now, which was a good thing because we wanted to catch the view of New York by night. I was a little apprehensive about the crowds and the potentially long wait to reach the top… The guide book said to be prepared for really long waits. I goaded my family along to the bottom of the building. (Schnell!! Schnell!!)

When we reached the building, to my pleasant surprise (Teufel!!!), there were no crowds and we made our way to the 86h floor where the observatory was in next to no time.

(In case anybody is wondering where I learnt german, it was from reading Commando comics when I was a kid.)

The views were stunning. I had purchased an audio tour that explained the New York layout as we took in the sights.

Finally, we capped the tour by heading down to “Ground Zero” (the remains of the World Trade Center).

We took the long metro ride back to the hotel….said goodbye to our Haitian airport attendant on the way......and hit the sack by midnight….

New York was over. Tomorrow we would head down to Washington DC.

Day 1 of The Family Vacation - New York, New York

2006-05-14T07:56:00.000-07:00

It was finally here. April 29th, 2006, a Saturday.

3 months of careful planning. D-Day had finally arrived. Is this how Winston Churchill felt when his troops were landing on the beaches of Normandy?

(Shyamala says "No". And that if Winston had planned it like I did, it could have changed the course of history i.e all our greetings would begin with a “Heil Hitler”.)

Whatever.

(Incidentally Winston was a only child. It figures)

I had rented a mini van for the occasion. The plan was that I would drive down to John F Kennedy Airport in New York, pick up Shyamala, Pete, Radha and Amma, bustle down to the hotel right by the airport, dump the suitcases, head out to the city, see Times Square, have dinner in Manhattan, bustle right back to the hotel.

So did everything go according to plan?

Yes and No. (Aha. Your curiosity is piqued. The “Yes” threw you off.).

Saturday dawned bright and early. I however woke up a little later than planned. After the usual morning stuff…ablutions, sandhyavadanam…(since the uncles and aunts are probably going to be reading this), I was ready to for the road trip.

I set off for the drive to New York. According to mapquest.com, the drive was 485 miles long and would take 71/2 hours give or take a few minutes. I took a few minutes and actually made it in 7 hours and 13 minutes.

My master plan required me to go to the hotel (by JFK) in advance and check out the rooms in advance of their arrival.

So in doing that, i found that they had reserved one smoking and one non smoking room. I didn’t have enough time to explain that Shyam, Radha and Pete had given up smoking as I had to rush to the airport immediately after checking the rooms.

(Oh all right. They dont smoke. It was a mistake in booking. I screwed up.)

Radha had already landed at the airport and was waiting at the arrival gate when i got there. We couldnt hold back on our excitement.

The doors opened. And closed. And opened and closed. (Perhaps an expln is required.)

The arrival gate at JFK is two giant steel doors that open up with a flourish every time someone walks out of customs. The doors open at the far end of a corridor and the passengers do the royal walk down to an imaginary flourish of rose petals to the eagerly awaiting masses.

Or so it seemed to me as I stood there eagerly craning my neck trying to catch a glimpse of the royal Ramanathan family walkdown.

The doors opened roughly around 150 times to admit other royalty but the Ramanathans. My body language in the meantime had moved from resembling an eagerly awaiting commoner waving flags to that a listless drug dealer in New York having a slow day at the street corner.

Finally, the doors opened to welcome Shyamala, Peter and Amma into the waiting arms (all four of them) of the New York masses.

And so we proceeded to the hotel. All 18 bags safely loaded onto the metro that would drop us right outside the hotel (which if you had missed it was right outside the airport.)

(Ok it wasn’t 18 bags but it sure felt like it. Doesn’t it always when you have these large family gatherings and you are the one worrying about the loading/unloading of the bags into the car? )

We arrived at the hotel. Radha and I went up to the lady at the hotel desk trying to convince her to give us two non smoking rooms. The bell hop, who was an Indian, realized our predicament and took it upon himself to get us the right rooms. Totally unexpected help from a totally unexpected source but we were really grateful for it.

I immediately took it upon myself in the great American tradition to put a price to his generosity in the form of a large tip.

Now, with our bags safely stowed in the hotel rooms, we were ready to head off to New York.

I decided to play 20 questions with the nice bellhop, wearing my nonchalant “I am not a NY tourist" look.

Me: (Polishing fingernails). How long does it take to get to Manhattan and back by Metro?

Bellhop : 21/2 hours . You want nice tour ? I can arrange cab. Five people in cab for four. Spl arrangement.

Me: (Stiffly, waving my “Unofficial Guide to New York” in his face.)
Nah. No tour. I have everything planned. I am going by Metro.

Bellhop: All right. Your choice. But its 2.5 hours. Would be really dumb thing to put your family through that. You sure you don’t want cab?

Me: (Chewing fingernails.) Errrrr. Maybe.

So off we went to New York in a cab.

We asked to be dropped at Little Italy, so called because it was full of Italian restaurants established by the masses of Italian immigrants who landed in New York in the early 1900’s.

We hopped out of the car and found our noses assaulted by some delightful aromas of Italian Food.

Ahh…The smell of Pasta, Cheese…Err….And herbs…

(I know. I should have stopped at Italian food…)

I whipped out the guide and tried to look up the recommended restaurants. “The family” (we were after all in Little Italy), tossed the guide book aside and said they preferred following their noses, and started walking down the street(s).

So we walked up and down a couple of times, stopped by a little Café, (Minerva), for some beverages…before hitting the streets again in search of a restaurant.

Since it was a Saturday night, most of the restaurants had a long line of people waiting outside. Almost all of them had a provision for seating people outside, but since it was a chilly night with occasional gusts of wind, there were not many takers.

We finally decided to brave the chill and seat ourselves outside at a random restaurant. A confused Italian, (he seemed to be wearing a Scottish kilt), ushered us into our seats.

And then one of those strange coincidences that happen in NY that you normally only read about in other peoples travelogues happened to me. (To the people reading this of course, nothing has changed. You are still reading somebody else’s travelogue).

The waiter, whose name was Carlos, while serving us our wine,asked all of us where we were from. Amma said India, Pete & Shyamala said UK, Radha said Seattle…and then finally he turned to me…I said “Erie”….

He stopped in mid pour…(if there is such a word). He went round eyed and said

“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo…ohhhhh”.

I said

“Yesssss………hhhhh”.

Carlos said

“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo…ohhhhh”.

I said

“Yessssss…..hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I am from Erie and I work in GE there.”

Apparently, Carlos’ Uncle also lived in Erie, worked in GE as an engineer.

I told him that if his uncle worked in Finance, i would probably be able to place him, but that the chances of me knowing his cousin were pretty slim.

It turned out his cousins wife worked in Finance in GE in Erie and her name was Monica. So this time it was my turn.

“Nooooooooooooooooooooo…..ohhh”.
“Yesssssssssssss…..hhhhhh”
“Nooooooooooo…..hhhhhh”

Luckily Carlos whipped out his cell phone, called a number and thrust his phone into my hands, putting an end to our profound exchange.

It was Monica at the other end. She of course had no clue about the scintillating dialogue that had taken place earlier.

“Hola”. She said timidly and followed up with a few other Spanish words I didn’t understand, but which I think would roughly translate to “Whaaaatttttttttt”?

Carlos was completely excited by this time. He grabbed the phone from me, shot off a few sentences in Spanish, and hung up on her.

After that, we were a family of 6 at the table, with Carlos playing host. We wined and dined.

And how.

The food was absolutely wonderful. Shyamala, Amma and I had a thingy made of rice, pete had a meaty thingy, radha had a thingy made of potatoes….

(If you want to know exactly what we ate, check with Shyamala. She has a food blog and cooks really well. I on the other hand just eat.)

By the end of the meal, we were in Carbohydrate heaven. We could not move. I was so stuffed, I could barely rasp out my appreciation to Carlos. (Now I know why Marlon Brando needed to have a raspy voice in “The Godfather”. Its all that Italian Food.)

Carlos informed us that he was planning to open his own restaurant someday. I promised him that if he made it to Erie, I would him take him to both the two restaurants down there.

And then it was time to say “Ciao” which we duly did with a lot of and smiling and nodding and promises of looking each other up when we were in UK/Seattle/Little Italy/Erie respectively.

I would like to say that it ended there and we went back to the hotel and that Day 1 was a grand success.

But it didn’t.

I let the day’s success get to me and suggested that we head down to Times square. It was almost 10:00 PM by this time and Shyamala, Amma and Pete just stared at me blankly when I asked them whether they would like to see Times square. Interpreting (incorrectly as is obvious to anyone reading this) the Blank stare to mean a Yes, I took them through a small half hour ride through the Metro.

It was lucky that Times square was all lit up as it forced them to stay awake long enough for me to shoot a few touristy pictures and hustle them back to the metro for the 2 hour train ride back to the hotel.

We reached the hotel at 1:30 AM. While waiting for the shuttle ride from the metro to hotel, Pete gleaned the life history of a Haitian airport attendant. Shyamala & Radha made him buy a voodoo doll off him, named it after me, and stuck the doll full of hat pins before going to bed.

(Ok. The voodoo doll story did not happen. But judging from their expressions, it could have…And I WAS a little sore the next morning. )

And thus ended Day 1 in New York of the family vacation.

For photos of Day 1,

Travelogue - The Family Vacation - Prologue

2006-05-14T07:43:00.000-07:00

I thought it would be a simple matter of recording events on this tour.

I had conceptualized this as one single piece on our sojourns, but having spent over an hour writing about Day 1, (without the slightest intention of doing so, i must add), I think this has to be spaced out, so readers dont have to suffer the consequences.

Therefore the travelogue in all likelihood is going to have 14 posts, one for each day of the trip.

The nice thing for the readers of this blog, is that they can always choose to end their session with a single click of the mouse.

And thus assuaging my conscience, i submit Day 1 of our travels.

Washing Machines Sock

2006-04-16T11:40:00.000-07:00

It has taken me sometime to catch on to it. Roughly 5 years and roughly a hundred pairs of socks.

Over 5 years I have kept putting the one sock away hoping that its twin will eventually show up, refusing to accept the obvious. I keep trying to convince myself that somewhere in my small house there are roughly 64 socks of varying vintage that I will eventually stumble across and reunite with their sibling.

Week after week I have trustingly thrown my new pair of socks into the washing machine.

And watched one of them disappear…..

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I keep telling myself I am being paranoid. That washing machines couldn’t have sock incinerators built into them. That they are probably jumbled up with my other clothes somewhere.

Meanwhile my reputation at work is suffering. I am almost constantly late for early morning meetings. Those frantic minutes in the morning, spent locating the second pair are taking its toll on me. But what excuse can I give? “Sorry. But I couldn’t find my other sock.”. Try that one on your boss.

I have taken to “French bathing” my socks, that way they avoid the washing machines. My monthly deo spend has shot up.

I am now wearing socks that are close approximations of each other. Nearly the same color, nearly the same length and material, but not quite.

I have increased the length on my trouser legs by a couple of inches so they dont ride up my ankles quite so much. I only attend meetings that are over conference tables.

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Oh the agony.

Is the deo strong enough? Do they notice the mismatched colors? Are they whispering about me?

I think I am going to start counting the number of pairs that I throw into my washing machine and video each pair as I throw it in. So that way I have proof.

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My door was open when I came back from office. Were they here? Is that my sock from two years ago behind the chair? How did it get there? These guys are smart. They think they can throw me off….

They have done something to my washing machine. I know it. It now changes the color of the socks. My black pair has turned into one blue and one green. They have removed the incinerator and put in a dyeing machine.

I have to be smarter than them……. I am going to buy a 100 pairs of black colored socks of the same type.

Ha ha aha hah aha hah haha hahahahahahahahahahahahah…..ha haa haha ahahaha hahaha

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Help me. They are out there outside my house watching me. They don’t want me to tell you.

You have to beleive me. Think about it. How else would anybody buy new socks?

Fight the washing machine and sock companies…Fight them…. Dont be afraid to tell the world your story. You are not alone.

Help.

Please.

The Competetion

2006-03-03T13:28:00.000-08:00

He had to get away from his entourage, get one moment to himself. No more tips, not one more story, not one more line... It was going to be his moment....And he wanted to focus.

He had spent the the whole evening, answering the same questions over and over. They never seemed to change, but this time around, so close to the final hour, the questions seemed even more intolerable.

"How does it feel to be the finalist among thousands of hopefuls?"
"Did he think he could make it when started off?"
"What made him think he could win the competetion?"
"Did he sleep well everyday knowing that he was about to become the ?"

He almost answered the last question with

"How do you think i sleep? I have spent my entire life building up to this moment...trying to tell myself that i have it in me. What do YOU think?"

But he knew better. Instead he had replied with a carefully prepared line...as professional as ever…......

"I did have a little bit of insomnia....not because of the competetion obviously...but you know i went to take my sleeping pills, but i didnt want to wake them up...."

He knew that was the reason the press had pegged him as a future champion. He did have it. The ability to deliver those kind of lines deadpan, seemingly making them up on the fly. He had seen it from when he was a kid. He had watched people groan, pretend that they did not find it funny, but eventually succumb and laugh. Chuckle about it on their way back from work a couple of days later. Use it in the next party they went to.

But....it was time. He had to go out there and face the crowd. He stepped out of the bathroom. The faces around him were a blur. He heard words being spoken, questions being asked. But he could not hear them. He was completely in the moment. In the distance he could hear the chant of the crowd.

He walked out of his dressing room. The TV announcer rumbled out his words….

“Ladieeeees and Gentlemen, Welcome to the greatest Punning competition in the world……

And the now the chants grew louder….He could hear the crowd clearly now.

“Go Pal……….Go Pal………… Go Pal……….Go Pal……”

And suddenly just like that, the tension was gone…..He knew what the game was all about....The pun was not in winning...the pun was not even in hearing the crowd chant his name....(whether or not they realized why it was so much pun when they did it.....)

It was bigger than that....Bigger than anything than any competetion he could win....He did not care anymore...He had just realized the ultimate truth

"A good pun is its own re-word"

My First Puff

2005-11-05T05:04:00.000-08:00

I miss vegetable puffs.
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My Mother and I got in an auto in Mandaveli, the meter read Rs 2:00. We putt putted our way to Mylapore, got out of the auto, handed over the princely sum of Rs2.50 to the driver and headed out into the market.

We went to "Crores and Crores", "Lakhs and Lakhs" and "Millions and Millions", shopping for socks, ribbons (for my sisters......I was never that cute as a kid luckily)...and all the time i could not wait to head home, because i knew the last items on the shopping list was.

Vegetable Puffs.

We finally made our way to Ambika Appalam which was right by the bus stop. (After that shopping extravaganza, return trips were always on "12C" buses, never by auto.)

"Ettu Puff Venum".

I waited impatiently as the shopkeeper took 8 of them, put them in a paper bag and handed them over.

35 p each.

I carried the paper bag to the busstand.

I couldnt wait to get home. But the bus. Where was that bus?

4 buses went past. None that would take us home. The PTC bus gods were a mean bunch

I couldnt wait any longer.

When my mother wasnt looking, i sneaked my hand into the paper bag and tore of a little piece and popped into my mouth.

Half the top half of one puff later, the bus was there.

I ran upstairs with the paper bag upstairs, tossed my "hawaii" slippers (one to the left and one to the right) and into the house, barely hearing my mothers entreaties to wash my hands and legs

Finally, (Finally!!) the puffs were handed to me in a little eversilver plate.

I carefully separated , the top half of the puff, from the bottom half until the vegetables came into view.

4 peas and a small piece of mashed potato masala.

A 6 year old's version of Nirvana

Loopy loops

2005-11-05T04:37:00.000-08:00

Most Non Resident Indians, have a habit of critiquing the country they are living in and have a tendency to reminisce rather too nostalgically about the country they were born in and abaonded in the quest for a better life. Either that or they have a habit of deriding everything about the country they grew in and abaonded in the quest for a better life....

My next sentence should perhaps be about how both types of people are right in their own way.

And reading back on that last sentence, it WAS my next sentence

Pretty Insightful. Huh?

The Art of happiness

2005-10-27T18:44:00.000-07:00

The more i go along in life, the more i am convinced that happiness is simply a state of being. Nothing material or tangible can possibly create long term happiness. Absence of material possessions may create a lack of happiness. Having lots of it may be sometimes be an ingredient in the recipe to happiness, but making a direct connection between money and happiness? There aint no such thing.

Consider this. A nice carribean vacation on a huge yacht can only be done if you have lots of Moolah. Money is the key ingredient. But you still need to figure out the right yacht to buy. You still need to have enough time to luxuriate on that huge boat. And unless you won all that money on a lottery you must have sacrificed small pieces of happiness to land up on that huge boat in the middle of the ocean.

(At last. I am completely alone with my thoughts. That last paragraph would have taken care of all my readers out there. They are now in "zzzzzzz" state in the country of "bahicanttakethiscrapistan". )

So the question is, is that kind of sacrifice worth the price?

Its like saving up to buy your dream house isnt it? That dream house has a room for every member of your family. One for Your son, one room for your daughter, one for your mother, one for your father and a guest room for visiting relatives.

But what happens when you are finally in a position to buy that dream house? The rooms are empty.

Why?

Because the the father and mother have moved on upwards, the son and daughter are busy building their dream house for their son, daughter, father and mother, (which funnily enough is you.....but then its not their house) .......and so on.....

So there you are sacrificing bits of happiness along the way so you can build that big dreamhouse of happiness for you and everybody around you.

(bahicanttakethiscrapistanis are by now no doubt looking for a new country in a land far far away.)

I personally have found that my happiness comes out of a very few small things......And none of them have to do with money. Here is a small list of mine....

Getting together for a family wedding/festival......Meeting up with relatives and cousins.....
Watching Sachin Tendulkar hit a cover drive...seeing him reach a test century....(oh! the joy.....I get goosebumps even thinking about it.)
Winning a game of Soul Calibur on Playstation II against two of my close friends .......(Even mini golf is an intensly competetive sport when we play...)
Hitting a proper topspin backhand in tennis.....(my new obsession)
A get together with friends who go a long wayback in time...and a lot of times with their friends
Being with my mom and sis together in the same place.......
Trudging up a hill, huffing and panting...with no thought except my next step...reaching the top and finding this gorgeous valley below me....Sitting down...hearing my breathing calm down..... soaking in the view....... mumbling new resolutions about fitness to myself......

I am willing to bet, that if you make up your list...it wouldnt have anything to do with money either.

(If it does...keep it quiet...you money grubbing monster...)

So whats the point at the end of it all?

I dont know.I dont think there is one.

I know writing this blog makes me happy.

Peter Periyanayagam

2005-10-19T09:02:00.000-07:00

Although i grew up in an orthodox Tamil Brahmin household, it did not help my general proficiency in Tamil. I have (still am) always been more comfortable speaking in English. In fact by the time i reached 10th grade at my "Convent" school, i was given the privilege of being the "English Monitor" of my class, in charge of collecting 25p from anybody i found speaking in anything but English at school. (This is but a brief insight into my school life and more importantly the kind of school i went to.......But more about that later)

I dont recall being particularly thrilled about being the "Chosen one", but what i do remember is that whenever my sister who was a couple of grades above me would get a hold of me, she would only converse in Tamil and as the "Chosen One" it put me in a rather uncomfortable position of having to ensure that nobody heard us.

Thinking back i find this particularly ironical because my sister was even better than me at not speaking Tamil. She would happily prattle away to the servant, cook, my grandma, the vegetable vendor, the beggar by the steps at the temple, complete strangers in rural heartlands, (ok i exaggerate a wee bit) regardless of their background, in English, not caring whether they understood her. I used to get bothered by this and would always take it upon myself to chastise her about her lack of awareness of other people's lingusitic abilities. (Younger brothers all over the world always have to show older sisters the right way...)

Oh how I prayed for chaste English during those visits. But perish that thought. Those English sentences were reserved for lesser mortals. The "Chosen one" had to receive the full range of her Tamil vocabulary. And so there I would stand squirming and replying in whispers hoping nobody would catch the scandalous sight of the "English Monitor" listening to a "Tamil" sentence.

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By the time i reached college, i had reformed considerably. I now possessed a not inconsiderable vocabulary of choice swear words in Tamil which i used now and then to help fill the gaps in my Tamil vocabulary. (Along with A few colloquial words like "Machi" and "Inna" )

But there was one area that I found that clearly brought out my preference for English. Movies.

If it came down to a choice of watching an English movie and a Tamil movie I would nudge, push, pull, prod, rant & rave till I had my way with my college gang.

Eventually it came down to a point where they got so irritated with this habit of mine that I was tagged with the nickname “Peter Periyanayagam”. (“Peters” in colloquial Tamil refers to somebody who only talks in English.)

It bothered me enough that I actually started watching movies starring the actor Vijay, whose talent as far I could see, lay in his ability to keep his lips completely sealed while uttering dialogues . But apparently he was the hearthrob of millions of college going guys who aspired to woo women the same way he did.....one step above stone age man and just below normal homo sapiens and you guessed it....with their mouths closed....

I reached my nadir, when I was forced to watch the movie “Thullatha manamum Thullum” which directly translates to “Even the heart that does not leap, will leap”…….A better translation would be “Even the stony heart will melt”…..

My stony heart remained as stony as ever...It still does...And i would like to say more....

But

My lips are sealed

May the force be with me

2005-08-30T21:06:00.000-07:00

Writers block ........Weak is the force in me. Change i must.

Blissss..........

2005-04-26T16:46:00.000-07:00

Hssssssszzzzzzzzzzzz!!!! The Oil Sizzled in the pan.

"Ooooh"...She gave a little squeal of joy clapping her hands together . She threw the next one in with a little extra flourish. Her brow knitted for a brief second in apprehension But was instantly replaced by a smile. It was perfect. Just perfect.

She could hardly beleive it herself. She had been an utter and complete novice when she had first started. But now, 10000 miles away from India, here she was jumping up and down, like a little girl watching a circus act.

Her husband would be home soon. She couldnt wait to tell him. He would not understand, but this was her moment and she needed to share it with someone. She tossed another one in and watched it puff up into a little ball.

Another perfect Puri.

Its only Words.....

2005-03-21T17:27:00.000-08:00

People talk about pets resembling their owners or vice versa with the passage of time. I think a similar metamorphosis happens in people's speech patterns when they hang out together all the time. Vocabularies become intertwined. Catch phrases emerge that probably do not make any sense to any outsider except people who are "in" that group.

Dont get it?

Here are a few examples from one of my friends who is particuarly adept at coming up with phrases which to novice ears would sound like gibberish. Initially, like everybody else I too was blind to to the meaning in these phrases. But over time i have realized the hidden genius in them. Indeed, given how prolific he is in coining new ones, i actually beleive that i am witnessing the birth of a new language.

"Champa didi ka raho" - No doubt you are wondering what this could possibly mean? Spring it on one of your friends when you dont what to say. Regardless of the occasion, it will just adapt itself. Say it slowly. Exaggerate it as though explaining it to a child. Or just let it out as a quip. You will always have the last word.

"Chalupa" - Not to be confused with a Mexican dish. Can be used in place of "Oh. Thats great"!!! or "Really".....Here is an example in a conversation.

Mister X : "Hey i just got a promotion".
You : Chalupa

Zoozie Boozie - So there you are stuck in a meeting where your bosses are extolling the virtues of yet another cutting edge tool/technology/promotion that will change your life and enhance every little second of your wakeful life . You turn to your colleague.....

You : I cant take this any more
Colleague: What do you mean "this"?
You : This Zoozie Boozie ofcourse.

Or picture this....Your colleague/boss whips out his new ipod/Sunglasses/Palm Pilot/gizmo you cannot afford every opportunity he gets.....You turn to your friend...You exchange glances and whisper...."Too much Zoozie Boozie"....

And finally

ChuckChoos - If phrases could be compared to paintings, this one would be a Van Gogh.
Versatile, adaptable, simple on the tongue....

Cant remember a Colleagues name? Just go "Hey Chuckchoos...What are you upto?"

Friend makes a winning point in an argument? Use "Chuckchoos" as acknowledgement. (The French have a similar word. "Touche"....But hardly as versatile "Hey Touche....what are you upto??" I think not.)

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In the three years that they had been married, my friends wife had resolutely (consciously or unconsciouly )resisted the temptation to use any of the phrases that her husband was adept at conjuring up.

Up until that fateful evening that is...

The four of us (Me, my friend, his wife and another friend) were playing a game of cards.....It was a particularly long one with multiple twists. When it came to her turn...A critical decision had to be made.....She stared at her cards, chewing on her lips....As we watched expectantly...she realized that she had no choice but to play the difficult hand. She slowly drew out one of the cards, placed it on top of the pile.....looked up at us....her mind racing for the right words as we watched...And slowly, almost unwillingly....she said...

"ChuckChoos"

"Champa didi ka raho" we chorused in disbelief.

Coastal Plains

2004-12-19T09:50:00.000-08:00

The little boy looked up and stared out of his window briefly before bringing his gaze back to the notebook in his hand.
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It was the first day of a new school year .

The little boy eagerly grabbed the the notebook from his geography teacher's hand.

The notebook had a pink cover. Across its face were printed the words "St Johns Junior College". It was one of 9 notebooks that he was to accumulate that day.

He rushed home to his mother to show her his new acquisitions. He insisted that they go shopping that same day to buy brown paper and labels so that he could have them wrapped and ready to go for the next day.

He watched impatiently, as his mother carefully wrapped the brown paper neatly over the pink edges of notebook. She looked up

"Where is the gum?".

The little boy scuttled to the wooden green cupboard built into the wall, stood on its first shelf to reach the blue bottle of "Camel" gum that his mother had placed on the top shelf out of his reach (or so she had thought ) , and rushed it back to where she was seated, so she could continue with her task uninterrupted.

Then in a gesture of moral support, he screwed up his eyes in concentration, as she carefully extracted the gum and applied it to the back of the labels before pasting it on the neatly wrapped notebook.

He took the first notebook from her and in a childish scrawl wrote

R.Gopal
IV D
Geography Classwork
And stared down proudly at his handiwork.
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Things had changed since that first day of school.

His mother was in Africa, on a continent 4000 miles away, helping her husband with his final return trip to India.

The notebook had undergone significant changes in appearance. Indeed it if had been a woman, it could have been described as "immodestly" attired and stoned to death in certain Islamic countries.

But the little boy was not thinking about the distance from his mother or the state of his notebook. All he was worried about was making sure that he knew the contents of his notebook "by heart".

His mother had given instructions to her brother to ensure that her absence did not affect her sons' academic potential in any significant way.(Parental love had of course blinded her to the fact that her son had hardly displayed any academic potential up until the day of her leaving).

The last couple of "tutoring lessons" with his uncle had not gone the way the little boy had thought it would. In fact, if the little boy had known the meaning of irony, he would have quite possibly reflected that what he had undergone in those sessions was an anagram of the word "tutoring" .

But he was a little boy. "Irony" was a word that would enter his vocabulary later. Right then the words on his mind were "Coastal Plains". The Geography lesson that he was soon to be questioned on.

The little boy was "cautiously optimistic". He had carefully selected the lesson that he had thought the easiest and informed his uncle that learning the "questions and answers" to "Coastal Plains" was his homework for the day. He had only five questions and answers to learn "by heart".

The day seemed full of possibilities. The questioning would be over in a while and after that.....after that.....(The little boy did not know the meaning of the expression "the world was his oyster". He would learn soon enough that those expressions more often that not were found only in novels.), it did seem like the "world WAS his oyster".
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His uncle entered the room, cleared his throat and asked him if he was ready. The little boy timidly replied that he was and handed the tattered notebook to his uncle. His uncle took the notebook and stared at it for what seemed an eternity to the little boy.

He then read out the first question. The little boy rattled off the answer.

The remaining 4 questions were answered with the same aplomb. His uncle looked nonplussed for a moment and then handed the notebook back

The little boy's heart leapt with joy. He KNEW that he was home and dry. The rest of the day stretched ahead with its endless vistas of possibilities.

"Where is your geography textbook?" his uncle asked.

Time stood still. But not the little boy's heart. It sank a mile.

He slowly turned around and with his most innocent expression asked his uncle "What??"

"Bring me your textbook. I want to ask a few questions from your textbook".

The little boy trudged around and walked over to his little bag.

He had almost made it. Almost........

The walls of the room seemed to move in a little closer as his uncle read out the first question from his textbook.
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Twenty years later, the man looked up from the book he was reading and stared out of the window.

"What were the Coastal Plains"? he wondered.

The Road to Eternal Salvation

2004-12-05T14:06:00.000-08:00

Yes it is true. Religion can be a deeply transforming experience. In fact there is nothing like a temple tour to bring out the stranger in people you have known all your life.
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May 1996, my Grandfather (he of the "Auuuu" fame) decided that he wanted us as an entire family to travel to "Sankaran" Kovil which was the official family temple for the maternal side of my family.

A prerequisite for a satisfactory temple visit of course is that it needs to take place in the month of May. The hottest month in the year.

So off we went, 6 uncles, 5aunts , my mother and 20 odd cousins in tow to "Sankaran" Kovil (temple). We parked for the night at a mandapam arranged in advance and the following morning headed out to the temple.

By the time, the "pujas" (prayers) were completed and "darshanam" satisfactorily glimpsed, the vagaries of the weather and the sumptuous "meals" i had in "Mohan Cafe - Pure Veg" the previous night began to have their effect on me. I decided to look at the weather forercast.

Body temperature - 39 degrees Celsius.
Outside temperature -45 degrees celsius.

I was definitely feeling "under the weather".

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One of my relatives, suggested that we borrow a temple van and head out to see the village of our ancestors , the sleepy little village of "Kadayam" from where my maternal ancestors had journeyed forth to seek their fortune.

I was curious to see my grandfathers "native place" .
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We reached Kadayam, a dusty little village in the middle of the afternoon and were warmly welcomed by the relatives of "somebody" who knew "somebody" twice removed. The conversation flowed. I passed an impromptu Tambram test in flying colours when my educational credentials were enquired about . (I was awarded full mark for my answer "Doing my CA") . We were all ready to leave, when our host casually remarked that there was a very nice "temple" called "Ram Nadi" that he had heard about in the vicinity but had not had the opportunity to visit.

And with that started the quest for the "holy grail". Religious mania gripped the interiors of the van. "Ram Nadi" had to be found and conquered. A group of simple Tambram folk were transformed into valiant explorers braving everything that the weather had to throw at them.
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In every adventure movie involving brave explorers there is always one individual who has to break a leg, take a poison dart from the enemy or generally find some way to become incapacitated. Everybody knows that this person eventually has to die

In these movies every effort is made to keep the person alive, until sadly, it is time for that incapacitated person to either sacrifice himself in attempt to help his comrades, or make a farewell speech about his wife and kids. This provides the required impetus to the rest of the explorers to find whatever it is that they are looking for.

Real life is not like the movies.
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We started off by instructing the Van driver to find "Ram Nadi". The Van driver assured us that he knew exactly where it was. One hour of aimless wandering later, we were as close to finding "Ram Nadi" as we were to finding the North Pole. Eventually after another hour of accosting total strangers and asking for directions (fate had ordained that all of them know the way.) a formation was spotted in the distance. Could it be the fabled temple, my relatives wondered. (I was doing my Oscar winning role of the dying soldier by now. The only thing i was wondering about was if i would ever see my wife and kids and indeed if i would ever have any........).

Uncles, aunts and assorted cousins tumbled out of the van, exhausted, thirsty but happy in the knowledge that they had found "Ram Nadi". Eternal salvation was just a few yards awy.

An old priest doddered out of the temple and greeted us. Further enquiries revealed that this was not "Ram Nadi" . This did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of the entourage.

If anything, the senior men folk decided that this was a time to demonstrate resilience and fortitude. Acorrdingly after a quick darshanam, they fished out their cigarettes (keeping a respectful distance from the temple of course) and discussed a fresh plan of action. The priest meanwhile doddered (he did ....really) upto the women folk. Divine fate had ordained that he too knew the directions to "Ram Nadi".

"Ram Nadi or Bust". The slogan was coined. My feeble cries of protest were ignored. And off we drove into the hot sunshine. Indiana Jones had nothing on my relatives when it came to searching for the "holy grail"

We drove for another hour. in the bright sunshine but Ram Nadi eluded us. The inside of the van by now was an inferno. But spirits were high within the van. In fact I could even see a few of them around me. (I was hallucinating by now.)

A half hour later, we ran out of water. . The sun scorched the countryside as we drove on. The first faint rays of doubt made their appearance on the horizon. Were they going to find it? Was it time to head back?

This was my chance . I groaned loudly in pain and muttered "Water. I need Water". My mother and one of my aunts turned to look at me and registered my presence for the first time. Realization slowly dawned on them. I could read the expression on their faces. The same expression that John Mallory and Captain Miller had in the "Guns of Navarone" when they untied their wounded comrades bandage and smelt the gangrene.

Suddenly somebody shouted "There it is".......A sign that read "Ram Nadi". I was quickly forgotten. There were whoops of joy in the van. My Uncles hugged each other in joy. Tears poured down the cheeks of my aunts. "Ram Nadi". They had found "Ram Nadi".
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The Van driver drove down the dusty road to the massive structure and slowed to a halt. The passengers in the van looked on as he got out of the van and walked upto the man sitting under the tree. After a few moments, the van driver turned back and walked up to the waiting passengers with a puzzled expression.

"He says this IS Ram Nadi but the reservoir has dried up many years ago and there is no water here".

A feeble voice muttered in the background "I will be Dammed" !!!!!

"AaaaU" or A Summers day with grandpa

2004-11-28T05:52:00.000-08:00

When we were kids, my sisters and I, in the way kids do, decided that the simplest way to differentiate between my maternal and paternal grandfathers was to give them nicknames.

My paternal grandfather was called (rather unimaginatively in retrospect) "Periya" (or old) Thatha. While my maternal grandfather was called "Aaau" Thatha.

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"Aaau" Thatha as people of his generation were wont to be, was an extremely disciplined man.
He would wake up every morning exactly at 5:00 AM, shuffle across the hallway to the back verandah, pick up "Vicco Vajradanti" Toothpowder and begin his day.

Anybody growing up in the 80's would remember "Vicco Vajradanti".

(The TV and Radio Ad went something like this.
"Vajradanti, Vajradanti, Vicco Vajradanti.....Vicco Vajradanti...Toothpower, Toothpaste....Ayurvedic ta dah dah dah dah ....toothpowder, toothpaste...Vicco Vajradanti"..... )

Obviously there is a little bit of memory loss there, but the important part was that it was "Ayurvedic" and that is why my grandfather used it.

So the toothpowder would go on his palm, the forefinger would be the preferred mode of application of powder to the teeth. After vigorously brushing his teeth, he would gargle. And what a gargle it used to be. The water going down the washbasin would try and compete gamely but my grandfather would simply continue......."GLAH, GLAH, GLAH, GLAH"......He was the undisputed champion everyday.

After that, he would wash both his hands, with soap, remove his dentures and examine them.

(No, i never understood it either and no i did not ask)

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The maternal side of my family is a large and extended family. I have six uncles and two aunts and around 25 cousins. (My grandfather, like most Indians of his generation, believed that Nehru had it wrong and that the only way to conquer the world was to elbow everybody else out, and so he did his bit. )

Most of my uncles lived outside of Chennai and so come summer, my uncles and my cousins would converge on "Abhi" to spend the holidays. ("Abhi" was the stylish title bestowed on my grandpa's house in Abhiramapuram.)

Luckily space was never a constraint in "Abhi" as you will see.
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My grandfather had been a lawyer before he retired. But he had missed his calling. He was at heart an architect. Of Kalyana Mandapams (or wedding halls). But nevertheless an architect.

He loved large open rooms and did not believe in any furniture except cane chairs. Removable at a moment's notice to create empty space. He unlike nature did not abhor a vacuum.

The "Abhi" house itself was built in modular fashion.

It started off with two "halls" in the 1940s . After a while two more "halls" were added in the mid '50s and '60s. Then in the late '70s, the first floor came into being. And (what else??) two more "halls" were added. The result was a house roughly 3000 sq ft of space where there were exactly 2 bedrooms, 200 sq ft each, one on the ground floor and one on the first floor. And bathrooms....(but I think we went through that in my previous write up...)

Sleeping space, therefore, given the instantly removable furniture, was never a constraint. At night, the ubiquitous red, white and blue "jamakalams", would be moved out from under the staircase and spread out in (for lack of a better word)..."Hall". And therein my cousins and i would go to sleep. A few of us would also sleep in the "Drawing room".

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It would be 5:30 AM by the time my grandfather finished his morning ablutions. He was ready to make the trip to the front yard to unlock the gate. The walk from the back verandah to the front yard involved crossing the two hallways, where his grandchildren lay in blissful sleep.
As he passed us, he would stop and look at us. Not to (contrary to western stereotypes of grandpas) look at us and go "Awww....would you look at them?". Perish that thought. He would simply say "Hrrmph" signifying his disapproval that we were still asleep and go ahead with unlocking the gate.

(My grandfather knew it was the summer holidays and that it would be unfair to wake us up that early..... In other words, we had five minutes. )

He would then head back to the backyard to do his sandhyavadhanam. A little journey that would entail crossing his grandchildren again. But this time, there would be a slight detour in his path as he switched the fans off on his way back.

Forty five seconds later all of us would be awake. We had our own special song to wake us up. It went....."eeeeee". The "Mosquitoes" were out.

(15 seconds was the time it took the mosquitoes to realize that the fan was off . 30 seconds before the first little involuntary slaps on the face started. 45 seconds and you were awake. )

But we were old battle scarred (or mosquito bitten) soldiers, having had the experience of many such battles. We knew the drill. On cue, the first soldier would sally forth and switch the fan back on. It was 5:31PM. We had14 minutes.

At 5:45 AM, my grandfather would head back to the front yard, this time to water the plants. The whirring of the fan blades would not go unnoticed and this time instead of a "Hrmmmph" there would be a prolonged "hhhhhhhhhalaruhgoauurourbghryuur" as he went around flicking the switches off.

("hhhhhhhhhalaruhgoauurourbghryuur" - A battle cry used by my grandpa, to indicate displeasure. There were actual words in that "hhhhhhhhhalaruhgoauurourbghryuur" but only he knew what they were. My uncles were extremely proficient in reproducing close approximations. But there was nothing to match the original.

For the people not fortunate enough to have heard the original, the closest approximation that i can think of is an angry Donald Duck except Donald Duck would be speaking Arabic.)

Now the "really brave" (or foolish) soldier would switch the fan back on knowing that it would buy another 10 minutes.

5:55 AM. Grandpa would head back. HAARRRRGHGHGRGHGHURHGUGHGHR. A flurry of activity as 20 "soldiers" hurriedly started folding the "jamakalams".
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Now you would think that 25 minutes of extra sleep time won would have taught us a lesson. But no. A bunch of us in the pretext of stowing the pillows under the stairs, would sneak upstairs to catch a few extra winks.

As they say, there are always a few foolish ones ready to "lay themselves down" for a cause.

It would take an additional 20 minutes for my grandpa to realize that we were "AWOL" (absent without leave).

He would walk upstairs slowly and as his head like the rising sun appeared at the top of the stairs....we would hear......

"HAARRRRGHGHGRGHGHURHGUGHGHR......"
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After "brunch", my grandfather would settle into his cane chair in the front verandah with a book of scriptures. A grimace as his dentures clacked against each other, would be followed by a long guttural burp.

"Aaaaaaaau" .

The Old General was resting after another satisfying day.

Bathroom Musings

2004-11-26T16:12:00.000-08:00

I was browsing through a website yesterday with the following caption.

"Design your dream house in a few mouse clicks." One of the clicks led to the following questions.

"Pick out what you think is the most important room in your house."

I found that although they had listed a study, a living room, a drawing room, a patio etc...there was something missing.

I was confused. It did not feel right. Slowly it dawned on me .

They did not have the bathroom listed as one of the choices.

How could that be? And before i realized it, i found myself muttering...."Must have been designed by a Tambram".

There it was. Another subliminal message springing forth from my repressed Tambram soul.

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The house in Abhiramapuram that i grew up in had 11 bathrooms in total. Now i know the image that it conjures up, a palatial house, tiled bathrooms, "Jaguar" bath fittings...... I wish.......

Just as good government requires that there is separation between church and state, in a good Tambram governed household, requires that there is adequate space between "bath area" and "Water Closet Area". (It took me some time to come up with the second word. I had to find something that would not offend my readers sensibilities).

So the 11 bathrooms were actually, 5 "bath areas" and 6 W.C's . The W.C's were Indian style and extremely functional in design.

And what do i mean by "functional"? For me to explain this, you will have to come along with me on a little journey through the mind.

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Take a deep breath. Find a comfortable chair to sit in. Place feet firmly on the ground. Relax. And continue reading

Visualize a 3 ft by 3 f t cubicle with a cement floor (no fancy tiles here) and a rectangular hole roughly 2 ft in length and 1 ft in breadth, with two rectangular tiles placed six inches on either side, along its length. (Or for those of you from India, you could visualize an Indian WC. But i want to make this an exercise in imagination. I would really recommend the former. ) Now make this an enclosed space, with one side of the cube being the door and the other 3 sides being the walls. Now walk into this little cube, with the door open on the inside.

Obviously it is not easy. You dont want to put your feet too close to the hole and really the cement floor doesnt look too....well....lets just say you dont want to put your foot down on the cement floor unless you absolutely have to. But yes, you CAN place your feet on the tiles. So do it. Balance yourself on both tiles facing the open door. Hold on to the wall with your left hand, swivel to the left and lift your left leg as you bring the door inwards to shut it. (Yes, the door scrapes your stomach as it goes past. But its just a little sting. Dont be a baby). Shut the door, place foot that is in the air back on tile. And you are ready to do what you came in for. Or is it???

As you can imagine, that little mental exercise might have left you a little exhausted. But there is more. And beleive this one is not for the fainthearted.

You are wearing Jeans AND you are in a hurry......

What do you do?What do you do?

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I guess its not surprising that i used to daydream about having a huge bathroom with real "tiles" and a Western style W.C where you could actually read a book and ponder the meaning of life. I dreamt of building a house where the biggest room in the house would be the bathroom, with a "tub", a bookshelf where i could luxuriate to my hearts content.

One of the most poignant moments that i had came around six months back i had visited my cousin in Syracuse in the US. She had a lovely home and as it usually happens offered to show me around. But instead of starting with the ground floor and working our way to the first floor, she said there was something that she had to show me first.

She took me to her bathroom....a palace of a bathroom....and she looked at me and said "Remember your dream bathroom. When i bought this house i had dedicated it to you. Its finally here. Go ahead and treat it like your own".

A tear trickled down my cheek .

Somebody understands i thought to myself. Somebody actually understands.

(Ok. She didnt say "dedicated" and i forget the exact words.....but that was the gist and the story is absolutely true).

The Plastic Wrap and the Remote Control

2004-11-25T07:42:00.000-08:00

Why is it that the average Tambram family places such importance on keeping the plastic wrapped around the remote control? What is in our evolutionary genes that makes us hang on that little plastic wrap as long as we possibly can? Why is it a matter of such great pride to a family that their remote is still in its original wrapping?

To anybody reading this, perhaps they sense the passion behind the questions, nay the pain, the emotional scars. It is time to bring it out in the open. I have held it back for too long.

It all started in Dar-es-salaam, Tanzania. I was 4 years old, eagerly looking forward to getting out of nursery school and joining the ranks of the "real school" that my sisters went to. If you have read First Term at Malory Towers by Enid Blyton, (i have, i enjoyed it...And if anybody has a problem i learnt karate too....) , i felt pretty much like the heroine in her novel did. I was at last joining the ranks of the "adults". The school went by the name of the "Indian Expatriates Study Group" or IESG and followed the "CBSE" curriculum. I still can remember The pride i felt at being part of this elite circle.

I was given my first set of textbooks neatly wrapped in newspaper cover by my mother, with the following instructions. gently delivered .."Be careful with them. You have to hand them over to the next batch once you are done with them. So make sure you keep the cover on them".
And thus with those seemingly innocuous words, I began my journey into guilt. For the life of me i could not keep those newspaper covers on. They disappeared in exactly two days, two hours and 3 minutes. But at least had i stopped with the newspaper cover, i might have still managed to lead a normal life. But no. I was destined for greater things.

First went the hard paper surrounding my textbooks. This was followed by the strings coming undone. I went from carrying my "text books" to carrying a "bunch of papers loosely arranged". I subsequently learnt that the child who inherited my "text books" was diagnosed with a learning disability and had to be sent to a special school. Many were the days, i spent under (yes under) my bed, racked with guilt. But what could a 5 yrd old Tambram do? What could he tell his parents? That it was possibly because pages 8 to 10 were inserted between pages 1 to 6 and page 5 had gone the holy way of "ashes to ashes" and "dust to dust" that the little boy had struggled in his classes?

But thankfully, the "Hand me downs" ended when i moved over to India. So now the only kids abilities i could affect was me. I wish i could say the experience in Dar-es-salaam had reformed me. But nay, that was not the case. Instead of "Newspaper Cover", it was now "Brown paper" with "labels". Just more fodder for this cow.

Finally by my 6th standard, my mother had abandoned all hopes of reforming me. Textbooks once purchased were directly sent over to the nearest lending library to be specially bound. The next three years could be called the honeymoon period as far as my textbooks were concerned. Now my mom whenever she got any requests for "hand me downs" from my cousins could actually hand them down.

But alas, this was all to end by my 9 th standard. And as all the holy books have cautioned, it was pride that caused my downfall.

A boy called Rakesh was spinning his bound textbook on his forefinger like a "Vishnu Chakra". I was fascinated. I picked up my textbook and tried doing the same. It fell down after just one twirl. Rakesh looked across at me and if he had smiled in sympathy, my life could have been all different. But no, he had to smirk. Give me a superior smile, that little b......... Before i knew it, my ego had kicked in.

I spent that entire year, mastering the art of book top spinning. Nothing that had a flat rectangular surface was spared. I twirled and i twirled. Hard bound textbooks suddenly sprouted large round holes at their center. I was a "twirling" phenomenon in my school. I held the school record for being the longest twirler, 24 minutes and 32 seconds. My brief moment of conformism with the rest of Tambram society had ended.

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We bought our first remote controlled device in the summer of 1991. A 500 W PMPO Sony Cassette and CD Player. Suffice to say, the remote control was "naked" before you could say "plastic wrap".

But it didnt end there. Once in a fit of eagerness to be the first to test a new TV, i actually tore the cover off the remote control and (horrors) directly felt the buttons on the remote control. But if that was not bad enough, brace yourself.....This was SOMEBODY ELSES REMOTE CONTROL. I still remember the day vividly. There were seven horrified pairs of eyes in that room. Oh the shame of it.

I had asked my mother a number of times, why it was that we did not have a TV with a remote control up until 1992. Her explanation was that she thought my sisters and I would fight over the remote and break the TV in the process. Only years later did the real reason dawn on me.

But now, having undergone psychiatric counseling i have realized that there is nothing to be ashamed of. If god intended everything to have plastic wrap, we would have been born wrapped in cell-o-phane. So, it is time to stand up and say "No more. No child should go through what i have been through". It is time for people like me to stand up and take their rightful place in "Tambram Society". No longer should we be ashamed of our past.

"Stand up my brothers and sisters and start with your remote control. Tear off that confining plastic cover. Feel the buttons. Let go of your guilt. For once you do that, you shall experience the joy of living without confining plastic. And who knows one day, you will find that you can step in to your 3 year old Maruti or Zen and remove the accursed plastic wrap from the back seat".

The Dictionary Definition of a Tambram

2004-11-13T16:25:00.000-08:00

THE DEFINITION OF A TAMBRAM

The original title of my article was "The Marketing of a Tambram", but as i started writing it, i realized that the article itself would not have too much relevance to the average non "Tambram" person and since i harbor secret ambitions of having my posts read by millions of people across the blogging world....(yes i realize that the total number of comments that i have had on my blogs to date have been five, two of which i have posted myself.....but instead of being a nit picker why don't you go ahead and help me out here? And yes feel free to send the link to everybody you know...I am not shy)....

So i have decided to make this the first of a series of articles that will attempt to capture in words the essence of what being a "Tambram" actually is.

The word "Tambram" is a shortened version of the word Tamil Brahmin. "Tamil" is the language spoken by people located in the Southern Part of India, within a geographic area referred to as "Tamil Nadu". "Nadu" in Tamil means refers to "land of" and it follows that the word "Tamil Nadu" means "Land of Tamils". Logical huh?

To explain the word "Brahmin" I may need to give a quick history lesson. (Yes. I know if you are reading this, you are probably Indian and you don't need an explanation. But look at it as a character building exercise. You develop patience.......and incidentally just because you know what it means the rest of the world need not . Its precisely this sort of attitude in the US that got George W Bush reelected).

India historically has been divided into four castes. The Warrior Class known as the Kshatriya. The Merchant Class known as the "Vaishyas", the sanitation workers (politically correct) known as the "Shudras" and finally the "Priesthood Class",known as the "Brahmins". Now within each of these castes are a a mind boggling (or since this is a blog i should say mind blogging .....LOL...hold on let me wipe my tears) number of sub castes.But i am not going to dwell on that right now...(Did i hear you say "Thank God" there???? Hey, nobody is forcing you to read it.You are welcome to stop.And don't be petty, leave a comment before you go). Anyways If you want a quick in depth history lesson on the caste system, i would strongly recommend a book called "Cartoon History of the Universe Part II" by Larry Niven, its hilarious and i think all history should be learnt that way.....

The dictionary defines the word "Brahmin" as a member of the highest Hindu caste (= social group). There is also an American definition of the word "A member of a cultural and social elite, especially of that formed by descendants of old New England families"......Hence the word "Boston Brahmin" to refer to John Kerry...former Democratic US Presidential candidate....(I can sense a sneaky feeling of admiration creeping into you....Admit it...You didn't think that this was going to be this instructive did you?) .

So there you go, the meaning of the word "Tambram". A member of the Highest Hindu Caste originating from the "Land of the Tamils".

But the definition above hardly does justice as hidden within the word are a thousand traits. And to describe those traits, is going to require a lot more than five paragraphs.

So Watch this space for more and if you are wondering what you got out of reading thus far you have learnt

a) The meaning of the Word "Boston Brahmin"

b) That Cartoon History of the Universe is a good book to read.

c) That i like comments on my blogs

Welcome to Gopals World

2004-07-01T12:35:00.000-07:00

So here i am. One among (by now) zillions of bloggers. It has been a quiet entry. No cheering masses welcoming my every word. Boy. It is quiet out here.

HELLO. IS THERE ANYBODY THERE???? DOES ANYBODY HEAR ME??????Nope. Its all quiet.

Just me and my thoughts.

Hmmm. Maybe i should change my first sentence. After all, opening lines are very important for Posterity poses....

Wait.What was that???The clatter of a coke can..........

Damn.I knocked it down. It was by my right foot...... And just in case my mom reads this....Dont worry ma...It was empty.

Hold it right there. Its coming to me. I know what this feels like...... I feel like a small town girl entering the big city for the first time in the hopes of becoming a Movie star.

I am going to let my thoughts flow and type out the first thing that comes to mind.

I AM SIGNIFICANT BLOGGERS. ACKNOWLEDGE ME. KNEEL. KNEEL BEFORE ZOD.

Geez. This is weird. In fact this is downright bad. How shallow can my thought be?....With so many possibilities out there, couldnt my thought dwell on them briefly.....Violence in the middle east, Corporate Fraud, Insular Americans, Indians who think that India is going to be a superpower and what i think about them, tambram boys experiencs on matrimony....the Possibilites were endless...but instead what do i come up with. A silly dialogue from Superman II and a desire for people to acknowledge my blog.

I think i need to stop now. God knows what else my subconsicous will dredge up. But just for the record Superman looked like a sissy in that movie compared to the villain. And i was just a kid at an impressionable age when i saw it.

But with that said, starting my own blog has been a positive experience already. Yes Indeedy doody...It has been....

I have never felt like a small town girl before.

Lets hope this lasts....(the blog...not the small town girl feeling).