i found the words

The Summer Of Cricket Down Under

2011-12-28T18:21:00.000+10:00

When cricket stars Rahul Dravid and VVS Laxman made a quiet appearance at Mughal Indian restaurant in Collingwood, they preferred the floor-sitting arrangement of the modest restaurant and sip a few soft drinks. Dressed in casuals, the stars shook hands with the few guests who were present, signed autographs and gave photo ops.

“It is always good coming back here,” said Dravid who was as laconic as he could. At times he looked confused whether to smile or look serious. When prodded about cricket, he said it was the management’s rule that they could not speak to anyone without prior permission. Fair enough, in a country where cricket is prime entertainment and cricketers treated next to Gods, there was very little surprise in this.

But for the brouhaha surrounding cricketers in India, this week the Indian cricketers have been enjoying relative anonymity in Australia. In Canberra at Manuka Oval, while adulation from scores of fans who lined the Indian players' race was a reminder of their star status, there was respite away from the venue, a media report said. “Rahul Dravid and VVS Laxman were able to walk from their hotel to Manuka Oval one day without being bombarded by autograph and photo requests. So comfortable was Laxman, he even accepted a ride to the ground by a fan from his home town of Hyderabad after missing the team bus.”

It is a summer of cricket here. The Australian media has been making much of the Boxing Day Test and various multicultural forums have been roping in as many cricketers as they can to gather the crowd and make the numbers. In Etihad Stadium Melbourne, for instance, when Shahid Afridi was felicitated by the Pakistani and other South Asian communities a special announcement was made to inform patrons that halal and curries would be served at the food outlets of the stadium. Etihad Stadium will be host to the KFC T20 Big Bash League, which is the Australian domestic Twenty20 cricket tournament. Afridi is one of the star recruits for Melbourne Renegades, one of the teams.

Meanwhile, the Boxing Day Test, a day after Christmas, is touted to be a memorable test with the famous batting trio of Sachin Tendulkar, Rahul Dravid and VVS Laxman playing their last series on Australian soil at the Melbourne Cricket Ground (MCG). Cricket Australia is said to have sold more than 75,000 tickets for the first day of the four-Test series.

India have never won a Test series in Australia, but with the big three playing together for the final time here, there is a huge sense of impending success. While Indian cricket fans are waiting with bated breath, it is sure that chants from supporters such as the Swami Army, India’s answer to England’s Barmy Army will rent the air at the MCG.

Shahid Afridi

2011-12-16T08:10:00.000+10:00

Imran Khan was a household name when growing up. And 1983 Prudential World Cup is etched in memory as Kapil Dev brought home the famous trophy. That night my mother rejoiced the most. I saw her picking up the poster of Imran Khan which had been purposely laid on the floor by one of the pranksters in the house. It was a way of saying ‘down you go Pakistan’. Such expressions are not uncommon in a household of cricket lovers. They can carry their fanaticism to an extreme, especially when it involves two sparring neighbours - India and Pakistan.

After that, cricket for me lost its charm. The game got embroiled in so many match-fixing scams that every time I looked at the television, I asked myself if I was watching a match for whom the punters have laid a huge bet or if the guys on the field were genuinely competing. Little wonder then, when I met Shahid Afridi yesterday evening I knew so little about the man except for having a blurred image of his face downcast when his team lost the World Cup semis to India this year. I didn’t miss that one. After all, an India-Pakistan World Cup final is a bloody mother of all games!

After Sachin Tendulkar, Javagal Srinath and now Afridi, I can say my cricket connection is not totally on the decline. I can boast to have met three heroes of cricket even though I may not know the game like the back of my palm. As to what transpired between Afridi and me after the meeting, nothing extra curious except that for most of my questions he said will have to get to the management for permission. I was beginning to think what a spineless sportsman for all the brouhaha surrounding the visit, when the waiter ferrying drinks in the room chose to trip near me splashing cold sweet drinks on my feet. My thoughts were rudely interrupted and I left the room which had become a sticky patch. I left home wondering: cricketers have become glamour kings; is there enough glamour left in the game!

Wisdom & Laughter

2011-12-15T08:55:00.002+10:00

It is the holiday gloss I think. I don’t feel like doing any damn work and there is so much to do despite the fact that I work from home! When I used to work from the office I would wait for opportunities to log in from home and now that I have this option, (which is not really a choice), I wish I could commute to work daily. But what is strange about this in me? I have a strong pull to something I don’t have or can’t have!

Practically everyone I have spoken to say they envy me because I work from home or well, hardly work. I don’t want to sound like I am bogged down with work because I hardly am. I contribute a few pieces of articles for a local magazine and some overseas. The rest of the time I am occupied with too many extra curricular activties. And yet I am dissatisfied. Because you don’t make friends sitting in front of the computer. As it is, my winge about this country is, there are no people. Otherwise life is great here. On second thoughts, maybe it is better without the people, a population like India's would kill the place.

I have met so many people in the course of my two years’ stay in Australia and more through the course of my work. I get invited to many different functions and some you meet over and over again. However, cultivating intimacy with people you meet for work purposes is difficult. Which explains why my chance meeting with Jacqueline Sutherland was so special.

Arriving at one of the lectures in the University of Melbourne, we happened to be seated next to each other when the conversations just took off and by the end of the lecture we were having dinner together in the city. There was wisdom, there was substance, there was chemistry in our conversations - the things I term special in our friendship because there is so much to learn from her background as a lawyer and she from my culture and profession, in her words. It has been many months now since we met and I have grown quite fond of her. Today I am going out to the city to have lunch with her. With age, intimacy with a friend is not so much about the fun you share having together, but about wisdom and laughter!

Need Open Borders

2011-12-13T11:58:00.000+10:00

My sister Rita is a funny woman. She asks me on the phone, “Don’t Australian visas have anti-theft thingies?” That was, after an email my younger sister received that said 'please come with authority letter to collect passports'. I replied, “Don’t be so optimistic, these foreign missions are all filled with psychos and can stop giving you a visa for any small error.” She says, “Oh well I am not a criminal or a cheat!” The problem is logic does not work with embassies.

My friend Cheri has been waiting for a year now to get her minor daughter to Australia and this, after having filled every required forms backed by supporting documents. The embassy says the case is with the visa officer and it is in a yes or no stage! When I got my long term visa for Australia, they wanted a salary statement of the husband. He explained that there is no statement and whatever comes is an online statement. As expected the embassy in Delhi did not accept the online statement and kept the application on hold for want of better salary statement. Finally the dickheads accepted a letter saying the man is employed in the firm. I mean what is the proof of authenticity of the document?

A friend who was travelling to America even had to fill up the question: Are you a terrorist? He had every mind to write oh yes and no! Why is the process of gaining access to a different country such a pain at times! It is now 7 am India time and I cannot wait for the clock to strike 12 pm when I will hear the news of my sister’s passport status. For a first time traveller, getting a western country’s visa is like passing through major exams, it seems. The clock is ticking and my nervousness is rising. I want the news right now.

George Harrison And I

2011-11-30T12:29:00.003+10:00

George Harrison's wife Olivia said George “was on fire within”. I was reading in the paper today an extract from the book George Harrison: Living in the Material World and what Olivia has written about her man, one of the most innovative musicians and spiritual explorers of his time, made me reflect on life in general. She said of George. “He had karma to work out. He wasn’t going to come back and be bad. He was going to be good and bad and everything all at once. You know if someone said to you, ‘OK, you can through your life and you can have everything in five lifetimes, or you can have a really intense one and have it in one, and then you can go and be liberated,’ he would have said, ‘Give me the one, I am not coming back here.’ “

As the secret to George’s imaginative soul bares open, I feel that is how I want to live life too. I am indeed greedy about life that I want to have it all, experience it all in one go. I too want to experience the good, the bad, the ugly all at once in this life. Patience is not one of my virtues but then it isn’t the only vice I have. If human beings were capable of that all-consuming goodness, the world would be full of saints and gurus. How boring a world would that one be?

As the silly season approaches, I am pondering about life in the material world. I have turned 40 and while I might say I have had moments when I felt on top of the world, I have not inspired the world to sing and dance (laugh out loud). So today when I read about George, the man who at 19 gave us such joy through his singing, that singing is only a part of his story. He is ‘an enduring figure of fascination’. I want to live life like George, kingsize. If the title of the post has misled you, there are no apologies because what I mean is, the relevance of George in my life!

My Facebook Man

2011-11-18T09:44:00.003+10:00

For long, he was a non facebooker. The types, you know, who would rather pick the phone in lieu of chats or emails. Perhaps the man likes to stay within the realm of the old world charm, I thought! But with a new phone, or his toy as he calls it, in his possession – it has Facebook on Android, which means there are a slew of fixes and is faster – Lolo’s resistance to Facebook is on the wane.

When I first set up Lolo’s account (he did have an account earlier which he deleted after reading how Facebook intrudes privacies), I told him that this time he could use his discretion to select friends. My idea to bring him on the Facebook fold was to make him a part of my cackles over comments/postings/photos etc.

Of course, life does not feel finite with a Facebook but it is a good past time and the best way to stay in touch with friends whom I miss. Then there is the other side that you end up accumulating so many unwanted friends. Like weeds, they need pruning. I mean it does not make sense to have friends who I met once or worked together but never interacted because we just don’t interact on Facebook too. And that’s when they qualify for perfect strangers. I like interaction, a 'like' or a 'how are you' sometimes. So my recent exercise in weaning of friends did prove therapeutic.

Back to Lolo. With a few friends whom he is comfortable with in his Facebook kitty, I love the grin on one of his rare moments of looking at Facebook. I also feel I am his support tech team.

“Is it Facebook etiquette to poke back if someone pokes at you?”

“Of course. You are not poking skin to skin. You are doing a virtual poke!”

“Am I allowed to like a ‘like’?”

“Do what you want!”

“Oh, but we gotta work together as a team...”

“I have friend requests. Who is P Singh, Who is K Singh....”

“DDDdddooon’t ignore, one is my uncle, the other is my cousin.”

I realise I have inadvertently set up Lolo with freaking Facebook. How long this tie-up last remains to be seen. For the moment, I don’t mind being his answering machine or support system!

Bali High II

2011-11-16T20:55:00.001+10:00

Almost a month after Bali, I still reminisce about the trip and what a wonderful time I had. Have been meaning to write about the various rituals we undertook as part of the retreat for the benefit of my dear friend Deepika, who is enamoured by all things exotic!

The five-day retreat was packed with activities. One of my favourite moments was getting ready in traditional attires and heading off for a purification ritual at Tirta Empul, Bali’s most revered temple. The staff at Kumara Sakti saw to it that not one sarong or headgear were out of place. We arrived at the temple after dinner. My heart was already racing at the idea of a dip in the holy pond - having never stepped into anything beyond two-feet in water. After offering prayers and flowers, we were led to the bathing pools , the water gushing out of the many pipes before which we had to dunk our heads three times and immerse. I took the plunge after making sure I was surrounded by two, of the three men in the group. Of course my fear for water got the better of me. Prayers were last on my mind. I was happy I was out of the water in no time.

After the dip we headed for the main prayer session where an amused priest kept smiling at a bunch of non-Balinese who wanted to know if the holy water meant for sipping was mineral water. I broke out into a laugh. But there was sincerity in the prayers as everyone sat with hands clasped, closed their eyes and for that few moments established an affinity with someone, somewhere, a supernatural power perhaps. It was a special beginning to our holistic retreat.

Getting up at 4 am to drive down for sunrise yoga near Mount Batur was another highlight. Mt Batur is a volcano still active and revered by the Balinese. We were a bit apprehensive that the sun would fail us as we were greeted by thick clouds along the way but our mood of the moment was lifted by the driver who said the sun does show up eventually. True enough, the sun shone through the mountain and we continued with our yoga.

After breakfast, we meandered through through Aga village. Walking through the village I was reminded of the north east region of India where I come from. Small houses, thatched toots, children playing, dogs barking. We were taken further to a special graveyard where the people house their placentas inside coconut shells that dangle from trees until the placentas rot and fall to the ground. Narrating this to a friend back home, I was told that the Khasis in Meghalaya, where I spent 23 years of my life, do practice the same thing. I am going to delve into this further on my next visit home.

After a peep into the village, we had a 22-km bike ride to Ubud. I sat in the car following the bikers because I am a non-biker in today’s age and time. But it was as if I had almost fallen off the planet, I enjoyed being the cosy spectator, clicking photos and cheering the bikers who seemed burnout at the end of it.

But there were more activities in store. On the second last day, we did a nature walk which ended at the Sari Organic restaurant set up in the middle of paddy fields. The food was beautiful and so was scenery. A massage and a restorative yoga at the end of the day helped us rejuvenate. We also had a cocktail on our last night to celebrate the successful retreat. The fresh juices, organic meals in portions, early sleep did us a world of good.

The saddest morning was the day when we woke up to find it was our last yoga after which we had a Balinese offering class. After breakfast, we assembled at the yoga hall and took part in a beautiful ceremony to mark a cleansing of our mind, body and soul. It was a ritual of letting go of our unwanted emotions or attributes which we had written down on small pieces of paper. Wayan, who became our friend, philosopher and guide, lit a fire where we burnt them one by one. Then we made small baskets of flower offerings which we took to the river and along with it flew the ashes of our burnt papers. It was a total let go. I am not very spiritually inclined but I did feel something, watching the river carry away all our flowers and ashes and I did hope the river took away all that I wanted to detach from. In silence we walked up the steps with our last remaining offerings and gave these to the temple at the resort.

The retreat ended with a healthy lunch and I headed off to the spa for a chakra massage lasting two and half hours. The massages were out of the world (more on my next post). In the meantime, most had bid goodbye and left. For the few of us who stayed behind and were flying off the next day, we hit the bar and restaurant and night and danced away to a Latino music. It even got the singer saying. ‘the group from this table is special’. Unlike most holidays, Bali did something to me, I came back enriched in every sense of the word!

Bali High

2011-10-31T14:40:00.004+10:00

As we arrived at Melbourne airport, I was impatient to hop on to the flight. “Hurry,” I told Lolo as I saw the long queue. He replied, “I can’t be bothered standing there, too many people.” Surprised, I insisted we join the queue before it got even longer. Then I heard a whisper, “Haven’t you figured out?” I looked up again at the signs. I jumped! We were flying business. My best surprise for the evening. Bali began on a good note.

But much as our departure was kingly, our arrival at Denpasar airport had a comic interlude. There was no one waiting with the sign “Laurence & Indira”. As an Indian, my first thought was “ah duped by the travel agent” (well it happens so often there that you can’t be blamed for thinking otherwise!) So while I made Lolo take care of the luggage, I was giving the men in placards an eyeful of me when I heard a kind, faint voice say, ‘Go to the information counter’. When I did find the counter, an announcement was made and I saw our host dressed in traditional sarong, headgear and garlands run to us with a placard that had our names in the tiniest of fonts. I would have missed him even if he was there right in front of the crowd.

“My friend, where were you?” I asked, half amused.

“I have been here for three hours. I am so tired,” he replied. At that, my face broke out into a smile. We were all tired for reasons best known to us.

A few minutes traffic jam and we were out of the airport driving through narrow roads, busy traffic and women on mopeds before we arrived at Bali Ayu, a villa property with Balinese architecture, in Seminyak. The bathroom floor actually had small pebbles and each time I stepped on it, I felt I was in a jungle. An incredible introduction to Bali the first night!

Driving to Ubud, our much awaited destination for our yoga retreat, I felt this is totally us – the life we imagine – green paddy fields and jungles, exotic, quaint architecture, small shops and cafe, peaceful people and surrounds. I had an inkling we were going to love every bit of the experience that lay ahead of us.

We checked into Kumara Sakti, residence of the second prince of Ubud, now converted into a resort, of course. With its ten bedrooms, two swimming pools, a dining hall, a spa and a yoga hall that opens into the jungle and paddy fields, Kumara was an intimate paradise on its own. The smell of flowers and incense sticks wafted in the air. It was a place that made bonding easy for the 16 of us who arrived from Australia, Canada and Hongkong for the retreat. For the next five days, the ancient narrow stairs and alleyways would resonate with our laughter and chatter.

I had read stories about yoga in Ubud and how such a small mountain town on a speck of an island had become one of the most popular yoga destinations of the world. It is also in Ubud that famous writers and artists have found a haven. Take Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, though I think anyone can do a Gilbert if you are at a place that allows you to only do these three things J. Jokes apart, having been there, I can now vouch for the fact that Ubud does have the ingredients for a perfect yoga destination. It is just not yoga alone but the combination of other activities such as biking, trekking, participation in local cultural activities that make the experience so holistic. (More on this in my next post).

I had imagined it to be hard waking early on a holiday but I did not loathe getting up at 6:30 am everyday to the sound of the bells. The place had certain energy about it.

Our yoga hall overlooked the jungle. The sound of the gong saw us assembling and the chants of Om transported us to a world surreal. Earthy and relaxing, we spent all mornings and evenings for the next five days of our stay learning and re-learning yoga from Viviene, our teacher from Melbourne. Her enthusiasm was infectious and by day two, the hall became a room of people who had the spirit for yoga. The classes turned to good times, and bonhomie turned to friendships.

Making friends here felt so natural as we opened ourselves to each other. There were Colleen and Albert - charming and affable, by the end of the retreat egged on by them we were dancing on the floor to a wild night of Latino music. Diane, generally quiet and soft spoken and an ex-army phsio therapist warmed herself to the group as Di, and she did give us a glimpse into the wild dancer in her on our last night. There was Kerrie C, jovial and entertaining that stories of her childhood sweetheart Peter became a familiar tale, some even dreamt of him, i think! And who can forget young Lauren, whose Playboy Mansion photos had everyone jumping off their seats over dinner. Lauren’s interesting experiences and photos were a source of great laughter and it even inspired Geoff, another gentleman in the team, to confess that of his photos on his iPhone one that was dear to him was that of his vacuum cleaner. I still have to figure out the intimacy between Geoff and his vacuum cleaner.

Then there were the delightful company of the duo – Ro, a gardener by profession, and Kerri F, a social worker. Ro was a bundle of mischief and her observation of everything from people to plants was laced with humour. The rest – Sue, Peggy, Genevieve, Jaci, Katie – were all a perfume – different scents for different mood; some serious, some quiet, some funny, some not. They add to what is called the versatility of life.

Making friends become not a big deal anymore after a point of time in life for most, but my Bali holidays show that life offers delicious moments when the mind stays open and you welcome newer experiences, newer people and newer joys into your lives.

At 96, Melbourne's Indian Inspires All

2011-10-28T13:24:00.002+10:00

He was nearly four when his grandfather took him to Jallianwalla Bagh in Amritsar, along with his uncle on April 13, 1919. It was Baisakhi, an important festival for Sikhs. What followed has been etched in history. The Jallianwalla Bagh massacre saw hundreds dead as the then English General Dyre ordered fire at an unarmed gathering of men, women and children. Today Bharpur Singh, 96, is probably the only, or one of a few survivors whose active life in the community has inspired many.

Singh’s memory of the massacre was jumping over the mud huts, at the back of the Bagh, along with his grandfather to save their lives. His uncle fractured his arm and eventually became disabled because of lack of access to medical facilities. “Because the Congress was using the occasion to address people, those who got injured could not go to the doctor for fear of being arrested, and the subsequent repression by the British” says Singh. His uncle remained a grim reminder to the massacre. On the 90th anniversary of the Jallianwala Bagh massacre held in Punjab in 2009, Singh specially went to India to participate in the annual memorial function and was interviewed by BBC for a documentary titled "Gandhi- The Rise to Fame".

For a man whose life gives us a clear historical spread over nearly a century – having seen the struggles for Independence, the second world war, an independent India and migration to Australia, his life is full of many interesting tales. He saw humanity suffering on both sides – India and Pakistan as a result of partition – and laments that while leaders of both countries were rejoicing, the common people were being slaughtered and displaced from their homes, and were struggling to come to terms with a new reality. “In Punjab, Bengal, and many other places the humans' lives, livelihood and properties were destroyed,” he says. He himself suffered loss, having been posted in Lahore just before the partition, as he fled for his safety towards India with nothing on him, but a severe trauma.

“I have seen so many things in life,” he reminisces. “I was born in 1915. Jallianwala massacre happened in 1919. Then followed Gurudwara Sudhar movement in the whole of Punjab. There were also communal riots between Hindus and Muslims in Amritsar during 1920s. These riots drove a wedge between the two communities and segregated them." Singh recalls the start of World War II in 1939 and its effect on India, the Indian economy and industrialisation as well as the "Quit India" movement of Gandhi.

After completing his studies, Singh began his career working for a British firm in an administrative job. Later, in 1936, he was selected in a competition to join government service in Lahore, Punjab (now in Pakistan). That gave him an opportunity to travel extensively to places such as Lahore, Rawalpindi and Karachi etc . When Sir Radcliffe was working on the nitty gritty of boundary division between India and Pakistan, Singh was part of the data collection team at the district level in Punjab.

After his retirement from government service in 1973, Singh moved to his home town Amritsar, where he involved himself in religious studies. He actively organised and participated in religious activities. In 1985, after the Blue Star Operation, he migrated to Australia to join his son. Ever since then he has been active in social life as well as helping the Sikh community in their religious organisations. In 1999, the Sikh Welfare Council held a seniors' night where Singh was recognised as the 'oldest person'.

Singh is one of the founding members of the Indian Senior Citizens Association eastern suburbs. He is now working in a team towards forming an Indian Seniors Association for the western suburbs of Melbourne. Being a member of St. Albans Senior Citizen club he actively interacts and participates in the general Australian Community groups.

At 96, Singh continues to read, write articles for publication and fulfilling social obligations. He continues to keep pace with modern technology. He uses his iPod and MP3 players for listening to devotional music, songs and the Gurbani. He is easy with mobile phones, computers, assessing emails, surfing and researching the net and so on.

Asked what the secret to his long life and good health is, he quips, “I am a man with no secrets. I live life on the 'right side' of the law.” He further explains, “There are two sets of laws - one made by man to govern the society; the other made by God to govern the Universe. If you observe those laws, God Almighty will always help you. This is what my religion and my Guru says.”

It is a dictum that seems to have played well in his life as he thanks Waheguru for His Blessings, and his children for looking after him well. He is blessed with 6 children, 16 grand children and 21 great- grand children. A rich man in, Singh’s words, is one who needs no more. Clearly, Singh is beyond rich – out and out.

Meeting Shashi Tharoor

2011-10-04T10:33:00.000+10:00

Hot is the word for the man. If I had time I would have plotted to snare this latest heart throb of mine but as with all things academic and political, I had very little time with a man whose gift for the gab and drop dead good looks suggests his bounty could be as high as any Hollywood star.

Last week, the former United Nations big wig and now Member of Parliament from Kerala, Shashi Tharoor gave an oration on Indian Soft Power In a Globalising World at the Sidney Myers Bowl, University of Melbourne. It was the second annual oration of the Australia India Institute Conference. Last year, it was Kapil Sibal but he left little to talk home about.

At a packed auditorium, Tharoor charmed the audience. It was a subject Tharoor said, had him ‘thinking over. He was speaking about India’s soft power. Concerned about the proliferation of those who speak of India as a future world leader or even as the next superpower, Tharoor said, “I am not yet sure we can call ourselves one when we are super poor. Many speak about India as a great power of the 21st century when we are not yet able to feed, educate and employ all our people.” For a politician, he did hesitate to remind the world about the other side of India.

What makes a country a world leader? Tharoor said it is not economic growth, military strength or population numbers that he would underscore when talking of India's potential leadership role in the world but “a combination of all these, allied to something altogether more difficult to define -- the 'soft power”.

Quoting Joseph Nye who coined the term ‘soft power’ to describe the extraordinary strengths of the United States, Tharoor said, "Soft power has been pursued with success by other countries over the years and created partly by governments, and partly despite governments; partly by deliberate action, partly by accident.”

Tharoor said, “India's claims to a significant leadership role in the world of the 21st century lie in the aspects and products of Indian society and culture that the world finds attractive. These assets may not directly persuade others to support India, but they go a long way toward enhancing India's intangible standing in the world's eyes.”

It was a speech delivered with the panache of a raconteur, peppered with humour. From the export of Bollywood to bhangra dances, India has demonstrated that it is a player in globalization, not merely a subject of it, said Tharoor. “India benefits from the future and the past -- from the international appeal of its traditional practices (from ayurveda to yoga, both accelerating in popularity across the globe) and the transformed image of the country created by its thriving diaspora. Sometimes this has unintended consequences.” He cited the example of an Indian, a history major, who when transiting through Schiphol airport in Amsterdam was accosted by an anxious European crying out: "You're Indian! You're Indian! Can you help me fix my laptop?" The old stereotype of Indians of snake-charmers and fakirs is now replaced with every Indian must be a software guru or a computer geek.

Perhaps, said Tharoor, the most interesting asset for India in Afghanistan is the Indian TV soap opera Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi . “It is reportedly the most popular television show in Afghan history (at least until the onset of Afghan Idol last year), considered directly responsible for a spike in the sale of generator sets, and even for absences from religious functions which clash with its broadcast times.”

There is no country like India, he said that proudly boasts, of being not a melting pot, “but a ‘thali’ of a diverse mix of ethnic groups, culture, religion, a profusion of incomprehensible languages and much more; and yet India is more than the sum of its contradictions, a land with its own distinctive place in the world”.

Summing up, Tharoor said, “The India that has entered its seventh decade as an independent country is one open to the contention of ideas and interests within it, unafraid of the prowess or the products of the outside world, wedded to the democratic pluralism that is India's greatest strength, and determined to liberate and fulfil the creative energies of its people. Such an India truly enjoys soft power, and that may well be the most valuable way in which it can offer leadership to the 21st century world.”

Nye had argued that in an information age, it is often the side which has the better story that wins. Clearly, India must remain the 'land of the better story.' At Melbourne, Tharoor managed to do just that, tell a better India story.

9/11 Remembering My Mother

2011-09-11T23:00:00.005+10:00

On this day – September 11 in 2001 – the sun set on crushed buildings in New York. Thousands of lives were lost as the twin towers fell and the ‘Pentagon was gashed open’. For a lot of people, lives were changed forever. Five years later, on this same day, my life too changed forever.

As I watch the coverage of news on television and read reports in the newspapers on the anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, I find that for the relatives of those who lost their near and dear ones, the memories remain fresh and overwhelming. There is lots and lots of sadness still. I am not one of them, but then I become one of them because we are bound by loss on 9/11 . Only the years are different.

It is such a gift to have a mother and getting that absolute, unconditional love. I sometimes wish I could pick up the phone and talk to her, share with her everything beginning from things monotonous. She would listen to everything, laugh, worry, care. It is impossible to reconcile to the idea of her being dead because she lives in memory. She is part of my dreams. I guess it is her way of showing that she will always be around. When you wake up from that dream, there is a fresh feeling of just having connected with her, but halfway into the day you think it was just a dream and it was just like yesterday once more. I do not like sadness to define my life and I don’t believe life is about grieving. I am sure she would like us remember her fondly and not dwell on her loss or absence. If there is one thing infectious about my mother – it was her ability to have a good laugh. . She shaped the person I am today

If I have to sing paeans about my mother, there will be no end. My mother’s simplicity, her unorthodox ways of raising us five siblings, her inherent goodness and great sacrifices she made for us are just half the stories told. I understand profound sadness but I am not a great believer in anniversaries. I like to grieve in solitude. The few death anniversaries of my mother in Guwahati were just an added drama with the people who were invited more worried about whether we cried or wore a smile. Can they even comprehend our loss? And no matter how I feel about anniversaries, I will always be special and unique in her eyes because she alone will know I was born that way!

I have lived in sunshine and shadow since my mother passed away, sunshine of her memories and shadow of her absence...

FOUR YEARS AGO, I WROTE....

January 2007: Cruel Monday

June 2007: If Wishes Were Horses..
April 2007: Irreplaceable

Women Winge

2011-09-09T13:38:00.004+10:00

A close friend wanted to go to a striptease club this weekend. I love my girlfriend but I declined as I have no fascination for watching almost nude men pole dancing or showing their antics trying to drive up hormones. Imagine the visual. Nothing exciting to watch a few men in their trunks go cheesy. I would rather look at women, and give myself room for scrutiny.

At a restaurant one evening, the man and I were having dinner but we could not help smiling at the continuous laughter from a group of women sitting next to us. Later I told the man, I am hard pressed to find any dull woman. The more outrageous the laughs, the more I find myself loving the cackles.

But I am also at the point where I have come to the conclusion that where there is a group of women there is bound to be coteries, more a Facebook experience of late. Outcome of social routine disappearing! There is so much adulation, agreeing and applauding, which I see as complete fake. Not trying to say I am none of this but trying to keep true to this admission that yes, women are bitches, and we go through our cycles of bitchiness! I am having one at the moment and I wish Facebook had a bitch fest.

My best friends of many years have the ability to annoy me as well as make me laugh. We cringe, we laugh, we feel indifferent at times. I feel lucky I have girlfriends for all purposes – shopping, gossiping and so on. Friendship to me comes in sharing many, little details of life together. I grew up in a family full of women which taught me to understand the psychotic emotions we all have. But with sisters you can spill the ugliest of insults and still be forgiving. That is another level of intimacy. And I am happy I have sisters who do not belong to the world of blogs and facebook, like me!

My Date With Deepak Chopra

2011-09-03T15:45:00.004+10:00

The hall was packed with 600 wannabe writers. As the name Deepak Chopra was announced, there was a thunderous applause. As an Indian sitting in the Melbourne Conventional hall, I was secretly thrilled that someone from the sub continent had managed to make the audience, mainly women, break out into such an excitement.

Of course, Deepak Chopra is not your quintessential Indian writer in English. He does not satirise Indian customs J He is a doctor who has written vastly on Ayurveda, spirituality and mind-body medicine, he lives in the United States and his books are best sellers. Naturally, fans would throng where he steps.

I had come to attend the Melbourne Writers’ Workshop to hear best-selling authors Deepak Chopra, Doreen Virtue, Rachael Birmingham and Louise L Hay speak. While I am not a great fan of self-help books and people who write on how to become better or how to find the right path in life and such like, I thought I would learn something by meeting in person people who have sold millions of copies of books. Surely, that is no mean feat.

Deepak Chopra did leave an impression. To begin with, he did not have an American accent and he would have been understood most well by me. A wicked thought came to me. Good, let all your gyan come to me alone. To top it all, I was curious about a man who had been a friend of Michael Jackson for 20 years.

How a doctor began writing all things spiritual is an interesting one. “I was senior fellow in Boston in the field of endocrinology and I was just beginning my practice when I started to notice that some of my patients got better no matter how bad the treatment was, some died no matter how good the treatment was. There was something inexplicable about the fact that biological response to treatment was so unpredictable.”

Asking patients stories about their lives, he took all their stories and tried to put them into a framework. It was also the time when medical science was beginning to understand the ‘molecules of emotion’. This, Chopra explains, means that every state of consciousness is reflected in your nervous system, in a certain chemical milieu. “There are molecules that are generated in the brain and these molecules have effects on our biology into the immune system.”

Not much was known then in the medical world except that Chopra was beginning to see a link between what was happening in the consciousness and how it influences biology. Of course, somebody had already written about it, he says. “So it was not a brand new idea except that we were beginning to see some scientific evidence. And yet the evidence was not that convincing at that time. So I started to intuitively give explanations to what was happening. While I took all these stories, I wrote my own stories submitted them to hundreds of medical journals. Not a single publication picked up my papers.” He thought scientists were probably too fastidious; they want a lot of evidence. Of course 20 years later now, there are amazing evidence that shows how consciousness not only creates your physical body but, in fact, the universe.

Finally, while teaching at Harvard medical school, a student took his self- published books and put them at the Harvard cooperative store for display. “Two days later, I got a call from an agent, her son had picked up the book, Creating Health, and given it to her.” The rest is history. He had contracts from best publishers and each book was more successful than the first.

The point of this piece is: Deepak Chopra had something to say that day. “It does not matter how many rejections you get from publishers, if you think you have something to say write it.” I guess it is a lesson we can apply in life: learning not to give up on something we believe in.

Oai Shillong

2011-08-22T13:41:00.006+10:00

In class four at the Maria Montessori School in Fire Brigade, Mustafa and Razia were newly enrolled. They had just come from Canada. It was my only co-ed school before I moved to a convent. The teacher asked us if anyone knew what a cow shed was. Mustafa promptly replied “Indira’s house has a cow shed.” He probably thought I looked like a milkman’s daughter (nothing wrong with that in retrospect). But I pounced on Mustafa the moment the teacher went out of the class. I am guessing I enjoyed this fight as my sister recollects me sitting on top of Mustafa and giving him some sound punches. Of course it ended with the teacher’s “shhhhh” entering the room. The year was probably 1978.

For a few days on end, I have been wondering about Mustafa and his sister Razia and that it would be so good to find them. And more than that, I am constantly wavering between the past and the present, to the point where I am pre-occupied and feel like an anti social. I have not read Anjum Hassan’s book, but if you were to ask me what I feel right now, it is “lunatic in my head”.

For a few weeks now, Facebook has taken over my life in a way it has never done before. I am constantly turning to the page on Shillong – it takes me to every nook and corner of the town I grew up in – Donbosco Square, Police Bazar, Ward’s Lake, Kalsang restaurant...to name a few. I get a whiff of the smell of momos, the taste of channa wala, ghoogni... The page screams home.

And in those moments of walking down memory lane, the world gets small on me. It is like running into a life I had left and miss so much. Nostalgia is a good word right now.

Unlocking every memory and sharing it with friends who grew up the same time and at the same place is such a happy exercise. For who would forget Enter The Dragon and the beginning of the Bruce Lee mania that swept our little home town. Bruce Lee shoes flooded the market. My brother recalled waiting three hours in the queue to get a ticket. Those days the black markerters had a field day with every new release of movies but for those who could not afford their prices, standing long hours for a ticket was worth it, especially when it concerned the cult of the time. Shillong’s cinema halls – Kelvin, Anjali, Dreamland, Singhania, Bijou – each had a certain uniqueness and linked to a particular genre. I watched Grease, Saturday Night Fever in Kelvin – movies that were not only commercially so successful but had the power to remain etched somewhere in memory, even after eons. Of course, there were plenty, plenty others but I cannot think of more offhand.

But this is not what our hometown is known for. Our schools were the best – from the teachers to the environment to the extracurricular activities to the myriad friends. In all this, there was randomness with strangers too. We exchanged stories with people in cabs and buses, lanes and bylanes. There are so many more bits to fill up on but that would take a book to complete.

To Shillong Era 1960-1990, keep the memories and the laughter alive. It means our bodies might be somewhere but our minds and mouth are still in Shillong. I wanted to write a funny post but I guess old age is catching up and I am wearing my heart on my sleeve. I love this group, it makes me feel unconditionally accepted even by people who I have not met because we are all part of Shillong. Holy cow, I can trash the TV now but not Facebook J

Finding Food, The Right One

2011-08-04T10:47:00.002+10:00

Kate at the gym must be feeling like a dinosaur every time she meets me. I chew her brain.

“So, which exercise is good for reducing the fat around the stomach?”

“I think you must do a lot of cardio.”

“What is cardio?”

“Well, you work on the Bosu, boxing, core, cardio step, spin bike...”

“So cardio is good...?”

“Oh yes, speeds up metabolism.”

“So how much calories will I lose in 40 mins of practice?”

“About 300-400.”

“Really?”

“Yeah but it doesn’t mean you will go and snack in a 600-calorie meal.”

“But I have sweet cravings.”

“Well, eat these artificial chocolates.” (They taste shit).

“I feel like a Vanila Slice or a Tiramisu most days.”

“No, not good. Cut down your carbohydrates, and eat more proteins.”

“I do... but I don’t know where I am going wrong, I am putting on weight.”

“Start with rye bread and peanut butter, have some nuts too and snack on celery and carrot sticks dipped in hommus.”

“HUMUS?”

“No Hommus, it is full of proteins. Good for you.”

“Use only olive and macadamia oil in cooking. We made this beautiful banana cake the other day and it had no sugar or milk. We used soy milk. It tasted so good and is very healthy.” (Can you imagine eating a cake with no eggs and real milk?)

“I do use Olive oil but I do some Indian cooking and that tastes better with mustard or vegetable oil.”

“Oh No, not good at all.”

----

So what is good? Given the different theories in eating I am constantly trying to adapt! I am not a Hungry Jack burger king and fries person, but I do love my rice and wine and beer, and no I am not turning alcoholic but I can’t stop at a glass. I need two. Is this too sinful? Then I get involved in cooking, I love real spices, good taste in food and rich, but there is the constant nag about calories. Everything and everyone around me is obsessed about healthy eating and calorie intake. I can’t help it either. I eat something and fret about the calories.

Then there are friends who have taken to Weight Watchers and eat small meals to ratchet up some points! I have been through the diet grill – eating good breakfast, snacking on fruits, bran biscuits and having light dinners, but it is not something that I can follow on a long term basis. I have been trying a lot of Thai and Chinese cooking too after spending hours in the Asian shops and, discovering in the process frozen sator seed (yongchak in my language), but after a few days, the cans of coconut milk and bok choy make me want to throw up. Maybe I am a dysfunctional dieter.

And now with Lolo going organic, I am in a state of utter confusion. In Germany, 70 people died of e-colli infection from organic vegetables. So what exactly is safe? And how are farm eggs, cage eggs different from free range eggs? Don’t they all taste the same? And how do we know if plants are truly organic? Maybe someone grew it on a pot near the drain in his house covered with insect larvae. Everything looks genetically modified, anyways. I have never seen such huge egg plants, such big lady fingers, the size of my arm before I came here.

This October we are going to Bali for a yoga retreat and organic food. A friend was asking me what has happened to me, she thinks if I am going to Bali I must go for the right reasons. Yes I don’t want to turn into one of those – sipping hot water with a slice of lemon early morning, although I do have a glass of water. And although Kate says, “It is Vitamin C and helps metabolism.” Well when it comes to food, I think, I can’t forget my roots – pork and bamboo shoot, dried fish (utonga) and rice.

An Indian Obsession

2011-08-02T14:29:00.003+10:00

What is it with Indians and their intrusive obsession about marriage? My sister recently paid her girlfriend a visit. The girlfriend lives in another city with her parents, in laws - all in the near vicinity. My sister stayed the weekend but could not wait to get back home. She said, “I can’t relate to my friend anymore, she has reached the mental age of 50.” Later, in the course of the conversation, I found out that while my sister was looking forward to some fun and chatter, she was surrounded by a gaggle of people who wanted to know why she had not married and why she had become so fat. Then they kept giving her food, food and more food.

Yesterday I was talking to another close friend of mine in India, same age as my sister. After being in a relationship for more than five years, the guy she was dating chose to act funny just when wedding plans had finalised. It had taken a while for my friend’s parents to accept her man as he was already married with kids. And just when they had gotten round to accepting everything, they got another shocker.

Now preparations were already on and family, friends and relatives told about the marriage. Her parents do not know how to handle this 'public shame' and are desperately scouting all matrimonial ads to find a groom for her. Every Saturday, my friend has to meet a prospective spouse and the more men she meets, the more she is put off marriage. Not only does my friend abhor arranged marriages but the men she meets, no matter how educated, want to get married in a week’s time. My friend says she wants time to know the person she is getting married to but in the arranged marriage business, everyone is in a hurry. Last night my friend said, “My parents look for boys every week, it is like a form of therapy for them but they don’t know the damage it is doing to me.” With her refusal rate so high, she said she was scared she might end up spending the rest of her life with her parents as they don’t want her to move out too.

Sadly, our society straddles women so much especially when they are hitting their 30s. They put so much emphasis on when to marry, whom to marry that it can drive a normal person insane. I can imagine my sister’s idea of a good holiday screwed up and I can imagine my friend’s idea of a normal everyday life screwed up being surrounded by people who think marriage is the most important event in a woman’s life. Whether she has a good job or is independent is not important, if she has not been able to trap any decent man, that is a failure.

I remember when I got married my neighbours told me I should also arrange something really quick for my sister!! Little did they realise I got married because I fell in love with the man and not for the heck of getting married or societal pressure. I replied my sister would find someone herself and get married in her own time if she wanted to. They could not believe what I said because they thought it was my responsibility to find a man for her. Finding a man for a 30-year old? I suspect that is next to impossible.

Why can’t people let single women live alone without questioning their unmarried status? I can’t believe even friends do. They would say, “I agree, I agree, they must be left alone.” But at the next instance won’t stop from reminding how “it is high time now' for so and so 'to settle down”. Happiness does not end with finding a husband. Happiness begins with being happy about oneself and if people go on reminding someone how incomplete her life is because she has not found a man, they are doing very little to make her happy. One can be happy being single, one can be happy being married. The priority just shifts from 'me' to 'us' in a marriage. Of course, there will always be a reason to keep looking for that lasting happiness in life, because it does not end with finding a job, a house, a husband or a child.

Understanding English

2011-08-01T12:59:00.000+10:00

Every Thursday, a motley group of 15 of us sit down at the CAE (Centre for Adult Education) in the city and discuss English threadbare. The trouble with English is, the more I study, the more confused it makes me.

Why do I have to choose between a passive and an active voice, or why is active voice important than passive and vice versa? Meaning, would you say, ‘the angry dog barks all day ‘or would you choose a pithy ‘dog barks’. In school we were taught to learn by heart certain things: that a noun is a name of a person, place or thing; a verb is an action word; and an adverb adds to the verb. Our adult life goes into working out what in a sentence is a verb or an adverbial phrase. Example: The hungry dogs bark loudly all day long and make me crazy. Is crazy a verb or is it an adverbial phrase? And what makes the class even more interesting is that our teacher Margaret Geddes, writer and journalist, herself says, “Well, we will figure out as we go along.”

I like the class for its informality and variety in the students. Two in the class have already written novels and are waiting to publish them. Why would they study English, if they have already written novels, I wonder? The same anyone would ask me, why study the same you have studied. Well, it is my attempt at discerning the types of English prevalent in the world.

In our introductory session, I remember someone saying he wants to explore urban tales, probably a new genre of writing which comes with writing on the internet. I hadn’t heard of it and was enlightened as much as my 50 something classmate was about the word LOL, which is now in the oxford dictionary. She always thought LOL meant Lots Of Love, and invariably signed off every email with it. To top it all, a friend had put up her status update on Facebook saying her father passed away. She had immediately commented, “So sorry to hear that. LOL.” Of course, she didn’t mean to laugh out loud. It’s unforgiving English.

I can’t wait for the Thursday class and Friday when I meet Deepak Chopra, Reid Tracy, Rachael Bermingham and others at the Writer’s Workshop and take some gyan on writing and publishing. xxxooo

My Conversation With Marie

2011-07-19T11:03:00.002+10:00

I am interested in people. I don’t know why. I like to talk to people and know all about their lives, well if not everything, most things. And I can get engrossed in conversations for hours on end, even with perfect strangers. There is an inexplicable, odd satisfaction of having known someone in that short period. It gives me a peep into the many colours of life.

I have been in Melbourne for nearly two years now and it is a place quite conducive for talking, much to my surprise. People smile at you all the time for sure, but yes they like to have conversations too. Back in India, it was extremely easy to strike up a conversation with just about anyone without being apologetic about intrusion. But then in India nobody apologises.

Of late, I have been bumping into my neighbour Marie quite often. She is in her seventies, white haired, thick whiskers (sorry for the vivid description but people obviously don’t care much about waxing at this age) and is pretty slim. She lives a few houses away and tends to her lovely garden every time the sun comes out. It is winters now but we have both the rain and the sun.

Of course, I am not Marie’s exceptional friend. She smiles at everyone who passes but I love to stop for a five minutes tete-a-tete before I carry on. I have to pass her house to go to the market. Like most Australians, she always says a “Lovely day, isn’t it?” on days that are sunny and, “It’s not too good today,” on cold, cloudy days.

I first met Marie at the Indian grocery store and was chatting up with the Tamil woman who runs the shop. Suddenly I found Marie standing next to me. She had ordered samosas and was asked to wait, but she had forgotten her order. She turned to me and asked, “Am I supposed to wait?” I said yes and that she had ordered some food. “Oh dear, I forget.” But then we all do sometimes.

A few days later Marie was with my neighbour Lynne and they were having a conversation. Lynne told me they were both in the same suburb many years back but Marie has forgotten it all. And I reconnected how she had forgotten the samosas that day. Like most elderly, she probably suffers from dementia but that has of course not impacted on her social skills as we have perfectly nice talks on life.

My conversations with Marie are mostly about her past. And that to me is the most interesting part. She tells of a creek that used to run near my current house when she was a kid and how a bridge over the creek was brought down when they began building the roads. I imagined a greener suburb than now. The butcher’s shop, she says, has been replaced with the milk and bar shop now.

“My husband died a few years back, we had a good life,” she tells me in each conversation. But now she has her poodle, her little dog for company. “She is inside and waiting for me.” Marie has no children, she has a sister and a brother who lives in a different state. When they were young, Marie says she made tea for the family and then studied the rest of the time. But now her sister, who never married, lives in the big family home.

I find her waiting for her sister many days. “She called a while back but has not come,” she tells me. I got bold once and told her why she does not live with her sister (that to me would make life so less lonely) but she replied it was good to have one’s space.

I meet Marie practically every other day and I ask her, “Do you remember me?” She replies coyly, “No”.

Classical Moves Down Under

2011-07-14T16:46:00.000+10:00

In 2003, three young sisters staged their debut performance of Bharatnatyam, called the Arangetram, at the Besan Centre, Mount Scopus Memorial College in Melbourne. They were met with a standing ovation and awarded the Natya Kala that year for best overall performance. Eight years later, the Soma sisters - Deena, Janessa and Jaya – are set to rock the stage again.

The long break, they say, is because of the time they had taken off to chase their other callings in life. Having achieved that – today Deena is an occupational therapist, Janessa a radiographer and Jaya a pharmacist – the sisters say coming back to performance is like coming back home. They feel they are at one place at the same time and ready to showcase their talent once again.

They have been putting in five days a week since March for their mega show in July titled ‘Trishakhti – The Totality Of Female Energy’. With seven performances and seven concepts, including three solos each and four group presentations, coordinating and synchronising the whole show is a challenging task. But with a celebrated and renowned guru Chandrabanu, whose illustrious career as a dancer spans 30 years, choreographing the show, the girls are all geared up. Besides, they have a well-known singer from India Ahilan Sivanandam, who will lend his rendition to the performance. The show will aim to promote Indian classical dance, music, culture, religion and mythology to the wider Melbourne community. Mostly funded by themselves, the sisters say it is love for the dance that is their motivating factor.

Born in Wellington, the three started learning this ancient classical dance form at the ages of 13, 11 and 9 years there before they moved to Melbourne in 1995. In fact, Given their Gujarati Indian background, it was one way of not missing out on the culture part. “Wellington had a small Indian community where we attended a Sunday school where we could learn Hindi, bhajans, dances etc.. The second headmistress who came started a small Bharatnatyam class and that is how we got into,” says Deena, 29, and eldest of the three. Initially trained under Ambika Docherty, they subsequently undertook advanced studies under renowned Bharatnatyam proponent Dr. Chandrabhanu in Melbourne.

Interestingly, it is not just Bharatnatyam that they love. “Ever since we were young, we always loved dancing. We did balle and a bit of Kathak,” says Deena. While Deena has forayed into Odissi, Jaya, 25, learnt the Flemingo dance in Spain and Janessa, 27, dabbles in hip-hop. But the bottomline: all of them specialise in Bharatnatyam.

“Bharatnatyam is definitely challenging. There are a lot more components to it, and it is very meaningful,” says Jaya.

“One has to know the philosophy, intricate hand and eye gestures, there are so many different levels, you are using your body to create passion to narrate a story,” says Janessa, adding, “We do things together as we don’t have much difference in age.”

Donned in tracksuits and jumpers, the Soma sisters are your quintessential next door girls but what defines them is their intrinsic love for this very ancient dance Indian form which also defines their identity, to an extent. Of course, they love their roots and have visited India a few times, each time enhancing their love for their culture, religion and food.

As for their long term plans, they hope to keep on dancing as long as their bodies can hold. Jaya is already instructing young dancers on the art form. Deena says she plans to go to India and learn more because “Bharatnatyam is something that is expansive and involves a life-long learning process”. Janessa says she has learnt about Hindu culture, tradition and mythology through Bharatyam, and, in a fun way as well. They all agree that there is also the devotional part as also the love lyrics that you would not normally explore in religion anywhere – the eight nayika, expressions, et al.

The sisters attribute their success to their guru who has taught them that Bharatnatyam is like meditation and yoga and finding themselves, their mind, body and soul by internalising and focussing on one thing. “You need a good guru to bring that out. We are lucky to have ours,” adds Janessa.

Of them, says their guru Chandrabanu, ““Deena, Janessa and Jaya have a natural flair for dance, which makes their performances always appealing and charming. Their dancing is full of vitality and verve, reflecting on their enthusiastic approach to the art.”

“We have come back to dancing after doing everything else in our life. It is the right time, it is like coming home again,” sums up Deena. Clearly, life meets art for the Soma sisters.

The Piano Teacher

2011-06-10T14:45:00.010+10:00

I love SBS and its plethora of world movies which bring the whole gambit of human emotions and drama right before you. Some of these are films I would never had access to in India for their themes, explicit scenes and blatant dialogues, and yet so powerful that they leave you with either a feel good or a feel bad taste.

Last night, I watched a brilliant French classic, La Pianiste or The Piano Teacher, played by one of the most brilliant French actresses Isabelle Huppert. The film had no feel good factor. It only left me thinking and thinking.

Piano teacher Professor Erika Kohut is a plain-looking middle-aged spinster, who lives with her mother who dominates and controls her life in the way young mothers do of their teenage kids. She goes to the extent of going through her stuff - bags, clothes - to find out what she has been up to, which often leads to violent confrontation between the two, only to make up and cry at the end in their shared, claustrophobic bedroom. But Erica‘s only consistent relationship in life is that between her and her obsessive mother.

As a music teacher at a Viennese conservatory, Erika is a genius but she is serious and unsympathetic. And there is a sexual kinkiness about this gifted teacher. She looks for unnatural satisfactions - in cheap sex video parlours where she sniffs used napkins lying in the bin, in car parks prying on couples making love, and in the bathroom of her house where she finds a queer pleasure in mutilating her genitals with a blade and then rushing to the dining table as if she has just freshened up.

Erika’s world is confronted when she finds herself pursued by a young, handsome student Walter Klemmer (played by gorgeous Benoit Magimel), infatuated by her talent. When Klemmer expresses himself to her in the toilet of the conservatory, there follows an erotic session between the two but Erika refuses to have sex and instead tells Klemmer that he has to play by her rules which she would pen down in a letter.

One night Klemmer follows Erika and finds himself in her room much against the horror of her mother who chides her later for bringing men home ‘as neighbours would talk’. Klemmer’s hopes of a natural romance wanes as he is forced to read the letter in which Erika pleads for sexual perversity – to be slapped, hit and gagged, licked in the ass, et al. A shocked Klemmer calls her sick and needing help. “I did love you once,” he tells her and leaves the room. In the end, it is Erika chasing Klemmer seeking for bondage, pain and humiliation as opposed to conventional lovemaking. One night, Klemmer turns up and violently makes love to her while her screaming mother is locked up in another room. But Erika’s experience is far from her conceived imagination. She is left battered and crying.

Arriving to watch a musical, she lets her mother proceed to the hall with a young student whom she had left incapacitated in the hand - in a fit of jealousy as Klemmer was showing her attention. Waiting for Klemmer’s arrival, she catches a glimpse of him waving at her as he nonchalantly walks up the stairs of the auditorium with a group of friends. Then, as a remorse for all things done, she stabs herself and walks out of the theatre. The conundrum left by the director for the audience to wonder - did Erika die or did she go to a porn shop? Like all great cinema, we are left to judge.

The movie is not a titillating sex show. It has a Freudian layer of power, sex, repression, art. Erika is a brilliant music teacher but her brilliance is limited to her art and her knowledge of it, her real life is one of suppression aided by the fact that she lives with her mother who stomps any show of independence in her. Klemmer came as the voice of sanity and reason in her life but she was not able to balance her perceived world and reality. Art and life, truly, does not mix. As someone said nature and life never change, but art does because it is a human perception.

I didn’t love the film for the simple reason that there was no happy ending. I wished, like all romantics, she was reformed and lived happily ever after with Klemmer immersed in music. But parts of the film has stayed with me because I can relate Erika’s life to so many spinsters in India. They do not, of course, live in the perceived world that Erika does or show the sexual kinkiness but there is repression. And the repression comes from dominant families who think their single status does not give them the licence to free thinking or lifestyle or the choice to pursue love interests. Doesn't continued repression lead to some extremities? How would many of these spinsters be handling them? The other looming question: how far is a man willing to go to be with the woman he wants?

P.S: Apparently, the French film industry gives filmakers the freedom to experiment with sexuality and the audience go for these movies. Unlike America, Australia or the UK, the French do their stuff best than anyone else exploring subjects that are provocative, real and taboo for the rest of us. French director Catherine Breillat says,"As artists we are coward if we cannot do that." Some of these films are a bit uncomfortable to watch but you know that they do want something that is real and examine sex in a serious way.There is an artistic and social reason there: sexual perversity is not good nor will free sex save the world but exploring what is there in the deep recesses of the human mind does help get rid of the fears.

A Good Flight

2011-06-09T13:16:00.005+10:00

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls... the captain has not switched off the seat belt signs, so please remain seated.” In a sing-song tune, the airhostess mouths these words, and boy, they sound the same in every flight. On my seventh domestic flight in a month, I had learnt these lines and more by heart. Their rehearsed dialogues and horrible pronunciation come with a stomp - everyone pays a deaf ear and so my co- travellers are all wrapped in their cell phones much against the red, warning signs.

Inside India’s perpetually packed domestic aircrafts, I feel I am in one big playground. Like you get what you paid for. A lady next to me is so busy on the phone, probably she is in a tele-conference with someone in Alaska. With the other she hands her luggage to the steward without even looking at him as he adjusts it in the upper head locker. Where is the ‘thank you’ madam? Now barely has the bloke adjusted his seat belt, he pushes the attendant button. A busy airhostess walking down the aisle, checking if seats are upright, puts off the button and carries on her catwalk. Five minutes later, the man presses the button again. An airhostess asks if he can wait as the flight is about to take off but he fumes, “I have been waiting for 15 minutes, I need some water.” He has his way.

The lights are dim and the flight has taken off. I hear a “happy journey” exchanged between two friends. How sweet is that. My laughter is not controlled. The seat belt signs are on but the queue for the ‘lavatories’ is about to begin. “Please wait, sir, madam.. it is for your own safety.” No they have to do the needful, of course. Someone else has taken out his video camera and is filming his family seated on the plane. “Excuse me sir, please put off the camera,” he is told but he resumes the moment he sees the back of the airhostess. “This is a going to be a good flight, can’t wait for the flight to land,” whispers Lolo. He is enjoying every bit of the action and has kept his book aside.

The flight descends. It is still moving on the runway but passengers have switched on their phones. “Haan ji, poch gayi, badi gaadi laana lene ke liye (I have reached, come and fetch me in a big car),” I hear. The other half have stood up and begun opening the overhead lockers. The airhostess screams, “Please be seated, we have not reached our destination.”

Not easy to be an airhostess in India. But do we also need an orientation on how to be good fliers?

Demystifying The Osho Ashram

2011-06-03T22:31:00.002+10:00

I have always had a romantic vision of Pune – scenic, polite people, few good colleges. I had heard of the Rajneesh Ashram there, which when it came up shook the Indian middle class morality, because Rajneesh propagated free sex. It was a place no decent parents would have his son or daughter seen. I had heard the ashram was thronged with hippies, Hollywood stars and rich bankers from Wall Street on a philosophical quest to the meaning of life. Like the forbidden fruit, at the back of my mind I always wanted to savour the place.

I remember a dialogue of Rajneesh Osho: “If Jesus could walk across the ocean, why can’t the pope walk across a swimming pool.” It was not something I had read, it was something told to me by my uncle, whose avid reading habit did not rub down on to many of us until late. Throughout my adolescent consciousness that statement stood out in memory for the sheer humour I saw in it. It was not the most enlightening of statements, but the strange fascination for Osho began then.

So when my friend Laxmi, who we were visiting in our ‘tourist run’ of India, asked me over the phone if we wanted to do a tour of the ashram as she had to book in advance, I looked at the website and decided a three-night stay at the infamous Osho Ashram could well offer me some interesting insights into the place.

They now call it the Osho Meditation Resort and at Koregaon Park, Pune’s posh suburb is spread the resort which houses open air workshops on different meditations and well being, cafes, meditation centres and health spas. Plenty of greenery and very clean, there is no way you will fall ill eating here as even the fruits sold in the cafe are not to be picked by hand but by the use of a tong. Even the drinking water areas have special instructions which say you cannot touch the top of your bottle to the tap. The rooms, says an India Today report, flaunted at the reception, will give any five-star hotel a complex, something I quite endorse. Cleanliness here is next to Godlinesss.

On our arrival, we were met at the gate by a bunch of foreigners – all volunteers I later learnt. International students especially from Europe come to the ashram for a course on meditation and render free services towards the upkeep of the resort. I looked at the whole place and if anything, I realised Rajneesh was a man with great business acumen. Everything has been designed in such a way that western tourists get sucked into the spirituality that India has to offer. After a mandatory AIDS test, we were given a welcome session, an introductory session into activities of the ashram, of which meditations occupy 90 percent of it. Meditation programmes begin at 6 am and wind up with the evening meditation session at 7:30 pm which is the day’s highlight.

Robes of saffron and white colour mark your membership to the ashram. We had to buy the same from the ashram boutique and we found out later from smart backpackers that there were cheaper ones down the road. I asked one of the volunteers why we had to wear the maroon robes during the day and the white one for the evening meditation, and I was told it was for a uniform flow of energy. Surprisingly, we quite liked wearing the robes, it made us feel cooler in the warm climes of Pune.

The meditation sessions - Kundalini, Dynamic and Tibetan to name a few – were all unique but it was not something I was drawn to instantly, nor did I make it a point to attend it each day unlike the other avid tourists who were either on yoga vacation or spiritual search. There was nothing sleazy about the place. It was a rip off, alright like any other tourist destination. A bottle of water was sold for Rs 50 inside. There were parties late at night everyday at the resort where everyone let their hair down and danced and drank the night away. An Indian MBA graduate from Mumbai I met told me he hadn’t told his family he was at the ashram lest they had a heart attack! We both agreed the ashram’s reputation was damaged to a point.

If there was anything I was not impressed with the Osho Ashram, it was Rajneesh’s sermon every evening and wondered how in his thick north Indian accent, he could mesmerise the world with his lame speeches. They laughed at his silly jokes, danced and meditated in absolute silence chanting his name at the end.

Till today, Indians have no idea what the Osho Ashram is all about. As Laxmi’s mother-in-law asked me, “Why do you want to go there?” To her, the ashram represented all things sinful. Even Indians living abroad give you a funny smile and a look (as if you were secretly back from a strip tease) when you admit having visited the Osho Ashram. Ignorance does ignite big tales and assumptions!

Oai Delhi

2011-06-02T14:46:00.012+10:00

Travelling back to Delhi, which has been home to me for more than 15 years, I was haunted by the same feelings of attraction and repulsion the same time. The city seems ready to explode – with people and vehicles – each year. But the same I would say of my small town Shillong, no longer a quaint, sleepy town, only a concrete jungle now.

Stepping out of the IGI airport, the noise, pollution and people all seemed to spew out a certain warmth. I was excited to be back, excited about changing my dollars to rupees, about tasting my first paan after a year, seeing my old neighbours and many more things

As our taxi drove in to my old Netaji Nagar flat, Usha Didi sprang from behind and gave me a hug. There was a hive of hyperactivity as some others in their nighties that afternoon yelled from the balconies “aagayi tu?” Then there was Shell (I still don’t know why we call her Shell and what her ‘good name is to date) visibly upset that I did not get with me a ‘nanna munna’ despite being married for more than a year. The next time, she insists, I must come with the third addition to my family. The welcome to this foreign-returned neighbour was heartfelt and an indication of the generous hearts of my neighbours who handed dinner and lunch invitations on the spot. The husband was graciously gawping down the first few hours of his arrival to another universe. He says it takes a week for him to get acclimatised in India.

From the window of my old, dilapidated government flat, I could see the same old kabari-wallahs (trash collectors with whom I have fought many a times) pass by and we exchange smiles. Soon word was out that I had come and I had two unique visitors – my old maid and the maalish walli – give me company for the rest of my stay.

Delhi’s new get up is one forward-looking image with the flyovers all ready, the predestrian bridges all lit up and shiny, public toilets at every corner, malls, gardens, etc. My weary old neighbourhood has also been given its glamorous touch with the new seven-star Leela hotel nearing completion. I asked my sister how they managed the traffic during the Commonwealth Games and she pointed to the lane marked CWG, where those who crossed the lane were fined as much as Rs 6000. She said driving those days was like a breeze as none dared break the rules! Games over, it is back to chaos.

Weaving my way through the overly crowded but favourite Sarojini Nagar was difficult this time as the lanes were dug up and some pipe restoration work was on. But everywhere in Delhi is overcrowded, it is funny how that does not enter your consciousness when you live there but when you come back after living elsewhere – the heat, noise and people – begin to stress you.

Not taking a chance with driving the first few days, we decided to auto it around. I realised if there is one pet peeve in Delhi, it is the auto drivers whose sense of greed does not seem to wane. They treble their fare the moment they see a phirang, who on the contrary was asking me to play the tourist and not fume about the price. But in my nearly chaste Hindi, and in the pattern of a maha guru, I chose to tell them not to dream about becoming lakhpatis overnight. Elsewhere in Ahmedabad, riding an auto, deemed as one of the world’s thrill rides, was a pleasant experience. You came close to giving the driver a hug when he quoted a modest 50 rupees for nearly an hour’s ride around the city.

But not all cities resemble each other. Sitting in the quietness of my house in Melbourne, I suppose I ought to be happy I am away from the din and people and heat but such is the human heart – that absence does make it grow fonder.

Homecoming

2011-05-19T22:19:00.001+10:00

Landing at the Indira Gandhi International Airport, I was in for a surprise. The airport has got a face lift. Despite the bad press, the Commonwealth Games has made homecoming less depressing. It didn’t bother me much that the rather ugly brown and yellow carpets stank of dampness. Gone will be the days, hopefully, of people falling from escalators and dying. Indians are always in a hurry, so we are witness to all sorts of mishaps. It was also a relief not to be part of the great mix of unruly compatriots whose loved ones outnumber visitors at the arrival gate. Save for the diplomatic passport holders and the other privileged lot, the rest of us lowly mortals took to the queue waiting to be scrutinised with venom and envy by grumpy immigration officials. On one occasion, one went to the detail of asking me how I met my husband, married him and settled abroad – in the way you would expect from a frustrated moron, not a government servant.

But some things haven’t changed. Tired travellers don’t get a smile at the duty free shops. The taxi driver outside is lazy and does not want to ferry you despite a pre-paid ticket at hand. Instead, he is peeved at the number of luggage you have and expects a good tip. “Samaan jaada hain madam (too much luggage madam),” he frowns. I wonder if he has equated his engine to a mule.

I was once again back to the heat and dust, the clamour and people of the city which had been home to me for decades. When I commented about how suddenly I was transported to chaos, I met with a firm, “Oh you have forgotten your slum days so soon?” Of course, I was not complaining. I was just saying I had begun to lose the sense of the chaos and it all felt new again. Alive and aware!

The PR Obsession

2011-02-22T22:09:00.002+10:00

If you are single and living in India, it is but natural that you would be asked, “Shaadi nahi huwi? (You are not married?)” You see, it is not rude among Indians to ask the rudest of questions. So, whether you are meeting someone for the first time, a few times or after ages, that question is bound to crop up in conversations. Worse, you will be also asked ‘Why’.

I don’t know why we love asking questions. I have been bombarded with: “So, where is your family, where are your brothers and sisters, why are you travelling alone, why are you not married (and if yes), why no children?” from complete strangers. Maybe Indians are just too caring and concerned about others, I argue. Or maybe, we just have too much time on our hands to indulge in others’ problems.

Living in Delhi, I was swarmed by neighbours, whose heads peeped out of the window every time a car stopped by or a person stepped out of my house. And if I happened to be standing outside the house, I would find myself in the company of a few wanting to know it all. Soon the questions would follow: “So you had a guest, so you came home late last night, so you did a lot of shopping?” I miss the noise and the people, that’s a different thing; the questions I am not so sure.

When I moved to Melbourne, I found myself leaving a culture behind. I pass by well manicured lawns and beautiful houses and, often, wonder who all live inside, what meals are being cooked? But the moment I am in the company of my compatriots, the nostalgia and familiarity creep in. Of course, we have not changed at all even if we are in a ‘phoren’ land. The questions keep coming and the favourite in Melbourne is, not whether you are single but whether you are a PR (permanent resident).

I recently met two young men who are here to study. We met at a gurudwara and were talking about the renovation when suddenly they asked me out of the blue, “Aap ki PR hogayi (have you got your PR)?” Not that the question took me by surprise. Most Indians I have met have asked me the same question despite me telling them I have just got married and moved here.

We are a PR-obsessed community here. If you have an Australian passport, well, then you a notch higher than the others. The PR mania has seen hundreds and hundreds of students come here to study cookery, hair dressing, hospitality, et al. I am a little sad that the new immigration law is going to crush the PR dreams of many, and along with those the death of that favourite question.

Manipur Enchants Melbournians

2011-02-22T21:46:00.002+10:00

On a warm evening at St Kilda Road, dancers from India’s north eastern state of Manipur enthralled an audience and had them wanting for more. For many, this was their first peep into a culture and tradition born of a state which despite its small size has so much to offer. In fact, India’s art and dance is not complete without Manipuri dance, which is pristine and unique in more ways than one.

The group of eight dancers and drummers were especially sent by the government of India through the Indian Council For Cultural Relations to perform as part of the Indian community’s fund raising concert for Victorian flood relief. The performers offered a glimpse into Manipuri style of Indian classical dance and the hall packed with people were treated to some of the best dances from the region including pung kortal cholom, Krishna jagoi and thabi kakpa, to name a few.

The first dance was dedicated to Lord Krishna. Manipuris are worshippers of Lord Krishna and Manipuri classical dance is associated with religion. In this performance, Krishna comes to the appointed grove Kunya on a full moonlit spring night to play Ras Lila (aesthetic dance) with his lover Radha and Gopis (girls). “Unfortunately, this time we had no Radha in the performance because everything was arranged in a hurry and we were asked to carry few members only. Otherwise, the Krishna dance is always accompanied by Radha and Gopis,” said Kamiljit Wahengbam, the performer. It is said that the Radha-Krishna Ras-Lila is one on the most chastest, modest, softest and mildest but the most meaningful dances of the world.

The stick dance also held the audience spell bound. This is a martial art form of dance where the artist shows his balancing skills with a big stick holding two thin sticks. He makes various patterns and shaped with these sticks. And perhaps the most daring performance of the evening was the thabi kakpa or blind cutting. Here the artist having been blindfolded with a piece of cloth cuts a cucumber pressed on the belly of a live person. It is a breath-taking act which requires a lot of practice and perfection. Said 25-year old Romeo, who was the cutter, “We coordinate the movement with the sounds of the drums.”

The show was wrapped up with a performance of dholok cholom or the drum dance which is performed during the festival of holi. The dance embodies movements full of joy, and other acrobatic movements in wild ecstasy.

After the show, the dancers interacted with the audience particularly the Manipuri diaspora in Melbourne, who had turned up in full strength to show support. Thanking the artists and the audience, outgoing Consul General Anita Nayar said, “They (artists) have been very kind and adjusted in this small stage, can you imagine what it would have been like in a big stage.” She hoped there would be a continuation of such events in the future.

Wahengbam said the troupe was on a seven-day tour of Australia wherein they also performed in Sydney, Canberra, Melbourne and Brisbane being their last stop. Asked about their Australian experience, he said, “It has been very good, the people saw our performances for the first time and appreciated watching Manipuri culture for the first time. It was something very new to them and we also gave our best to make them enjoy. It is heartening to know too that we made a good impression.”

The performers belong to the Narayana Nrityalaya school and are seasoned dancers who in the past have toured the US, Canada, Russia, UK, Europe and China. The youngest in the group Romeo said, “I love world tours, there is a nice feeling because you are seeing something you have not seen at all. Besides, I am travelling on the strength of my merit and showcasing my talent.”

At the end of the day, Melbournians did have a taste of paradise on earth, as Manipur has rightly been called.

Australia Floods: A Survivor's Tale

2011-02-17T09:41:00.002+10:00

A cruel January. Like an inland tsunami, giant floods came gushing in many Australian towns and cities last month and almost paralysed a nation. Australia came to grips with one of the worst natural disasters in ages affecting thousands whose houses were either marooned or loved ones washed away.

The stories are countless. But here is a first-hand account of an Indian survivor who narrated his ordeal to me on the phone:

It was a manic Monday. Just back from a holiday in Malaysia, Manjeet Singh, 44, a resident of Gatton town in Queensland was enthusiastic about joining his work back in Toowoomba, 35 km from where he lived. Despite the drizzles, he reached office in the morning but by 1 pm decided to call it a day as the town of Withcott through which he had to drive was prone to landslides. But before Singh realised, "I was stuck in the middle of the flood and the car hung in there."

It began to pour heavily and Singh could hardly see the road ahead. As he was driving down, he saw a car three-four metres ahead of him and was wondering why it had stopped. "Then I saw the waters - coming and rising and the car in front was reversing on the left lane," recalls Singh. Immediately, he too reversed on his right but could not go far as a truck and another tow-truck had parked behind him. "The next thing I realised was within five minutes, the water started to come from everywhere with rocks and so on. It came with a very strong force," says Singh.

Helpless, Singh and the other few drivers stranded looked at each other and shrugged their soldiers. The next thing Singh did was to take off his shoes and socks and sit between the handbrakes. "I had my windows down and thought if the car starts moving I need to think of something to do. I sat inside my car and watched the water rushing through left and right. It was scary."

Then he called his manager back at work who was trying to get help from the State Emergency Services (SES) team. There were some people up the hill who were watching them, says Singh, and they were trying to call the cops too but no one could come down as the force of the water was overpowering. "It was easy imagining a nearby town had already been wiped out by the floods."

For the next 40 minutes, they were slashed by the rains and the water kept rising. Finally, when it stopped raining the water slowly started receding. But for Singh, there was nothing short of a miracle too that afternoon. "The two trucks behind us took a lot of the water coming down, otherwise all the five cars would have been swept away," he says, adding, "If it was not for the trucks, it would have been a different story."

After the 40-minute ordeal, the SES volunteers came and with the help of the cops too, Singh and the others affected were escorted back to Toowoomba. The roads had to be cleared so by the time Singh got back it was one in the morning. At Toowoomba he was provided accommodation and he could return home to Gatton only by Wednesday afternoon after the roads were repaired.

Singh, who works for a non-profit organisation dealing with rural health, looks at the experience as one out of the unordinary. "There were people worse off," he says, thankful that he is alive.

After Pooran, Pollah Gets His Due

2011-02-16T11:03:00.002+10:00

The ashes of Indian hawker Pooran Singh going back to India after 63 years made headlines and opened Indians to a world hitherto unknown, that hawkers from the late 1800s and early 1900, were part of the social fabric of Australian life. Recently, another significant gesture on part of the Australian community spearheaded by historian and playwright Len Kenna and his research partner Crystal Jordan, shows the continuing effort on the part of Australians to keep the history that connects Indians to this country alive. The occasion was the unveiling of a plaque of hawker, Pollah Singh in Corryong, who died on 21 June 1923.

Len Kenna unveiled the plaque on the 7 December 2010, he was invited by the Upper Murray Historical Society who decided to have a plaque erected in memory of Pollah Singh, so that his story could be incorporated into their folklore.

Pollah Singh, said Len, was a successful and well respected Hawker. Pollah came to Australia in his early fifties from Jallandhar in Punjab and was in the country for about 13 years when he met with an unfortunate incident that took his life. “Everybody knew of Pollah Singh, because he visited farms as he went from one settlement to the next hawking his wares.”

It was on one such journey to Corryong when he was delayed by weather. He put his four-horse team onto the Whiteheads property to rest till the weather calmed down. When the rains and storm persist in the area, everything just washes down the mountains and one cannot move, he said.

After four-five days, the horses were restive and hard to control. So when Pollah, along with his Uncle Isar, resumed their journey, with Uncle Isar driving the cart and Pollah walking in front of the tea, the horses took fright, Pollah tried to calm them and in the process became tangled up with the horses and went underneath them, said Len. The Whiteheads and other neighbours rushed him to the Corryong hospital and he lasted a couple of days before he breathed his last.

The death of Pollah Singh was significant for a few reasons. One, a book of well wishes of the people was compiled. Two, Indians from all over turned up and assembled in Corryong, said Len. “There was a long procession to the cremation; and most of the men of the town were there, the women according to Methodist traditions did not attend church services for funerals. After he was cremated, the Sikhs who were present took some of the ashes and scattered them over the Murray River. The remaining bones were sent to the Ganges, and the ash that was left was interned in a burial plot in the Methodist Section of the cemetery in respect to Pollah who worshipped with the Methodist Community.”

It was evident that Pollah Singh was very wealthy, but not much is known about his family except that he had two sons in India. His solicitor had even remarked that he was “of a superior type”, and could speak fluent English but could not sign or write the language.

The unveiling of Pollah Singh’s plaque was also attended by Archie Whitehead, who was the last surviving member of the Corryong Community who had witnessed the cremation. “It was very emotional for him to be there,” said Crystal Jordan. When Archie dies there is no one left to record what had happened many years ago in the interiors of Australia.”

Merry 2011

2011-02-01T12:10:00.005+10:00

I do not make any New Year resolutions as resolutions are only meant to be broken, after firmly holding on to them for a while. My first moments of the New Year were waking up feeling crap, like all the previous years after a night of intense partying. When will this madness end, I have often thought? Maybe when the bones feel stiff and I am marooned on a no man’s land. Whenever, however that happens, I hope I am still not alone!

This time we drove down to Caroline’s Springs, a suburb that looks like Gurgaon to me. Plain lands, new housing, not much greenery! Dressed up as hippies, we arrived to an ominous music and people in different dos that gave us a complex. Great enthusiasm. I had my eyes only on the beer as the weather was 40 degrees. I swear I did that when I was young, I dived at the drinks to combat nerves in a party full of unknown people. Now I am empowered that everything I do is out of taste and education on alcohol.

The other thing empowering is watching my friends and thank God, there were no visiting in-laws to the party. I was already warned that there could be one or two and that we had to watch our actions or tame them a bit. The in-laws always go back scandalised. Nats' mother once told me after she came back from Australia, “They are shameless people, they get drunk all the time." I laughed so much. But that is not to say she did not experience her 'sinly' initiation to wine. She said it helped to beat the cold.

I have experienced something unique in Australia. The women all cry when they get drunk. I wonder why. I only head to the loo when I am pissed (as they say here). At a post new year party at my place, another woman was found howling at the bathroom. The result: an embarassed partner left in a huff dragging the wife, leaving my husband in a near state of shock! He said later he couldn’t imagine doing that to me as he would be beaten black and blue. I revelled in the quiet knowledge that, at least, that is one thing he is quite sure about J

Christmas

2010-12-13T12:14:00.002+10:00

There is a house down the street which has Xmas screaming on it. There are two Santa Claus at the gate, one at the roof and balloons and dolls spread all over the garden. And a dog forever barking. Don’t know if it is the owner’s version of Christmas carol.

Next to the house, there is an old couple who are trying to get the lights fixed. They have been at it for a week now. Each time I pass, I get a smile and I see the old man trying to climb a ladder to extend the lights up to the roof. I think I know the why the efforts. You can hardly see the entrance of the house as the garden is overcrowded with all types of flora, not fauna – roses, lemon tree, few types of other trees covered with net. Always wondered what the nets were for but I think it is some type of protective covering from the birds that sit on them. Amazing how people love and care for their greens here.

It is Christmas just two weeks later. My neighbour Lynne is also busy sprucing her garden and house to welcome her sister, daughters and relatives who will call on her. A few are staying for a day or two and she is so excited.

And I have a husband who is not excited about Christmas. He has never been to a church in his life, never been baptised and says Christmas is for kids and presents. But of course this is not to say that we won’t be celebrating. We have a lunch party at his parents’ home as is the ritual each year. I can’t be whining, there is more fun lining up around New Year’s.

Joy Ride

2010-12-13T11:47:00.004+10:00

They say if you can drive in India, you can drive anywhere in the world. Wrong! If you drive in India you cannot drive in any developed country. For one, in India you keep on driving unmindful of the red lights, lanes, pedestrians, double lines and after a point of time honking, overtaking become part of your reflexes. Checking those reflexes is what is difficult now for me in a country where driving, pretty much like everything else, is so rule driven.

This is not to say I have not driven here before my classes. I have been on the roads a few times and was nervous as hell thinking if I was on the right lane or speeding correctly. So I got myself listed on Kerry's classes to learn a few road rules and get my Australian license. Silly when I know what the rules are now being chauffeured by the husband at all times. Let's just say I have too much time on my hands!

Kerry is a funny man. He looks disheveled all the time, comes unshaven but in a suit and parks his RACV car outside my house, adjusts the L sign on the car before he takes me on a drive where he suffocates me with stories about his life. My 'how are you' is always greeted with a 'not too good' as he shows me his diary where he has a minimum of 8 classes per day.

Once on the road, he shows me a few things such as how to park and three-point turns and then says let's get out on the traffic. It is a 45-minute class where for the next 30 min, I am driving and he is talking. The talks are nothing to do with driving. It stems from his cat, his many girlfriends to his love for Greek food and music.

Five lessons already and it is the same story each class. Kerry says my car control is ten out of ten. Of course it would be, I know how to drive. But I still do not know if I have to indicate when I am doing a three-point turn or stop if there is no STOP sign on a T point because some places have them and some don't. When I go for my license, what are the areas instructors fail learners in? For now Kerry does not seem too bothered. He tells me 'keep driving straight until I tell you to turn'. Most often he does not because his tales do not end. And then on a red light, he suddenly spurts from his seat and tells me I did not do a head check (holy shit). So few more lessons.

When your life is packed with to-do’s, there is not much choice but enjoy being taken for a joy ride!

Durga Pujas

2010-10-15T14:16:00.005+10:00

It is Durga Pujas. And the beginning of a festive season, when the smell of incense sticks, dhoop, candles wafts through every town and city and the Durga pandals are decorated with fierce competition and grandeur, each wanting to outdo the other. Not a whiff of the air here in Melbourne, hence the nostalgia.

Going down memory lane, it was one of the most enjoyable time of my childhood. New clothes, new toys and gifts. What more could one ask for then? My parents, avid Hindus, would tune to the radio six days before the Pujas to listen to Mahalaya. I never understood anything but I did know it was an auspicious moment heralding the onset of Durja Puja. The chants would blare from the radio in the wee hours of the morning. It did something to me, there was an unexplained feeling of happiness in the house as I would cover my head in my quilt and rejoice in passive participation.

For the next four days, we would be busy as a family visiting various pandals in our new clothes and returning home with balloons and all the new toys we bought. On the fourth and final day of the pujas, we would go early and find a good spot among the crowd assembled near the river to watch the immersion of the idols. Trucks after trucks filled with people recited the name Durga Mata. They cried, danced and sang, their way of bidding Durga Mata goodbye. There was madness in the air.

Pujas bring such happy thoughts. In my mind's eye, I still have pictures of the laughter, of time together with family, plenty of good food, of course, visiting relatives, guests, cousins deciding what to wear each day, which area to visit first and then forming a group. The elders would form one group, the youngsters one, ocassionally one cousin would sneak out on a date with her best clothes on! My sister, with her penchant for shoes, would never complain even if she got the blisters of a lifetime from walking with new shoes for the pujas.

For a good part of my childhood, every Pujas was spent in much the same way in Shillong and Guwahati. And as I moved away from home and lived in the city, I saw less of the pujas because they were few and not as fervent as the ones held in small towns. But I relive my childhood with my phone calls home and through the stories of my neices and nephew - their new clothes, toys, and all other things.

In Delhi, where I was cooped up most part of my adulthood, after the Pujas was Diwali when the air had that inexplicable festive mood and the city was so decorated. Smell of jasmine, busy markets, sweets, sweets and more sweets on display. Diwali marked the beginning of a party time that lasted till the New Year.

Quite depressing to be out of India at this time of the year. A friend last night told me Delhi is not the same without me. Very flattering but Lolo was quick to respond, their loss, my gain! That could, perhaps, be the antidote to my depression.

Beautiful Arthur

2010-10-09T21:06:00.001+10:00

What happens when you see a lizard or any other creepy crawly things? Your gut feeling is to kill it! But for the first time, I am surrounded by ardent fans and supporters and I am a lone protester. The other day just as I stepped outside my door and down the steps, what do I see, a big lizard with a blue tongue and, ufff, I can't describe it further. Of course, I yelled out a loud scream which had my neighbour asking after me later.

Lolo is used to my screams by now. My paranoia stems from everything including spiders, you know those daddy long legs! He walked behind me and I was explaining in plain hysteria the size of the lizard and so on. More livid was my state when I saw his non-plussed reaction. "Oh, it's a beautiful creature and it is harmless." Harmless? So what? I can't stand its look! I wanted to kill it immediately but thankfully it escaped from my sight and went into a hole it has dug out for itself underneath my steps and behind the flowers.

The next day, I was telling Lyne my neighbour about this bloodi huge big, ugly lizard. And I should have known better but she also came with the same 'Oh they are beautiful creatures" reply. What is more, she brought her friends to show them the lizard and they kept raving about it for hours on end. One lamented, "you don't see them in the cities." How lucky, I thought! Another said, "My son had it as a pet for years and one day we found him dead across the road. We didn't tell him as we didn't want to break his heart." Oh me gosh, who on earth wants a snake or a lizard as a pet?

Lyne also delved into the history of this lizard whom Lolo and I have now named Arthur. She said Arthur lived in the house in front of us and then it was in the tunnel, and now finally, it has come right under my house! She thinks we are fortunate! I wanted to tell her she can take it in her house and breed it.

I threw some dried twigs at it the other day as it was stubbornly basking itself in the afternoon sun. The bloodi idiot would not move but Lolo caught me doing it and said "That is a cruel thing to do." I was a bit hurt that my paranoia meant nothing compared to the beauty of Arthur!

My father-in-law Eric visited us this afternoon with a fruit cake Shirley, my mother-in-law, baked for us. I was telling him about Arthur. While he laughed at the name, he too told me it was harmless and that when he was a teacher up in the country, many years ago, he had held the likes of Arthur on his palm and made young girls feel their smooth skin!! I told him he must have been trying to impress the girls then but he was one up on me by saying, "Oh what do you have to fear about. You have more snakes in India than we do." Sigh, yes but we had none as pets!

We Likes

2010-10-03T11:40:00.005+10:00

I likes. This is a joke Nats and I share and only we understand. It's the sum of happy thoughts and something that has us in splits because it comes from something funny, too personal to air! So we likes. And the reason why I likes today is because Lolo is home sipping coffee, reading the papers and doing the normal stuff. His mere presence makes me happy.

After saying hello to death from a near distance, we both feel this is a now a new life for us. And it is just the beginning of Spring, so significant like we are starting afresh, almost. Everything looks beautiful too. The days are pleasant, the flowers are beginning to bloom and I am weeding the garden too. I am learning to appreciate this gift of life even more.

And if there is one thing that kept me going, it is the amount of love and good wishes from friends, (the family you take for granted :)) who emailed me regularly, called me, visited me and were there by my side. Thank you is a small word for it all. But I will treasure these emotions with me always. Now that my phone calls have started to wane, Lolo says "no one loves Miss Indi today". It is a joke between us that whoever gets a call or a message is loved! I have got my laughter back. Thank you God.

Spring

2010-09-30T16:59:00.005+10:00

The weather is warming up and the days are bright and sunny save for a few short spurts of rain. But it is a happy day for me and Lolo as the doctors came with the blood count chart and cited a significant rise in the numbers after yesterday. We could not stop smiling for hours as we were left to ourselves. The damned neutrophils rose to .4. But as one doctor said, hopefully it is not a blip in the system and the rise continues. We hope not as the platelets rose to 22 on its own, unassisted. It has happened for the first time in three months. No wonder Lolo was teary-eyed when he saw the figures yesterday.

And for the first time, the doctor said we can take a walk outside the room, with masks of course, for some fresh air and coffee, perhaps. But I have decided not to take that risk on this first day of jubilation. Maybe tomorrow we will take the lift down to the first floor and have coffee with all the other people around - our first exposure to normal life in so many weeks.

When I look back at the weeks gone by, every day was a nightmare, every moment spent in silent prayers. The chances of infection was so scary with the body having no immunity. I think about those people in similar situation and wonder how they cope with this fear, this enveloping fear that seems to have no opening. But there is some tiny room for a breather now. I can only say God has been kind to us.

This, says Lolo, has been a life changing experience for him. I think so too. It was like walking into the jaws of death and by some fluke coming out of it. Because the odds against us were so many. If there is one lesson I have learnt from all this, it is keeping the fire of hope alive. With reason, therefore, that Alexander Pope says, "Hope springs eternal in the human breast", meaning man will never give up hope even in the face of extreme adversity. With personal experiences, you connect to these lines even more. Welcome Spring!

Hopscotch

2010-09-27T19:20:00.003+10:00

You think of the word anaemia and you think of somebody who is underfed. You are told about aplastic anaemia and you think of someone who is doubly underfed. Of course, they mean none of these.They all have to do with the level of blood in your body and how much the bone marrow is producing all the important components of blood. The marrow needs to start producing the components for the body to get back to normal. The only problem is that the marrow is one hell of a stubborn creature. It takes its own time to kickstart its normal functions.

Bit of a waiting game for us. I feel helpless and there is nothing I can do from my side to ease the pain. But in all this I keeping a positive frame of mind, which is so important for the two of us, the two of us who are so united in our pain, our happiness and everything that life has to offer.

The road to recovery is fraught with so many small battles. It seems you are surrounded by tiny enemies all around who wait to strike when all is calm. And when one is overcome, another one springs up from behind and take you by surprise. It's like a game of hopscotch that we played as kids on a bare patch of ground. You hop between squares to reach your destination. You know you can reach your goal but standing on one foot can throw you off balance. But in all cases, you do win and you do find your steps home.

It's easy to say "hang in there" to the one who is fighting the battle, easy to mouth so many words of comfort to the one who is almost worn out, but love and support are great things. If you have those, it is so much easier to cope with life's struggles. Lolo has me and I have him, and we are each other's greatest strength in these times of hardships.

Faux Pas

2010-09-24T18:00:00.002+10:00

The inquisitive Indian in me will, perhaps, never die. So two faux pas as a result of it. A new patient admitted to Room No 11 adjacent to ours for one day yesterday was the object of my curioisty. And why? Because throughout the day she had a minimum of ten visitors, of all ages and sizes. I wondered what her ethnic background was because the noise and visitors surrounding her room reminded me of my compatriots. Elsewhere around, the hospital is one of quietness and few visitors.

So I was trying to chit chat the nurse. "Hmmmm.. new patient?" Yes, she replied, "A lot to do. Running around and forgetting things." I asked, "What is her problem?" She politely answered, "Oh I haven't looked at her file." And then just after she left Lolo told me that the rule of privacy is such that you don't ask a nurse about someone else nor are they authorised to tell you. Of course, that should be the decorum. What was I thinking? Heck, my curiosity got the better of me again. Hugely embarrassed, I was also tongue tied for a while at my own gaffe.

A day later, I still made an idiot of myself. Mary an intern and a bubbly young girl from the Phillipines studying nursing at La Trobe university came to bid us goodbye and wish us all the best. We had become really close to her in the past few weeks. She would often come to our room for a chit chat and look after us really well. She would go out of her way to do things for us. She said she liked us a lot. Before leaving the room, I asked her where she lived. She said Epping, which is close to our place. "Come over sometimes," I said. "Oh, I can't", she replied. That nearly broke my heart. Then Lolo explained yet again that nurses cannot visit and so on. I committed a faux pas but I also think in this case, it is irrational as to why we cant continue seeing someone we like just because she happened to nurse us? Anyway!

My friend Leela is taking me out for dinner tonight. The people excited about this prospect of me dining out are Lolo, Shirley and Eric who think I need a break from the routine. Can you imagine what would have happened if I was in India? The in-laws would have disowned me if I had a drink and ate out while things on the home front were all not well! I feel blessed to have people who wish me well and I hope things go better as the day pass by.

Sleep

2010-09-21T18:27:00.005+10:00

There is a thin line between sleep and wakefulness in a hospital. The constant rounds of the nurse every few hours make it impossible to have a straight seven to eight hours sleep.It is like being in an airport. You might find a spot to nap but you long for home. When you are outside your home and sleep deprived, nothing brings as much comfort as the thought of your own bed.

Lolo manages cat naps. I keep awake. Sleep is last on my mind. In our room, we have a small DVD player, plenty of movies and a book of crosswords too. There is plenty to do but little energy. Lolo watched a movie today and I finished a book. In between, we took turns at crossword, something we normally do when one of us gets stuck! Would have been so much easier if we could relieve physical pains together, that ways it is collective onus.

But there is one reason why hospitals are hospitals. It is a place where you expect the unexpected. Sometimes there could be three or four hours of no tension and one moment, a fever crops up or a blood pressure rises or skin allergy erupts and you are brought back to that feeling of an unexplained fear. Although that fear is accompanied by a sense of consolation because you know you are in the hands of very able doctors and nurses, who leave no stone unturned when it comes to care.

Strangely, I like to be be cooped up in Room 12 A. I have found a cosy chair to sit, read, type and look out at the amazing view outside the window. The other eye is always on Lolo. I have my teas coming in whenever I want and that is all I want really. Sometimes when I do feel peckish, I go down to the cafe and have my favourite, fattening tortellini. Times becomes a drag only when I am waiting for results. When it comes to being with Lolo, every minute spent is worth it.

Hope

2010-09-18T17:51:00.004+10:00

My friend Sareeta flew from Sydney to be with me this weekend. God bless her heart! This morning my favourite trio Jules, JJ and Fred came home with lots of food and a bottle of wine. And Lolo says time I recharge my batteries and do some shopping. I don't feel up to it but he made me do it in the pretext of buying him some DVDs and trackpants. I don't feel like leaving the hospital. Everytime I walk out, I feel I am leaving my heart behind.

The haemaglobin count today is 95 and platelet 17,000. Positive signs say the doctor but nothing to be excited about as the neutrophils are still at zero. I guess with the body in such a state of shock after the therapy, it will take its time to shoot up. That I am positive about but this wait is painful as the body tires easily.

I wonder what is going on in Lolo's mind sometimes as he stares blankly at everything. He can be reticent when he wants to but I see his eyes and they tell a thousand thoughts. Sometimes I am accurate. But I do know he sees my love and feels happy we are in it together. He is my greatest strength in life and he gives me the energy to pull through everything.

The days follow one another in endless succession. All of them marked by the same routines - coming in to the hospital following the drills of medications and othe rituals and leaving with some hope. As the sun sets everyday, I heave a sigh of relief that all is OK so far. At the end of each day, I am left with a touch of hope.

Rainbow

2010-09-16T18:10:00.003+10:00

It is the 14th day today at the hospital. The nurses are becoming more than familiar faces but they do change quite often. I miss Heather the old nurse who generally comes in the morning. I think she is taking a break as I haven't seen her for a few days.

There is so much activity in the room. Liquids after liquids are infused into the vein. I have stopped taking a note of what all is being given after the first few days of inquisitiveness. Then the machine beeps after every refill. Every ten minutes, pulse rate, temperature, and blood pressure is monitored. "No aches, no pains, no nausea?", the nurse asks. You say, "No". She replies, "All good." You heave a sigh of relief.

I have discovered good tea at the hospital. I look forward to the volunteers who go round with a trolley of tea, coffee and soft drinks and knock at the door. They always come in with a smile. There are times when every smile, even from strangers, feel so warm in the heart.

At the lift, I meet all kinds of people. I wonder who in their next of kith or kin is in for the long haul. I wonder what their story is.

The doctors say we are going to be here for at least another two weeks till they see some movement in the bone marrow. We know the marrow does not start working overnight after it has been detoxified. So we are OK with the news. Just praying the neutrophils shoot up again so that the body's immunity is back on track.

After a relatively warm day, it rained as the sun set. And somewhere out of the window, Lolo and I spotted a rainbow and looked at it together. It stood for a while. The liquid refill machine beeps. Back to reality. Hoping tomorrow is altogether a new day.

Unarmed

2010-09-15T18:39:00.003+10:00

When the doctors said there was a low count of neutrophils in the body, I was wondering what the hell they were. Why couldn't they just say white blood cells for mortals like me to understand. In school, I studied about white blood corpuscles and red blood corpuscles and that the white corpuscles protect the body from all illnesses. Little learning was not dangerous then. Today, that knowledge is enhanced and the more aware I have become, the more worried I am. That is a perilous state of mind.

When the body's platelet or blood count reduces, there are instant solutions. Platelet and blood from donors can be infused into a patient to at least level it up to a safe degree. In simple terms, platelets are clotting devices in the blood and if you have little platelet you increase your risk of bleeding even from a simple cut. And low level of red blood cells of course reduces the haemoglobin and other things - you tire easily as the oxygen supply in the body is reduced. Now, white blood cells cannot be transfused. So herein lies the acute problem. If a person has low white cells, he runs the risk of infection. You are like an unarmed kingdom vulnerable to invasions from the enemies of the world.

The bone marrow produces the white cells. A bone marrow biopsy reveals the count of these blood cells in the body. Why the marrow stops producing neutrophils ia big question in our case? Sometimes, use of certain drugs represses the marrow, say doctors, or that the marrow develops its own problem. Either way, it is a scary scenario. Imagine having no power to ward off even a small bacteria that sits on an itchy skin.

But medical sciences have advanced. So doctors recommend various treatment. In some, they detoxify the bone marrow by flushing out everything from the marrow so that it starts regenerating anew all its components. When it starts is a wait and watch step. It takes anywhere between 2-3 weeks, say doctors. Till then, the body is fed antibiotics, loads of drugs, various mouthwashes, etc., etc. to ward off any infection. It is a delicate situation. If at all, the marrow stops regenerating the cells, then a stem cell transfer is the way out.

This is my knowledge and understanding of what is going on. But there are some things that medical sciences cannot explain. That is, miracles do happen. I can see it.

Of People & Emotions...

2010-09-14T18:50:00.001+10:00

My phone does not stop ringing. In the evenings, I have visitors. I feel blessed in a way that family, friends care for me. Lolo says I have become a star and that I get more phone calls than him. I tell him that in India, if a neighbour does not call on you if there is a news of ill health or suffering in the family, you wonder why the person has not turned up. It is unusual for people not ask about the other.

Such is the common participation in grief or joy that anyone from far and near will come and partake. When my friend Natasha's grandmother passed away, she found herself over-working in the kitchen catering to all the guests who had come. When she went to look for her two new helpers, she found them standing amid the crowd. They were busy crying.

This cultural thing, is very amusing to Lolo. Here people are so worried about intruding on the other's privacy that even if they are near your door, they will first call up and ask if it is Ok to drop by. I am not used to that, of course. I come from a place where even strangers inquire about my marital or single status. I was used to capsulating my life's biography just anywhere.

And so when the hospital's social worker asked me if we needed any kind of support system, Lolo was quick to answer, "Oh she has a whole network."

While I do love so many things about this country, I am disappointed that people are so driven by political correctness, politeness and so on, that they veil their emotions even at times when it is needed. We are all humans, after all, irrespective of where we are placed and we go through the same gamut of emotions. What is life without human contact, that sharing of emotions - a few laughs, a few chit chats, a few cuppa teas exchanged over dreary routine.

My neighbour Tracy has no inkling of what is going on in my life. But she is a busy single mother. My other neighbour, Lynn, is the equivalent of Usha didi back in Delhi. I leave my keys with her and she runs a few errands for me. I guess, she is not caught in a mechanical life. The answer boils down to Time. Nobody has the time here. But why am I complaining. I just got two more calls in the past one hour.

Austin Dairy

2010-09-13T17:26:00.002+10:00

Ward 9A, Room No 12 has an amazing view of Melbourne's scenic northern suburbs. I look out of the window. A thousand thoughts cross my mind, interspersed by a prayer every now and again. The chain is broken by the creaking of the door and the bright smile of a nurse, who comes to check the blood pressure, body temperature and fluid flow from the high tech machine that is connected to the wafer thin pipes inserted from the arm to near the heart. The pipe is called a Picc. That, I am told, is the safest intravenous injection into the body.

Modern medical sciences amaze me. Imagine what the world was like when none of these were invented. Sometimes all these science fiction movies come to the mind too and I think all those creative imaginations have a base somewhere in reality.

The floor I am in bustles with activity. It is almost an isolation ward. But the irony of the situation is that those in isolation are the ones who need the utmost care and loads of tender loving care. And they have a family lounge too where people can snack and have their tea and coffee.

You debug before you get anywhere - into the room, on to the lift and on on your way out. Well, you just swish a lotion on to your hands and make sure you dont carry any germs. I did not know about this concept of debugging and it's surprising how people do it religiously and conscientously. In this country, things like basic manners are so ingrained in people. So you don't walk into a lift and not hold the door for someone. Or, you just don't jump the queue anywhere even if you are in a tearing hurry. You wait. You thank. You apologise when you brush past someone even when walking.

Inside the room, stream of doctors pour in assessing the patient. Every now and again, the nurse pops her head into the room. "Are you alright?" is her ready question. Ten minutes later, another one pops in. "Just checking," she says, adding, "I am hanging around like a bad smell." You smile and warm up instantly.

It is a slow path to recovery. So slow that with each hour you light a hope in the heart that another day has gone by. Outside the window, the sun is setting and covers the landscape in all hues of grey. But my heart is not grey and the light of hope burns. Always.

From Rosanna To Austin

2010-09-12T16:06:00.002+10:00

I had the sweetest request today. Lolo wants me to blog about my visits to the famous Austin Hospital. The thought did cross my mind but I was in no frame of mind to open my computer these past ten days. My blog, I realise, will now be kept open, for Lolo to read the ramblings of someone, for whom the word hospital has become synomous to home. For a short while, I hope. I pray.

Austin is 20 mins walk from home. It is a huge, big hospital, almost the size of AIIMS. One could easily get lost and it takes a few visits to familiarise oneself with one part of the building. I am especially enamoured by the big cafe and mini shops on level 1. I grab a coffee each time and have learnt to stress on 'very hot' after the first time I was served a lukewarm latte. I grab a newspaper too and take the lift to level 9, my destination.

Why I am at the hospital is a long story but to cut a long story short, let's just say - in the journey of life, there are detours and the hospital is just one of them. It is all a part of life, where mental strength, is sometimes what one has to rely on, when things go beyond medical logic.

My friend Natasha, who had her baby here in Melbourne, after just having immigrated from India, once told me, "I forgot my mom as the nurses took such great care of me." I understand fully now what she meant. I have never seen or experienced such hospitality, courteousness and warmth in a hospital as here. The nurses play a great role in making patients feel good. And it is not that they dote on you but they come and have normal chats, take extra care in doing the things for you and even if it is just jabbing a needle for a blood test, they have a sense of humour! "Here I come to do the dreadful deed," says nurse Heather and we laugh it off!

Also, for visitors, volunteers go around with drink, alchohol too! They offer anything from gin and lime tonic to fruit juices to cheer up faces. You wonder and then you analyse. Perhaps, in this land of plenty, people know how to toe the line of indulgence.

Another four more hours to go, I am in Room No 12. My feelings are bordering on apprehension, love, a bit of anger and frustration. But the dominant feeling is one of hope. I see a silver lining in the dark clouds. Time to debug the hands. More postings tomorrow, my sweet Lolo.

ThankQ Deepu

2010-08-28T21:46:00.001+10:00

I can't thank my friend Deepu enough. She has so much confidence in my writing that her persistence has paid off. She sent something I wrote on friendship in this blog to publishers inviting short stories and the good news is that it was accepted and will soon be part of a book. It will appear in the series Chicken Soup For The Best Friends' Soul.

I had no idea about the Chicken Soup series, underread that I am. In fact, there was a time when I would tease Deeps about chicken soup or chilli chicken, only to be met with ire! Soon after I received the contract from the publishers, in what seemed to be serious business, I googled and found out that Chicken Soup For The Soul Series has been in business for the past 15 years, selling millions of copies in countries such as the US. Mine of course, would appear in the Indian edition. Still it is part of a big family!

I am basking in a new found glory.

Also I watched Salt today starring Angelina Jolie. It was one of those weekends when we decided to go to the movies. The last movie we saw was Inception. I don't know what to comment about Salt except that Jolie is portrayed as a superwoman who survives after jumping off running vehicles, helicopters and such like. And her past determines her future. Except that she chooses not to destroy the world but those who destroy her vision of a normal life. The movie was OK. Jolie looks so thin and, in some part, haggard. I think she has re-touched on her lip job and they look fuller. Women eye women. Here is an example!

Animal Instinct

2010-08-23T14:52:00.000+10:00

It was a bright, sunny day. We decided to take a tour of the famous Melbourne Zoo. Lolo recalled his visit to the place as kids with his parents. Of course, much has changed. He revelled in the new imports - a few elephants and a smuggled big spider. Well, I read and re-read the note attached to the spider. It has now found a nice spot for itself in the zoo.

I was happy to see the long queues. The sight of so many people always makes me happy and of course, I was told how 'people happy' I would have been yesterday - being surrounded by the young, the old, plenty of children followed by screams of 'mommy, daddy why, what, where'. Oh dear!

The zoo had all the trappings of an animal farm - snakes, other reptiles, monkeys, geeraffe, tiger, lion, leopards, and other Australian animals such as the kangaroo etc. But I was particularly amused by the butterfly house. You don't expect butterflies in a zoo but I guess in developed countries everything is preserved for posterity. Set in a different temperature, all kinds of butterflies were trapped in this greenhouse. There is a sign at the exit that says 'if a butterfly clings to you, remove it tenderly".

Of course, the elephants were the biggest drawcards in the zoo. They have four elephants including a baby elephant. These are the zoo's import from Thailand. Having used to seeing an elephant on the roads in India every other day, they didn't do much for me!

The other thing that I found amusing and creepy at the same time was this whole display on all kinds of cobwebs and caterpillars! I was surprised that this would find its place in a national zoo. The cobwebs were the ones I have in the past discovered and cleaned from all nooks and corners of the house. Unless they had a special scientific explaination as to how they were spun, I wonder why they stand there. Except for the big smuggled spider which, for its size and black and thick hairy look has an interesting journey!

Can't believe we took all of four hours to complete a tour of the whole zoo. Wrapped up the day with a look at the seals being trained. After dogs, I think seals are most interactive. The penguins reminded me of the nuns I went to school in! I came back home, animated!

Meeting Aamir

2010-08-08T00:14:00.005+10:00

I don't remember the last time I was star struck. But on Friday when I met Aamir Khan, I felt like a giddy-headed teenager and didn't want to leave Sofitel hotel where I had managed a ten-minute interview with the actor. I felt mighty privileged that I did have access to him when he is on such a military discipline here at the Melbourne international film festival where his film Peepli Live is being promoted. I say military because the man is so punctual - he was dot on time at the press conference and he timed all his interviews with the press and others. And I am told he has always been a stickler for perfection.

As I entered the room, I was wary of the 15 pairs of eyes - his secretary, managers, PR staff - and here I was conducting a TV interview for the first time with a star of his stature. I am a print person and I have gotten away with mumbling and fumbling with the interviewee in the past, but when you are in front of the camera the fact that you don't want to make an idiot of yourself is top in your head. Nonetheless, while our videographer was adjusting his equipments I took the opportunity to ease my nerves a bit and break the ice with Aamir who wore just a smile on his face. I thought here is going to be one laconic man. But soon the man was pulling his chair closer to mine to fit in before the camera, of course! And was I shocked when he suddenly called for Vibhu. In came a tall, dark man with a mirror the size of a normal tray. Quickly, Aamir began dabbing powder and checking his face a few times. Like a woman! I was amused. So actors are conscious of their appearances irrespective of their genders! They are supposed to look good all the time! That is some pressure, I thought!

My interview started with a bit of a stutter. You see, I was in awe, bit nervous too, romantically inclined too - total confusion in the head and temporary loss of focus. Instead of saying his film has begun on a good note having bagged one award at the Durban film fest, I said 'you have had a successful run' when the film has not even been released. Ha ha ha ha... Like a rehearsed line, these words came so naturally from watching 1000 channels in India. But never mind, I asked him how he felt. Don't think he realised the mistake, he kept on talking. Once he got talking, there was no stopping me too. So in the end, it all turned out good. I had had my share of sound bytes. He happily obliged for a photo sesson, even placing his arm on my back. I came out elated. Four hours later, my photos were on facebook. Every mission accomplished!

Later that evening, when friends talked about the scramble and mad rush at the Regent theatre where Peepli Live was being screened and where the star was making a public appearance for a brief interaction with the audience, I realised I did not miss out on anything more.

I enjoy good world cinema but I am not a film buff nor am I crazy about following up on sequels or trilogies and I don't know how people make a living reviewing films. And I remember actors mostly for their good looks and outfits and less for their roles; some for their humour and quick wit. So I like Shahrukh for his gift of the gab and less for his acting - stereotypical by the day. But I have to admit, Aamir is an exception for me. He became the darling of the nation with QSQT two decades ago. I was under his spell too and watched the film a few times but not as many as 200 times. Well there were people who did! But over the years, he receded from memory. His legs looked short and his hair overgrown in some of the movies following QSQT. But he rekindled that something in me again with Rang de Basanti, where unfortunately he looked a bit older for his role, but the acting was par excellence. At least I thought so! The feeling has not wavered since. All his films have managed to entertain so much.

Meeting him in person, I was amazed at his skin which had not a line of wrinkle. I asked him how he managed to look so fresh at 45. He attributed it to his dietician who he says has prescribed a balanced diet and lots of water. Of course, no mention of botox and laser. As if he would admit!

My admiration of the QSQT hero has grown by leaps and bounds again. The way he conducted himself at the press conference (there were no loose ends in his talks), his punctuality, his explanation of Bollywood cinema and appreciation of Indian cinema with Bollywood being just a small part of Indian cinema to an international press - made me pine for Aamir the rest of the day till Lolo came back from work and surprised me with new UGG boots. I forgot the reel hero and returned to my real hero!

The Indian Hawker

2010-07-26T18:14:00.005+10:00

I was up at 6 am on Sunday, the call of duty. Travelling three hours to Warrnambool in a bus full of one tribe and me the only outsider was pretty daunting. And daunting was also my task to report live before a camera, record interviews for a print story and, if possible, click pictures too. As the bus pulled away from the Blackburn gurudwara with the chant of prayers, I was up in action taking the soundbytes of people. It was a nice bonhomie inside the bus. The women were excited to meet Kapil Dev, an elderly woman came up to me and asked me to click a picture of hers with him so she could show her son. The men were happy rolling out the snacks - pakoras, chips, grams, and kept passing on to one and all. I was in for Punjabi hospitality, and fed well.

But it was also a historic journey of sorts. Punjabis of all generation were seated in the three buses that were all headed towards one direction. It is remarkable that the community kept aside all commitments and showed up in strength to honour one of their elders. In this case Pooran Singh. Yes there is a Pooran phenomena right now after news of the Indian hawker who came from Bilga village in Punjab in 1899 died with a last wish, which for 63 years, had been left unfulfilled. And everyone was going to see the wish being finally fulfilled after the man's grand nephew Harmen Uppal was tracked down. Uppal, who lives in Birmingham in the UK, will now take the ashes of Singh to be scattered on the Ganges. Accompanying him will be legendary cricket star Kapil Dev.

How it all happened is interesting. Two Melbourne based researchers and historians Len Kenna and Crystal, who have been studying the lives of Indian hawkers who came to Australia a century ago, learnt of some ash lying at the Guyett Funeral in Warrnambool. They were staggered that Alice Guyyett, whose father before dying had told them of Singh’s last wish, knew they were seeking for Singh. Len contacted the SBS Punjabi radio service, (the reporter of which is basking in her current glory) and as news made headlines in India, the relatives of Singh were traced. On a chance call, the Birmingham-based Uppal found out about the media visits and googled and contacted SBS. Meanwhile, Kapil Dev had expressed his desire to fulfil Singh’s last wish if none of his family members were traced. I asked Dev why he chose to come. He told me how he cried and cried after hearing the story. “I am an emotional man you see.” At Warrnambool I did get a chance to monopolise his company, and he gave a warm speech, straight from the heart. Skilled off the field too.

I also met everyone else. Uppal, Alice, Len and Cyrstal and I spoke with each one of them. I also met 87-year old Avis Quarrell, who as a child played with Pooran Singh. She read out a beautiful poem which she had composed in 1980 in memory of Singh. She called it the:

The Indian hawker

In an old covered cart, he travelled the road

Peddling his world of wares

Pots and pans, brushes and brooms

To lighten the housewives' wares

But he carried it well the things to delight the heart of a farmer's girl

And necklace of shells to lighten.. and (could not follow the rest of the line)

That girl was Dorris my mother, you see, and the hawker was old Pooran Singh

She looked forward to each of his visits wondering what next he would bring

He became close friends of her parents staying with them in his cart

There is a tall pine tree by the garden wall of the family who he was a part

All that remains is a necklace of shells

Pooran Singh has gone so has the girl he gave it to

But I and my memories will live on

The frail voice and the words did something to me. Quarrell also displayed the necklace which Pooran Singh had given to her mother and called it her tangible link with Singh. I was moved by everything I saw. So were the people who were all present. Their hearts were touched by the life of an Indian hawker, who probably spent a hard and lonely life, but was connected to people in so many ways. Even in his death, he managed to connect so many lives.

The US of A

2010-07-16T13:32:00.000+10:00

Two friends have visited the US the same time. I was amused by both their reactions. Friend one and partner travelled from India to Las Vegas, California and New York and came back raving about the States. The hustle and bustle and the night life, the fashion and food were just too good for them. Friend two and partner travelled all the way from Europe to America. She said, "It’s like a world village. When you get dosa on a cart in New York...no wonder Indians love US...they think it's like India but more developed.”

And both agree that the beauty of the US is that every race, cast, creed, character assimilate so well, which probably means less racism than other parts of the world. I think of Sydney and I feel the US is probably a bigger version of it. I can’t help thinking that in today’s time every big country and city in the world is like a global village and a UN headquarter where every culture and cuisines of the world coexist.

When friend two told me about her American exploits, between the two of us, it was a laugh riot. She said, “Their accent grates on your ears when they say thainks with that nasal twang - feel like sending them to London to learn better pronounciation.” Well, I have a difficulty trying to grasp the Australian accent and when I speak, I do get a twitch of the brow at times – even though I can read and write well, hahahahah!

But accents apart, I think part of every Western orientation is getting used to words. It’s of course part of the big hospitality culture. In India, our hospitality is centred around food. You have a guest and no matter how much unwilling he is, you stuff food in his mouth. Here it’s how you are spoken and greeted with. So, you go to a restaurant and ask for forks and knives because it is not on the table and the waiter replies, “That’s a good idea.” Friend two asks me, “What does that mean?” Next, you order eggs for breakfast, the waiter says, “Awesome.”

I went to a cosmetics shop and the woman at the counter, much younger than me, walked up and asked “Hi love, can I help you.” On a cold winter afternoon, sometimes the words offer warmth, even if they come from strangers.

Julia Gillard

2010-06-24T23:36:00.001+10:00

After having gotten used to watching everything non-political on Australian TV, I woke up to some excitement with an SMS that read Julia Gillard has become the new female prime minister of the country. I switched on the idiot box and found even the popular morning entertainment shows had switched to all things political. There were running commentaries, expert comments, and follow of the day's political shake up. I was reminded of budget and election time in India when TV channels overloaded us with information. I was hooked.

I saw a tearful Kevin Rudd giving a tearful speech as he handed over power to his deputy. Rudd did not finish his three-year term after leading the Labour party to a historic win to Parliament two and a half years ago. And now just short of his three-year term (unline India where a government lasts five years), he has been unceremoniously removed from office. Surrounded by his millionaire wife and three children, he vowed to contest election again and continue his work as a politician.

I watched Rudd and did not understand why he was given the boot. To me, he looks so much the quintessential PM outshining in debates against right wing Opposition leader Tony Abbot. Abbot the maverick politician, did offer his commiseration, post the political drama, calling Rudd's removal a political assassination. The Labour Party, he said, had only changed its salesman but not the product.

A strong opposition did Rudd down, of course. Criticised for his insulation programme and other policies, Rudd's popularity ratings dipped in the earlier months. Experts say he was autocratic and only listened to his close group of advisors.

But my attention was diverted to the new Prime Minister. Australia hailed her as the new woman prime minister, though, clearly she is not the choice of the electorate. As I watched her take oath and sign as new PM all in 10 minutes, which was shorter than opening a bank account, I realise 24 hours is a long time in politics. But Julia reminded me of Martina Navratilova, the tennis great. For all her red hair and dressy self, I just couldnt help thinking how similar they look at a glance with Julia the petite version of Martina. They both wear a tough look.

Now an interesting fact about Julia are all the talks surrounding her. I was looking out for her husband, children around her - maybe an Indian habit to check if the family is there celebrating with her but all I saw was a man occassionally holding her hand. I found out that was her partner (not married and not a must in socities here) who is a hairdresser. Others suspect she is a lesbian and the man a gay, but they stay together for her to project a normal 'image' in public. And later again on TV, her mother declared she is not the marrying types. How cool, I thought. Her parents, were of course, jubilant that their daughter has become a PM from being a deputy PM just yesterday.

The lawyer-turned-politician stays in a modest house in the western suburbs of Melbourne. I watched her speech and found her morose but the moment I heard her take on the question/answer session with the press and in Parliament soon after, I didn't bother about her personal life anymore. I thought she had the confidence, the poise and the calibre to head a country that is as colourful as its people.

Legally Wedded

2010-06-18T23:00:00.007+10:00

I got married again, but to the same man. No I am not addicted to marriage but we wanted to be fair to each other and experience both cultures - Indian and Australian. I think they make good memories too.

Last year on June 16, I tied the knot and as with all things Indian , it was long, elaborate and had lots of people. We chose Iskon temple as the elders in my family are very closely connected to it and because I found it cheap. All I did was visit the temple twice to book and make arrangements. The temple gave us a pandit who was available on his mobile phone. And Pandit Kamlesh obliged when I requested for an English transcription of the vows or prayers, and making the ceremony short and simple.

My family were arriving a few days ahead of the marriage just as the groom. Being the independent girl who had independently chosen her spouse, I was at the helm of things. I think I managed fine. The temple venue looked resplendent in yellow and gold and all the decor on the day of the wedding. When I arrived wearing a simple red Banarasi saree, two gold bangles, my mother's earrings and necklace gifted by my sister, Pandit Kamlesh asked me, "dulhan kaha hain? (Where is the bride?)". I smiled, he apologised. Then I reminded we enter the temple for the jaymala or exchange of garlands as he had suggested. "Of course," he said and led us all. That was when my cell phone was seized because I was beginning to look like a CEO dulhan.

After the jaymala, we came to the venue outside (no wedding is held inside the temple) and we sat down for the rituals and walk around the fire. My friend Boni, who had specially flown from Chennai, commented it was the most relaxed marriage she had ever attended. I know what she means. All my life I have attended weddings where the atmosphere is sombre, the bride is crying or serious and she cannot afford to laugh for fear of being labelled shameless. On the contrary, I was busy explaining to my non-plussed husband what he had to do and that the sindoor was for him to apply on me and not ask whose turn it was to apply. My father and the husband were caught in a communication gap, each trying desperately to understand the other's accent and failing miserably.

Soon as the rituals progressed, Pandit Kamlesh and his accomplice threw my composure out of gear. Contrary to the Rs 1200 fees, they started asking us to dole out hundreds of rupees for each prayer - a 500 note with one banana, a hundred note with one coconut, another hundred for another fruit, and so on. I thought this was insane, he was duping us right under our nose. "Nahi Panditji, aisa nahi chalega (this will not work)" I found myself telling them. We were caught haggling like we were in the middle of a vegetable market amid all the cameras and an annoying TV crew that followed us. I wasn't a celebrity but I was marrying an Australian when Indians were at the receiving end of alleged racist attacks Down Under. So we were a subject of interest. Finally my friend Geeta intervened too and we settled for an amount and proceeded with the ritual.

Then came the turn for vows to be exchanged. A white piece of paper was taken out by the pandits. It was hard not to control the laughter as the men took turns to read out in English what a husband and a wife are supposed to do for the rest of their married life. I don't remember all of it but I do remember one which said of the bride that "you will take permission from your husband to go out." I didn't know whether to run or stay put. I was just glad it got over in one and a half hours of putting up with a load of crap and pandits who just recited mantras after mantras after learning it by heart and sucking money out of the occasion while munching pouches of pan parags in front of the holy fire.

After the ceremony, we headed off to the temple dining hall for our vegetarian fare for all my friends and neighbours we had invited. The next day we threw a party for all my friends and that was an evening to remember. I sang, I danced, I drank. Someone said it was a first to see a bride enjoy her own wedding so much. I wondered who, if not me, was to feel the happiest. And what was wrong in enjoying my own wedding. Alas, I did not sit on a chair, demure and weepy faced.

A year later, I was at the Old Registry building at Spring Street, Melbourne. Amid a close group of 10-12 friends, I found myself wearing a simple black dress and not worrying I had no showy jewellery on me. I entered one of the small rooms we had booked and the celebrant took us inside and rehearsed with us the ceremony. After that, she asked us our choice of music. The minute everyone was seated, she played Bach. She started with asking us whether we were both legally free to marry. Then she made us repeat simple, sweet vows in a silent room and we sealed our marriage with a kiss and exchange of rings and signing of our wedding certificate. It was over in half an hour. Legally wedded, we headed for coffee and yumcha. In the evening, amid friends we called it a day with champagne and wine toast, laughter and banter.

I enjoyed both the marriages but I think this is a country that gives you choices. A choice to remain simple, a choice to pick your spouse, a choice to live life by your own dictum.

How Sikhs went bananas in Woopi

2010-06-10T20:14:00.001+10:00

As you enter Coff’s Harbour, tucked between Sydney and Brisbane, it is not hard to guess why the big banana stands as a landmark to visitors. Banana plantation is big in this area. Of course, there is nothing spectacular about seeing widespread banana trees but the fact is, the area grows one of the best varieties of bananas in Australia. And the bananas have a dominant Indian connection.

In the early part of the 19th century when the British still ruled India, and the first world war was just beginning, a few adventurous men from Punjab decided to cash in on the shortage of farm labourers in Australia. Their long journey led them first to Queensland, then south to Coff’s Harbour, and finally settling in nearby Woolgoolga, New South Wales.

Familiar to farming these men slowly acquired small parcels of land and began working hard to make their fortunes. After becoming established in the area, many then returned home to bring out there close family members. By the 1940s, they had laid the foundation of the first Australian Sikh Community in Australia here at Woolgoolga, 20 km north of Coff’s Harbour. Today, it is said that some of the wealthiest Indians reside in the Woolgoolga area.

Undeterred by the spells of Autumn rain, which otherwise made for a good excuse for a sleep-in at the cosy beach resort we had booked ourselves in, we decided to explore the towns known for its great surfing beaches, pristine natural scenery, nature walks and great fishing experiences for all holiday makers.

After a drive around Coff’s Harbour, we headed off to Woolgoolga or Woopi as the locals call it. A winding road took us straight and we found ourselves first greeted by the majestic gurudwara perched on top of the hill. The Sikh temple has special mention as ‘a must see’ in the local tourist information directory. It is, in fact, the second Sikh temple built in Australia in 1970. The first gurudwara constructed in 1968 still stands nearby, a mere shadow to the new one.

Inside we meet up with Gurmandip Singh, the head priest who welcomed us with a hot chai and tikkas. He boasts of the gurudwara as being a meeting place for not only the 150 Sikh families in Coff’s Harbour and the 1200 Sikh residents of Woolgoolga but also of the local community who enjoy great rapport with each other.

It was easy to locate Satpal Singh Gill, member of the second family that settled here in the early part of the 19th century. A fourth generation, Gill, 38, recalls how his great grandfather travelled to Australia around 1910. “He then asked the Australians here that he had a young son back in India and whether they would help him bring some of his family members here. So in the 1920s, my grandfather came here. They worked in the Wollombi area and earned enough money to invest in small farms for banana cultivation.” Gill proudly boasts, "We were the second family to have moved to Australia.”

Like Gill, Kirpal Singh, is a third generation Sikh resident. At Hasting Street, where he resides, his next door neighbours are, in fact, his extended families. The traditional life of the Sikhs here has not changed much with time and the geographical distance. “It’s the blessing of the Guru that we have been able to maintain our culture and traditions,” says Gill. One thing common about Sikhs everywhere in the world is there is the gurudwara that keeps the community closely knit.”

Singh, 50, a banana grower, says much of this is because they all belong to the farming community and “we communicate and see each other every day of the week.” Every farm is within close reach of each other. “Work starts early at 7 am and by 4 pm we are at home and have time to socialise and keep our culture alive. It is pretty much the same lifestyle as in the villages back in India,” he adds.

In fact, Joginder Singh, 63, laughs as to how they are viewed as being still 20 years behind the times when they go back to India. “Woolgoolga has retained the culture, customs that were brought here since the 1920s.”

And even as the community grew, he says all through the 70s and 80s, those born in Coffs Harbour and Woogoolga still went back to Punjab and got married . “That was just another way to keep the culture alive.” He, however, laments that in time that may slowly disappear as the newer generation is marrying into people born here. That might be a small part but worrisome, he adds.

With the banana plantation on the decline in the area, many of the original banana growers have today diversified into blueberries and macadamia nut plantations. The flat arable land in Queensland and use of machinery has taken over the hilly plantation of bananas here which require a lot of manual labour. But that, says Joginder, is a saviour for the community from disintegrating.

Woolgoola, winds in and out of hamlets comprising not more than two Indian groceries, the two gurudwaras and lovely houses and farms. There is also a street named after Coff’s Harbour Sikh councillor John Arkan. After a day’s tour we head off to the beach, but that piece of Sikh history in a quiet, serene part of Australia visits the mind and overstays its welcome.

(This article of mine was published by The Hindustan Times on 5 June 2010)

Fat, fat, fat

2010-06-01T13:47:00.000+10:00

Once upon a time, I was fighting the bulge. I find myself in a similar spot, not so desperately. But like all women, I love to talk about weights. Australia's good food sees women fluctuating between size 4 and size 16. They talk about it on TV whole day - women who cry because they are 300 pounds and yet wont stop drinking ten bottles of Coke a day. Coke is an addiction in this country. Better to be addicted to pan, at least you dont become fat!

As if carrying the weight of the world/family is not enough, we also carry the weight of our own bodies. We go non-stop sometimes to the point of annoying the partner, who says' Oh just stop eating too much', and when we are pointed about how much we lack control, we go, 'how dare you comment on my food intake'. Then they just stop saying anything and you are on a downward spiral!

I have a lot of wisdom on food. Include more fibres in food, eat in small portions, walk for at least 20 mins everyday, drink enough liquid, etc., etc.. But practice as they say is harder than preaching.

I sometimes wonder how people turn anorexic. They say an anorexic has a great control of mind. I realise I have to get that control before I become one of the many cry babies on TV.

Hindu Summit

2010-05-16T19:43:00.005+10:00

Now that I have enlisted myself in the media list of the Consular General of India in Melbourne, I get all kinds of invite - things that you would normally pass in India. But with so few events over here, you try not to miss out on any in that hunt for a news peg.

I am just back from a Hinduism summit at the Sai Baba temple in Camberwell. It's a suburb Lolo and I would ultimately want to settle down in because of its sheer greenery and unique houses. It's a beautiful suburb. And tucked inside it was the Shirdi Sai Baba temple, where a group of Hindu enthusiasts held their conference to protect the religion from denigration.

I find myself at odds in such forums, especially when I see dhoti clad men with sindoor on their heads and professing their love for Hinduism and advocating chanting of the names of God to keep in touch with spirituality and the religion. Nonetheless I found myself in one such situation where I couldn't avoid the inquisitive looks of people, especially at an Asian-looking woman, who would confuse them totally with her Hindu name and Indian accent and a white man in tow with her.

After one hour of listening to all the wisdoms of Hindu religion and how being in touch with the guru is preparation for meeting God, I wondered what was the motive for such religious summits where the focus was clearly on how to pray and how to learn the prayers and how to object when people painted the faces of Hindu Gods on their breasts or on shoes. Doesn't life teaches us all how to learn to laugh at ourselves? Doesn't one teach the other to tolerate the other's misgivings instead of going ballistic about someone making fun of us? Something was wrong, somewhere.

So at the question hour summit, I asked one of the wise men on the dais, how they handled a generation of children who were probably educated in Catholic schools but came back home to devout Hindu parents? I asked if they had any solution to religion crisis probably battling the young minds. One religious proponent got up and said, "you have to recite mantras, you have to recite the chants, and you have to learn how to pray." I nodded not as an acknowledgement to what he said was right, but because I realise it's no point trying to rationalise to minds that have turned fanatic.

I am all the more convinced that religion is the opium of the masses. If there was anything I liked about the seminar, it was the scent of the incense sticks that wafted the air, and the hot chai served!

Mother's Day

2010-05-15T21:40:00.001+10:00

I didn't want to talk about Mother's Day. I hate it when I see mothers and children having fun. It's a form of bitter envy because you can't have that in your life for the simple reason that your mom is not there in your life anymore. And nomatter how old you are, a mother's absence from your life is one that will always be stark in its absence, especially if the mother you had was one like mine.

Last Sunday was Mother's Day. Lolo brought flowers for his mom in the morning and gave it to her. I was thinking she would have been one happy person that day. I asked my 70-year old neighbour Lynn as to how she celebrated. She said her daughters took her for wine tasting in the morning, then a sumptuous lunch at noon and then champagne tasting again later in the day. I joked she would have been pretty high by the end of the day. She replied modestly, "I quite enjoyed it all." I could see from the gleam in her eyes how much she enjoyed it all, but exaggeration is not her style.

How lucky, how so lucky, I thought to myself. We built so much hype around brother's day, Valentine's day in India but never around Mother's Day. Not that we need a Mother's Day to shower affections on our moms but even without a mother to shower my affection on I believe there must be one day universally to celebrate Mother's Day. The urge becomes even more desperate for me. You realise the worth of the person who you take for granted each day of your life only when it is too late and she is no more part of your physical life.

If I could unwind time, I would have done a hundred things differently... but those remain thoughts and we awaken to things only when we have lost the opportunities, only when it is too late. And when you awaken, you are filled with nothing but regrets because the time to do those things are over. Death puts a fullstop to everything, except feelings.

Most times I go on with my life and do not realise there is a vital missing link from my life. The routine, the work just fill up the void sometimes but on occasions like these and many others, it is painful to realise that her absence from my life is irreplaceable. I miss hundred and one things about my mom. I miss talking to her inane stuff, I miss laughing with her, I miss sharing the latest gossips, I miss telling her about my new life and the list goes on...

Road Trip

2010-05-11T14:59:00.000+10:00

In five days we travelled 2000 km by car across Canberra, Sydney, Coffs Harbour, Byron Bay, Brisbane and Gold Coast - almost all the A lists on the tourist map. We were dropping off the little Yaris - it did not let us down and is now parked in Brisbane, its new home.

Canberra did surprise me. As the capital of Australia, I guess I was expecting more in terms of population, breadth, width, size et al, just like Delhi. As our car veered towards Eagle resort, the hotel we had booked in, I thought there is more than meets the eye. But as we drove around, much of Canberra, save the small hub of shops and apartments in the main city area, was like an endless stretch of suburbs and parks, inhabited mainly by bureaucrats and students. I was trying to feel the soul of the place but I could not connect. However, ask any Australian, and you will find that he/she loves the quietness and solitude and vast stretches of what would seem like a no-man's land!

Boy was I happy the next morning when we headed off to Sydney, quite an anti-thesis to Canberra. Packed with people, shops, skylanes, theatres, malls and beaches, I found myself smiling again. I love Sydney for its over population, while the indigenous people are seething in anger for this very fact. The other happy thing was I got to meet an old friend, who was just discovered on Facebook. After 20-odd years, we had a reunion of sorts. In their quiet Ingleburn home in Sydney spread over five acres, we had a lovely lunch - of baked potatoes, silverloin meat, icecream and wine, interspersed with non-stop chatter. That evening, we caught up with another set of friends and headed for China town's array of food. A good day overall.

The next day, we headed off to Coff's Harbour. This was a delight. The Aankuna beach resort where we stayed was one of the most scenic and relaxing places. Two nights at Coffs Harbour was enough to rejuvinate our spirits as we pampered ourselves with massages and wine, and even visited a local gurudwara. This was not a religious visit but we went to find out all about the first Indian immigrants who settled here 100 years ago. We did meet a fifth generation member of that family.

We did a sneak peak of Byron Bay but with the rain playing spoilsport, we managed just a short stroll on its famous surfing beaches and drove round the famous Cape Byron Lighthouse. History says the installation of the lighthouse was regarded as a great event in the district where a banquet was arranged and special trains carried visitors for the opening. But bad weather prevented the premier of the day John See who had traveled from Sydney with colleagues on a steamer, from attending the banquet. They arrived at dawn when all the party was over!

After Byron Bay, we headed off straight to Brisbane, not a long haul away but I think we reached in about three-four hours. The weather was warm as we neared Brisbane and it is the sort of drive where an eski full of beers would have added to the fun. But with drink driving such a strict rule here, it's just a thought of course. We summed up our visit with an hour's drive to the famous Gold Coast the next morning. I was disapointed with the Gold Coast – it was too touristy and looked like another Pattaya minus the sleaze. Of course, definitely beautiful as the sands on the beach were golden and all that, but I guess after seeing so many beaches along the way, beaches were losing their appeal to someone as water phobic as me.

I have to add, travelling around Australia is so comfortable. Public toilets, rest areas, and food joints are strategically located everywhere. It's amazing how public toilets are so clean even on deserted freeways. One even had a sign saying, “Leave your worries behind but not your rubbish”. I thought, people were observing that to the T. Finally, when we boarded Tiger Airlines, with a bit of apprehension about cheap flights, coming home to my quiet suburb made nostalgia so easy.

British Motorcycle Rally

2010-04-25T21:13:00.006+10:00

When Lolo told me we were going for the British Motorcycle Rally, I was all charged up. I thought he was going to do a Schumacher on his Triumph and I had mustered my guts to play the best handyman. My layman opinion of a rally is you have a starting point and everyone races to the finish; the one who comes first wins the race.

But the British Motorcycle Rally held at Castlemaine near Melbourne put to rest all my speculations about a rally. I was disappointed and relieved at the same time. As I found out, this is a rally where all motorbike owners of British brand motorcyles assemble at one main point and have a fun time unwinding from life routine.

So, we began our journey on Saturday by meeting with Lolo's friends at Whittlesea, 30 mins from where we live. About 10 of his bosom friends met up - they have been doing this since age 18 - and we drove all the way to Castlemaine, the main assembly point.

It took us four hours to reach our destination. We stopped at four points for filling up gas, toilet breaks and lunch. I thought it was the most scenic of rides - with Autumn just setting in, the countryside and small towns we passed were simply breathtaking in the way the leaves had turned their shades of green and nature changed its colour.

Finally, when we reached Castlemaine, I was in in for surprise. More than 1200 bikers had assembled. Camps were set up and bonfires lit. It was so organised. There were mobile toilets, bars, food stalls to cater to all the bikers who had come from all over Victori and other states. A local band swooned the crowd with their numbers and I found myself dancing non-stop.

Everyone carried tubs of beer and drinks. The bikers, as I saw it, were assembling to have a fun time drinking and talking about bikes. Except Paul, proud owner of an 85-year old Norton, "I love bikes but I can't talk about it for days," he told me. He was enjoying the bonfire and his choice of wine.

Over rounds and rounds of beer that night, we took part in the bonfire and checking out of bikes. There were bikes of all shapes and sizes. The judges had a field day. Prizes were accorded based on their maintenance, durabality, restoration, age and so on the next day.

I was talking to bikers and I realised how each of them treasured their bikes as prized possession. It's not like India or other developing nations where bikes are more a necessity. Here it's a luxury item. I grew up thinking men treated their bikes like women. That perception has not changed as I found men still talking about how they were seduced by that one bike and how they acquired 'her' when still single. I guess passion for bikes equals love for a woman, with most men! I came back experiencing a few firsts: seeing men so passionate about their bikes and sleeping on a camp!

I met tons of Lolo's childhood friends, binded by a common passion for bikes. One told me how the mind is like a parachute and works best when open. Poignant thought for a night I thought. When one is happy drunk, the thoughts pour. Some thoughts overstay their welcome!

Ramblings...

2010-04-17T00:32:00.004+10:00

In three weeks, two of my stories have seen the light of print in India. That makes me a happy person. I don't feel so useless after four months of lived treats - meeting people, dining, wining and travelling.

Another activity-filled weekend. Tomorrow, Lolo's dad celebrates his 80th bday and we are invited to cocktails and nibbles as the invite says. There will be people of all ages and a lot of drinking and fun. Quite a contrast to the cultural lunch party I have on Sunday. I realise now, cultural get-togethers are all about treading the fine line. There is so much of egos involved when people of the same community flock together. There is always the one or two odd one out whose egos are the size of a multiplex. The "I am bigger than you" syndrome is rife. So instead of letting the hair down, there is always the tension of doing what is appropriate in terms of manners and addressing the seniors. Despite being in foreign shores, they are still caught in the trappings of culture and correctness that they overlook the hedonistic culture which the West so freely offers.

When I am with my Indian friends, the talk is about who has got the biggest house and earns the most $$$ or who has citizienship or PR, while gulping down rajma chawal and scotch or wine. Years of staying abroad has not changed their eating habbits. So, very unlikely that their mental outlook to a lot of other things would change. The wives cannot wear anything revealing as bold is not beautiful, definitely unmaidenly to show skin! And wine is a drink drunk by women. Of course, I have not yet taken a liking to wine, I love my beer, but I love it when the women drink wine, and then cry when they get drunk. Crying and wine is something I have come to associate Indian women with in Australia.

Sometimes I feel suffocated in the company of my own people. I think this is a country that believes in equality and freedom, where you can walk the street with next to nothing and yet people won't even look. Staring is BAD manners. There is so much openness. But instead of embracing the openness, we have gone one step backward and benchmark progress with materialism. Lolo says the fun of living is watching people from the rear and having a good laugh. I find it hard sometimes. Discovering all this is not funny, but in the width of life, we have to share space with one and all and I don't know which is more disposable - the static mindset or the people!

Bad Brow Day

2010-03-27T13:08:00.000+10:00

I am beginning to feel a bit settled. Made tons of friends, getting calls for jobs, know my way about - hop in an out of buses, trams, trains. I was struggling with the sense of belonging to a place where you hardly saw people outside their beautiful houses and well-manicured lawns, where everything seems so different.

My exciting moments are when I meet people like me struggling to establish an affinity with a new place. We find pleasures in discussing our "missing phase" and reminisce most about foods missed. "The next time I visit India I will eat gol cuppas for one whole week." Or, "I will eat Chinese Indian food to death."

I had a tiff with the master over dinner. I wanted egg curry, he wanted chicken. And like everything else, I linked my arguments to my re-settlement theory. "Don't you realise I am having an urge for my own food?" And he replied, "I wanted us to eat together." But since he does not like egg curry, we could not eat together. But then, it is not fair to think about me alone all the time and I must care about someone else's palatte too. This is my new life. Say hello to chicken snitzels, canolleni, pasty...

Sometimes, my mind takes off on a tangent. Where am I? What am I doing? Will I ever get a job of my choice again? It's like I am losing control of my life.I grew up with just an idea of me and my life and somewhere in those dreams I lost building space for the 'us'.Then I look to Lolo and I find most of the answers. "Take life as it comes, dont worry, enjoy your free time," he gently whispers. He is part of my new me.

Other days, I am full of zest, his humor nurtures me. Like yesterday, when I had a bad eyebrow day. Waxing off a chunk of my brows, I panicked and called him, "Should I go to the salon?" He replied, "Nothing much they can do, can't paste it back. Well.. something for me to look forward to when I get back in the evening."

I looked at the mirror. I had one of the heartiest laughs of my life.

Hinglish

2010-03-26T11:28:00.000+10:00

When they say English is a funny language, I would have thought they kept Indians in mind too. I love it that we feel the pulse of the language and interpret it literally and liberally from our mother tongues.

Years back, I remember a cousin from the village who had come to Shillong to study in college. Shillong being the education capital of the northeast and mainly an English-speaking town, he was out to impress us all with his mastery of the language.”The climate is very sweet,” he said on arrival. From humid Silchar to pleasant Shillong, I sensed his relief.

“What is your good name?” I have never thought about the’ good’ in this question except when people started writing and satirising Indian English. And I don’t correct my dad when he still asks my friends their good names. I take it, its our way of being extra courteous.

There are so many sentences like these and off hand I can’t think of all. Perhaps, my memory is like that only. Yes, like that only. What to do no, so many things in my small mind at one time. Plus the weekend coming up and I have to visit two residences – one for dinner and one for birthday. Perhaps, I should go and purchase some commodities to take with me. That means I have to start now, because I belong here and not to India and the shops are very, very far away here. I am looking forward to meeting dear friends at the happy birthday. Ta Ta

Ode To Paan

2010-03-16T11:56:00.005+10:00

I now understand why people say those who live abroad live by the Gmail and Facebook. You are so cut off from everyone that you do log on for a few hours everyday just to be in virtual touch. More so, if you have not got a job yet. So I now have a G &F habit, almost replacing the paan :)

Funny how when friends ask me if I miss Delhi my prompt reply is "I miss paan". I get ample advices on overcoming or rather coming to terms with this vice I inculated over years of staying in Delhi and being surrounded by paan-wallahs, a few of whom had become my friends too.

Sanj: u missing delhi
me: no paan
Sanj: why don't you grow paan ka pattha at home
me: trying to grow chillies at the moment

****
me: and nowadays i am always wearing my heart on my sleeve. i snapped at laurie one day and i said this is the most vulnerable stage of my life - without a job, without my family, without my PAAN!
scribe: PAN... did i hear it right?
scribe: you are a SPECIAL CASE
me: when gita went to the chanakya panwallah he asked her indira ke liye bhi pack kardu? and she told him woh toh ab yaha nahi hain... when she told me this it was emotions unlimited for me..
scribe: ohhhhhhhhh my god.. can't believe... the paanwala is thinking of you... please please write a blog on this... your homework for today
scribe: from where u have got this paan love?
me: does it take long to have a vice?
scribe: no not at all.. certainly not in your case
me: thank god i wasn't introduced to cocaine

****
Hence this piece. Lolo goes to the extreme. "Smoke if you feel the urge to paan". But if I were the type to smoke, I would have had no complaints, really. I miss chewing beetle nuts, laced with lime and 120. After a good dinner and lunch, I get an ultimate high!

Few years back, a young English colleague coined a term for me. "Paaning. So you are paaning", he would remark sometimes. I even taught him to buy me one. The first time, of course, he got me the horribly sweet sugar laden paan (not knowing the difference in the variety-filled paan shop), which Lolo, in our initial days of courting, started chewing to express paan-ship. When asked of the taste, he said it was like chewing wood. Prodded further, he said, "I have reached the saw-dust stage."

But as the relationship progressed, so was his loath for paan. I admit red paan stains on the streets, walls, etc., is not a pretty sight. He called it a peasant habit. Before coming here, my dentist had a field day scraping the paan stains off my teeth. "Kick the habit and start taking gutkha chewettes", she said, an advise I am following to date. I buy nicotine gums.

I have not eaten paan for a long time now but I would be lying if I say I don't pine for it every now and then. The power of paan - it doesn't let go off you completely. Like an old lover! Nostalgia to me comes wrapped in paan.

Sydney & Back

2010-03-14T22:26:00.009+10:00

I have to post about our road trip to Sydney the weekend before last - and before they recede into the background of memories. Long drive, and in a way I was reminded about my countless Delhi-Jaipur trips or Delhi-Pushkar trips. Different experiences but each unique in their own way.

The first thing that you notice here are how good and well-maintained the roads are. And if, some parts of the roads are on repair, you are warned well in advance by sign posts and speed limits which are followed strictly. Was I impressed? Yes, but guess what, I missed the ocassional bumpy rides, the potholes and bullock carts and camels on the way.

Driving to Sdyney via the Hume Highway takes nine hours, and apparently, it is not one of the mosts scenic drives. The breathtaking drive is via the coastal route, which takes longer. I found this one beautiful, nontheless.

For miles on end, I saw cattle, sheep, horses grazing on vast stretches of green, an ocassional pond, small hills and all kinds of trees. We also passed through some of the bush-fire ravaged areas of last year and they were stark by the saplings of trees planted and tall barren black trees that looked, at a glance, like some dark figures standing. I asked Lolo where one earth these 'stray' animals came from. Not stray, I was told. They belonged to farmers, not that I saw any sign of them. Well, some of these farms stretch to as many as 20,000 acres and the animals, all marked, graze and live in the open. I thought aloud, what if they got stolen? "Not very easy to knock off a cow, no?," came the reply. But, of course!

And then I also spotted some lovely houses. I thought, who in his right mind, would live in between nowhere - no malls, no people, no town nearby. I was again, reminded of Sumer, a power plant near Barapani in Shillong which had few engineers' quarters, one market place and one tea stall, a favourite haunt of the power plant workers. A handful of families lived there. It was so scenic and beautiful and it was a place my aunt took us every weekend in the early '80s because my cousin brother was working as an engineer in the Power house. He had a lovely big cottage on a hill top but what lingers about those memories are my constant state of fear because there were hardly any people. I even felt scared to be left alone in the huge bathroom!!

But ask an Australian and most will tell you how they love farm life and the solitude of things. A farm experience is on my wish list though but with good and big company!

Onward, we broke our journey into two parts, drove four hours from Melbourne and stopped the night at a town called Holbrook, a submarine surprise for me. You wonder how the submarine came to this quaint sparsely populated town. And then you see the museum and all the information put up which says during World War I, when Australia was in war with Germany, Holbrook was known was Germanton. Obviously, you couldn't have an enemy name.

So, the story goes that about this time a certain Lt Norman Holbrook became the first naval Victoria Cross winner of the war for his gallantry in sinking a Turkish battleship with the submarine he commanded. It was soon decided that the town could do no better than be named after a great war hero, and so in 1915, Germanton became Holbrook. Ever since then it has maintained a special link with submarines, according to writer Bill Condon.

After a dinner of roast pork and steak at the town's popular cafe, Lolo and I did a tour of the submarine. There were a few onlookers like us and after a fill of photo ops, we retired for the night. The next morning after breakfast, we drove four-and-half hours after a break for lunch and gas fill and reached Sydney's western suburb call Blacktown. And in the process, missed one of the worst storms of the decade that hit Melbourne.

On the way back, we did a nine-hour run stopping at a few places. There were Mcdonald's, KFCs, Subways and very good rest areas for truck drivers which had well-maintained toilets. Over here, truck drivers have a strict log book and cannot drive for kms on end. But what I also missed was the dhabas and a stop for 'karak chai'.

After two days of fun and frolic with some of my friends, and ten days later, I am still a bit Sydney sick.

'Missing' Phase

2010-03-03T13:07:00.002+10:00

I got up at 9 a.m. today after a night of over eating and drinking. I heard distant chatter and thought I was dreaming. But my neighbour Lynn had guests and they were sitting in the garden. Nine is not early in a place where people hit the sack by 10 p.m.. Noises in this generaly quiet suburb make me feel good as I am reminded of my house and neighbourhood in India.

I had my tea and breakfast and watered the plants that seem to be wilting in the already strong morning sun. Then I got down to read some of the old voluminous weekend papers; I get my papers in the evening when Lolo comes back from work. I had finished my cup of tea and Lynn's guests were still there. I got thinking about friends and people I miss.

I had all kinds of friends in India. Ocassionally I would take a walk with Manju my neighbour, who would pour her heart out to me during those walks. It was good to whinge, we agreed. I remembered Yashu and Geeta who I would talk and meet as often as I could over dinner, coffee, lunch. Deepika who would make laugh on a regular basis from the other part of the country. Need I mention Cheri, Boni, Julie, Kabi, Vishakha... ufff too many others with whom I shared such bonhomie. I had my other anniversaries, birthdays, weddings, festivals, other parties friends. They were the friends I did not speak often but special enough to remember in all these ocassions because my/their presence mattered. My work friends were like my diaries. Everyday we would share the trivial details of our lives. So, I had a friend for every ocassion, not a fair weather friend :)

I met my small diaspora group last Sunday. Talking my own language and eating my indigenous food with them was like being transported back to my hometown. Only, the wine kept flowing and a new reality hitting back and forth.

My Gastronomical O

2010-03-02T11:42:00.003+10:00

My friend Geeta is curious about Lolo's diet. She thinks he is slim and trim and wants to emulate his food habits in her bid to fight the bulge. I tell her he has his juice in the morning or flavoured curd, then wheet-bix and milk or other cereals and a cup of coffee before heading off to work. Then he packs some sandwiches and fruits for lunch and when he gets back home has some of his protein shakes, and then, for dinner it's a whole range of food. His dinners are ceremonial every night. Variety is the spice of his life.

I do like his food habits, which are so varied and, of course, chocolate and ice-cream oriented too, but the spice of my life is chilly. I don't seem to get enough of them here. So I have, on the advice of my former boss and intellectual friend, planted some Thai chillies in my backyard but they are not anywhere close to our 'rajah mirchi' or the king of chillies as befits the name.

Lolo says I must get into healthy eating and include lot more fruits and fibre in my diet, but ask a daily rice and fish eater what that means - it's like asking someone to cut the thread of his life. No matter the range and taste of global food on my platter - Thai, Italian, Greek, Korean, Mexican, Vietnamese, Mongolian, et al - I go back, more often than not, to my rice and fermented dried fish for my gastronomical orgasm. Thank God for the Bangladeshi shops here with their ready supply of UTONGA, I would have died a gastronomical death.

Death Of Desi

2010-03-02T10:53:00.003+10:00

So after 10-day stint at the call centre, I bade my friends an honourable goodbye. I learnt quite a bit but did not enjoy what I was doing. In those ten days, I also realised I would enjoy more being a newspaper delivery girl. At least I would be scanning the headlines before I push the papers through the door.

I am back to the absolute bliss and boredom of doing nothing except read, surf the net, visit and entertain people. I have guests tonight and my culinary skills have never been more appreciated in a decade. In a few days' time I will be on a road trip to Sydney and meeting friends. Ah...

In the meantime, I have also decided to merge my blogs into one and scrap the new one. Doing nothing also makes you monstrously lazy. The enthusiasm of becoming a desi chick in Melbourne has waned. Besides, I could not bear to see the slow death of my old blog, one I started with some feeling and passion. Oh, but this one will have all my stories in between. From an open book to an open facebook, my life has become an open blog. I am loving it.

Call Girl

2010-02-13T10:32:00.003+10:00

I became a call girl on Monday. I mean, I joined a call centre along with a bunch of novices. That made me feel a bit good because I was not the only babe lost in the world of inbounds and outbounds. In the call trade, inbound is receiving calls and outbound is making calls. Some say inbound is a safe haven and outbound a harsh world because you are intruding into someone's privacy and asking for a precious five minutes of his/her time. In that five minutes, you would have either made your presence felt or met some of the best rebuttals.

In a country where tough job rules - you have to have permanent residency status to get into one's choice of work - the call industry comes calling readily for people like me who are temporary permanent residents. The way I look at it is, it also gives me something to do and meet people.

My colleagues come from different backgrounds. There is Jack, a graduate of polictics and business from Ireland and on a one-year working holiday visa down under. Tall and handsome, he would pass off as an Esquire model. With the same visa is Jack, a Princeton College graduate in computer science, quite an earnest young man who has travelled the world - Japan, China, Malaysia, Thailand and South Africa - before deciding to become a call boy. Then there is Neeraj, formerly a resident of Singapore and a mechanical engineer, who has joined his wife here. But years of overseas exposure has still not not taken off his trademark Gujarati accent, quite unique. He still can't differentiate between 'Kate' and 'Cat'. Then there is the pony-tailed 58-year-old gentleman Richard who loves to talk. A bachelor, his is a life of adventure having even lived in a car and dining on Subway sandwiches. My favourite is a charming New Zealander, whose claim to fame is having worked as an extra in The Lord Of the Rings, getting drunk and shooting off bows and arrows as he says. He is perhaps the only one with some experience in the customer service industry. And it shows in the underlying confidence of the tone with which he rattles lines on the phone.

One week into it, I have earned my first 300 dollars but I have come to the conclusion that talking business is not my forte. Like some of the others, I feel so obliged when I hear a Hello that all I want to say is, "Thank you for the hello" instead of the mandatory, "Hi, I am calling from Water & Energy Savers, are you aware of the government grants...." My other problem is the wierd names and surnames of people I have to address. How do you pronounce Koegh, Eusibius, Kamoen, Chown, Porcaro, Dundas, Hoefler, Mcewen without a grin and without sounding offensive? Our manager Jose (pronounced Hosey) says don't worry, you will get the hang of it, if that is some consolation.

It's tough being a call girl. I dialled a Barbara once, her voice so frail and eerie that I almost dropped the phone when I asked for Mr Russel and she said, "Love, he is is dead..." Invariably, I get old people. Another one said, "Darling I am 88-years-old and I will be dead before I clear the loan." We are selling solar panels, you see. Yet another client told me, "Sorry I don't make contact over the phone." Yeah, why have a phone then, I whispered before anyone heard me :)

Mad About Australia

2010-02-08T18:14:00.000+10:00

Sitting with a few friends and compatriots one weekend in Caroline Springs, a new suburb in Melbourne, we got into a heated discussion about the attacks on Indians here.

Much as the attacks were condemned, we ended up more livid on how the media in India was going on an overdrive. A Kashmiri pandit friend says, "we have been displaced from our own state". As someone from the north east I could empathise with his “alienated” sensibility. “We face racial abuses everyday in Delhi.” But the media has never been so rabid as they have in the case of Indian students being attacked in Australia.

A journalist friend who caught me online quipped, “Times Now has waged a war with Australia.” Well, they have succeeded in making their presence felt down under such that the media here refer to Times Now as India's leading televison channel. And it is unfortunate that they would benchmark Arnab Goswami's and his team as the best in a media that has already, and sadly, been dubbed mediocre.

Wonder why Times Now is trying so hard. One news which it ran on its website almost cost a journalist friend his job because he did not file it for his office. Three Indians were refused entry in a pub in Melbourne and they called up Times Now, which immediately ran a story with the headline screaming, "Now Indians denied entry in Australian pub." Other channels in the rat race caught on with the story and soon the pub-hopping men were heroes on the channel. The print reporter friend got a call from his Delhi office asking how he missed the news. The friend did not bother to file the story as it clearly did not fit into a "breaking news" category. The pub management had probably denied admission to avoid any drunken brawl basing on how sensitive the attack issue had become. And the fact is, it is routine for pubs to use their discretion and managerial rights to deny admission. I found myself in similar situations in India but did not make it to the headlines.

The fact is, racism exists everywhere in the world and as much as in India. The attacks, most agree, are part of the perils of living in a big city. You open the major newspapers in Delhi and find hordes of crime stories. I have lived in Delhi and I now live in a new city, but as a woman I feel safer in an alien land because I do not have to watch what I am wearing when I commute in public transports, I do not have to push and shove my way into malls or public spaces, I do not find myself stared at without a blink, and I do not find myself groped in crowded trains.

Most Indians settled in Australia quietly say the onus of protecting oneself lies within each one of us and that students should avoid shady streets or late nights as is the case everywhere in the world. Meanwhile, Arnab should focus his energies of redeeming India’s status in the eyes of the world on other issues, say, the state of the Commonwealth Games, which has received bad publicity all over.

Traveller's guide

2010-02-03T10:28:00.000+10:00

Pain and pleasure of public commute

Morning/afternoon/evening scene

Delhi bus stop/metro: "Abbe hatho hatho hatho....(move, move, move)" Someone comes screaming from the back, pushes you aside and hops on to the bus. No queues, no making way for the elderly or mothers with babies. Inside, you find a seat if you are lucky. If you are a woman, too many would love to lean on you along with the song and magic bus swerve. You survive a bus ride, you have learnt the first art of survival here.

Melbourne bus stop/tram/train: The bell rings, train's arrival announced, people line up and give way for those alighting. Train moves. Complete silence. Everyone is busy with their ipods and other gadgets or their eyes are in perpetual read mode.

Vehicular breakdown

Delhi: Bus comes to a halt, nobody knows what has happened. Suddenly driver is surrounded with a volley of abuses for delay. Driver tries to stop other buses to transfer passengers. There is utter commotion. Some want their money back, haggle with conductor. It's not a pleasant scene. Money once given is hard to get back.

Melbourne: "Ladies and gentleman, this tram has met with a slight problem, Please change trams to one on right, " comes an announcement inside. Passengers alight in queue, get on to the next tram and within minutes you have resumed your journey as if nothing happened.

Luckily, I am in a pleasure zone this time!

Accent FAKE'cent

2010-02-02T10:25:00.000+10:00

Frankly I need a tutor to teach me to pronounce words the Aussie way. I go to a shop and buy a pair of shades and I ask for a case (as they normally do come with a case in India) and the ever-smiling, customer-friendly cashier replies, "A page?" I say, "No, a case", she replies, "Oh no, no case." Page and case. I walk out of the shop wondering do they really rhyme?

Every third day, I walk down to the bakery to buy bread. Lolo says I must get "high fibre, low GI, sandwich bread." I repeat it 10 times as I walk along the quiet road to make the words flow and twirl and make myself understood at the counter. Low IQ? No, low GI.

I tell the recruitment agency on phone, I am looking for the right opportunity and she goes "ah w-h-a-t?" Common I said opportunity and not forsshunitty. Damn! I think my English is not heavily influenced by my mother tongue. I take pride in the way I speak but alas very few understand me here. No matter how I put it, the look on the other side has a "pardon me?" Hmmmm...

And so you will find all new settlers speak with an exaggerated accent. Hello, said a friend's friend recently. We were meeting up for a party. The dress code for the party, he said, should be "waists and shorts for men and dresses for women." I thought waist was a brand I was not familiar with. I found out later he meant vests. I think I am better off.

Sh...Sh..Shhh

2010-02-01T10:22:00.000+10:00

FEBRUARY 1, 2010

The night I landed in Melbourne, I was greeted by my friends, my sister and Lolo. We screamed and hugged and created some noise at the airport. My arrival was much awaited . I was happy I'd brought some noise with me. After a cup of coffee at Nats, Lolo and I drove to Rosanna, the suburb I would adopt as home, away from home.

Getting up in the morning, I felt a bit strange. Strange because I found myself in a sea of silence, so quiet that I could hear the birds chirp, the soft breze blowing... I had to feel at home so I yelled, "ka-ba-ree, ka-ba-ree wallah, ees-steel wallah.." into Lolo's ears. Now, these are the sounds I have been waking up to for the past 15 odd years of my life. They are in Lolo's words, the "harry wallahs", the junk and cloth collectors in exchange for some paltry sum of money and steel untensils. We, in India, love collecting steel untensils. We graduate from collecting aluminium to steel. It's a progression chart.

I am now slowly learning to cope with silence. I told my old neighbour Lynn how I love the sound of her grandchildren when they come over sometimes. She lifted an eyebrow. I explained I lived in a place where I could hear my neighbours discuss everything and even smell what they were cooking. I said I miss noise and smell. She is getting slowly used to what I think she would call as my idiosyncrasies. She is nice. She calls me for a tour of her kitchen garden everytime she sees me, never invites me for tea but gives me zuchinni and tomatoes from her garden. I called her for tea and I discussed sports netball, golf and tennis - with a 75-year old woman. We did not discuss her daughters-in-law.

I tell myself, this is orientation time. I have to bear the silence of the place and get used to missing every detail of my life in Netaji Nagar - and the abundance of noise and neighbours.

Midsumma!

2010-01-18T16:15:00.006+10:00

It was called the Midsummma Festival - Celebrating Queer Culture. Well, it was part of a festival celebrating the third self :)

On a pleasant sunday afternoon at Alexandria Gardens in Melbourne, hundreds of gays and lesbians and those not 'in between' gathered together to celebrate midsummer. Well, that is what I gathered and assumed. We were taking a walk along the Yarra river, when we were distracted by music and the sound of gaiety. I was particularly overjoyed seeing the sea of people, and before long we found ourselves pulled towards that direction.

Once inside the mayhem, I found myself not batting an eyelid in my bid to have an eyeful of all the goings on around me. Hand in hand, arm in arm, same sex couples of all ages, and some extremely good looking (what a waste in straight terms), were revelling in the atmosphere.

A picnic-cum-fete kind of scene. At the centre was the stage where drag queens in their thongs performed, where artistes belted out numbers and yet some more displayed their other talents. The people sat on the grass, their mats rolled out, the food and beer flowing, and the dogs too in august company.

Food stalls were set up on one end and so were the drinks counter but to get to that bay one had to get a wristband, as proof of age. Then there were other two dance areas where DJs were full on as spontaneous and tipsy members livened up the atmosphere even more.

Then there were the volunteers giving forms and others busy signing . I was curious about that one but sadly, no one approached us with the forms. There was also an immigration help desk for gays and lesbians! But I did get a movie cd on drug abuses, a compilation of six personal stories, which I have yet to watch. Someone was handing it out for free!

Just last year, Delhi had its first gay march. I am coming from a place which has just about begun to accept gays and lesbians. And this one yesterday was a complete eye opener for me. I saw so many old gay partners and in complete comfort with their identity. It is indeed nice to be accepted and live in a liberated world where no one judges the other by virtue of his preferences, I told my man. "Oh yes", he replied as always and not before a woman looked at me and told her partner, "she is nice," something both of us heard loud. Well, it made my day. Admiration transcends stereotypes, ahem :)

Yoga In Melbourne

2010-01-12T15:59:00.006+10:00

I look at Viviene and wonder what her age is. It is obvious she is no longer in her 20s, and she admits she has been practising yoga for the past 25 years of her life. She is fit, she is not very taut, but amazingly flexible.

When Viviene called last week, it was my first phone call from someone unfamiliar in an unfamiliir place. You see, I have just arrived in a new country and settling in. She called to tell us of our class timings and so on which she detailed in her email later. I worked out she was also trying to understand her students. And I thought she showed some interest in me when I told her I was from India. I told her how stiff I felt now after having stopped yoga for more than a year. I was also, in truth, happy to receive a phone call and talk to someone. And didnt care it was a yoga instructer. So I indulged in all the small talks and asked her the location of her institute etc., which made her ask me, "is laurie Indian too?". I could sense the note of relief when I replied No, when she said "Oh then he would know the area." But we had struck a friendship of sorts, because when I showed up, she had a warm smile.

Viviene's Luna Studios, lies in a nice, ancient and quiet suburb called Fairfield. Here professionals come in drove to relax and destress after work hours. They are men and women, young and old and the rows of cars lined up do tell it is a busy haunt.

Laurie and I arrived ten minutes before 8 pm and more than half the students had already come. I thought if this this was India, we would have had to wait till 9 pm to start class as everyone would have arrived beyond the said time. A batch of students were already in their meditative end stage and ready to leave. It looked like one of the spas of Thailand in the beginning but I soon realised it was one long hall with all the props to make yoga exciting.

And soon Viviene had us all squatting and standing and stretching and flexing our body parts. The weather was 40 degrees and so she didnt push us really into doing more. She knew everyone's name by heart and was even considerate that I didnt follow her accent, as I stood up at times, when all the others were neck deep into the poses. "Indira, look at Laurie", she said when I appeared non-plussed.

Thankfully, the one-and-half hour session flew without no real embarrasments from me, save one instance when my stomach made the loudest noise, cause I had followed her strict instruction to be on an empty stomach for three hours prior to yoga. I must add, some of the last part to the session had its humour. One student when asked how she was doing replied, "I don't know, my legs are shaking like mad". I thought it was so funny. And at the end when she made us lie down in absolute surrender of the bodies to the spaces, the lights were put out and pin-drop silence maintained. But when she said "feel the silence", I heard two honks of a train in an otherwise quiet and honk-free place. Timed well. Viviene's words "feel your eardrums, feel your scalp, feel the space..." trailed off into my own sea of imagination and laughter.

Warm 2010

2010-01-09T14:28:00.003+10:00

For 39 years of my life, save once in 2000, I have spent every New Year's eve and New Year draped in not necessarly trendy but all the warm clothings of the world, celebrating two things - the start of a new year and my birthday. Warm wishes that coldly remind me of numbers I would rather chose to overlook.

This year I turned 40. Life begins. And so I arrived at Melbourne's Tullamarie airport just around Christmas and heralded 2010 with beer glasses under the hot Australian sun. A change of place, a change of scene, a change of life in many, small, different ways.

I am right now basking under the Australian summer. The weather is pleasant most days, some days it is hot and arid - am I familair with that. But once the evening sets in, the temperature cools down and there is the pleasant feel to the air. I find the weather awesome. It's a different summer, a unique summer for someone who has only known hot days only in the middle of a year, not at the end of a year. Down under, it is.

Melbourne is beautiful. The roads so clean, the trees so green, the flowers so many, the sky so blue that on a clear blue day as you walk around the suburbs , the soul of the place touches you. You feel the soft breeze, you hear the birds twitter... In a whiff of time, I am almost re-living my childhood days spent in Shillong in remote north eastern India, where the cottages, pine trees, roses and bougain villas dot the houses and landscape. I am left with a touch of peace.

One Hell Of A Smog

2009-11-20T00:30:00.002+10:00

When I watched the Blair Witch Project, I was sitting on the edge of my bed with the cell phone on one hand, matchticks and candles and my eveready hammer which I use mainly for killing centipedes that crawl up the backyard. The hammer is like my safety tool, which some day, says my sister, will go on my head instead, should a thief break into the house. It's a scarier thought than the ghost movies I revel in!

And I experienced a Blair Witch kind of situation last Saturday nite. My hammer was not with me but I got saved in the nick of time and for me, I think I got my second life that night.

Here is the spooky tale. I was invited for dinner at a friend's place in Gurgaon, the big hell hole as I call it - full of illiterate Jats with bug bucks and big cars but nothing in the head, lots of potholes and messy traffic. After a nice cosy evening of chit chats and a fish-ful of sumptuous dinner, I took leave. Just when I crossed the apartments, I realised that smog, unusual in November, had enveloped the air so much that visibility was almost nil. Still, I decided to drive on with a bit of optimism that the air will clear once I hit the ring road. But just as I approached the first roundabout, about two yards from the apartments, I saw somebody wave at me. I almost stopped near the person thinking he was probably the security guard wanting to warn or tell me something. But as I neared him, I realised he was some random chap trying to stop my car for all the worse reasons -- in retrospect. Of course, I drove off full speed but I could hear his "ROKO, ROKO.. (STOP, STOP)" breaking into the stillness of the night.

It was a voice that brought an immediate rush of fear. And when fear overpowers, the mind takes off on its own direction, and then the mistakes happen one after another. For some, the mistakes prove fatal. I drove on in full speed, missed the first left turn, then took the second left turn from where cars and trucks with blinkers were driving straight towards my direction. I was completely lost. I was so sure I would be hit by the speeding cars. That's the thing about GGaon and Delhi, be it smog, crowd or anywhere, vehicles always move as fast as the aeroplanes. You would think there is a Schumacher sitting behind the wheels of evry single, three-wheelers, two-wheelers or four-wheelers. So in all wiseness, I stood by the side of the road waiting for a good samaritan and calling up my friends.

It was 2 am, an unearthly hour, of course. Two blokes in a Santro came up to me. They looked decent so I told them I was lost. But such is the spirit of Dilliwallas that even at 2 am, they are out to dupe you. They wanted to show me the way but pointed at a completely different direction and tried to convince me I was wrong. I told them I had to just to take a U-turn and that I wasn't far off from my friends, who were on their way. When they saw the cellphone ringing, they realised I was a lost case for them. But talking to them helped in a way, because the idiots had parked their car in the middle and obstructed vehicular movement. I took advantage of the situation and quickly did a U-turn. In confusion, fear and sweat, I muttered a "thankyou and **** off" the same time!

Now I did not want to drive all the way back for fear of the ROKO man. So I waited for my friends, who were by now quite sure they would miss me in the thickening smog. So I waited by the side with the blinkers on, when another truck came and stopped just next to me. I hurled the choicest of abuses from the inside of my car and showed my phone to the driver. After five minutes, the truck moved. And true enough, my friends came but missed me as the bloody truck had obstructed their view. Finally, I was rescued and saved. The eerie part is, my roomate and her friends went to Gurgaon the same night and the next night the same day, but they never saw any smog. I have never heard of localised smog.

Agartala And Back

2009-10-31T01:45:00.003+10:00

When you sit in a small 22-seater or a 14-seater aircraft, there is always an eerie feeling. The same you experience when you sit on a helicopter, especially going by the number of crashes. So many famous people have died in these helicopter rides. I am not famous but I have my heart waiting in my mouth whenever I sit on a small plane. And now that I am back from the godforaken place of Agartala, I am oh so relieved.

Not that I have anything against this north eastern state capital of Tripura. It is so green and so laid back and seemingly safe despite being officially declared a "hyper sensitive" area because of the increase in insurgents operating in the state. My one-and-a-half day tour of the place was packed with a visit to a newly opened university and a visit to some local sight seeing addresses, including the oldest school in the north eastern region, the Umakanta Academy establshed in 1890.

But my journey from Calcutta itself was an amusing one. The team I was tied up with at Calcutta was a group of versatile five. The oldest a 54-year old gentleman, was reticent to the core. His only words to me were, "Do you speak English, sorry Bengali?" He was paired off with the elderly lady of the group and who by the end was labelled "aunty" by the rest of us. She took care of each one of us, right from packing our breakfasts to suggesting what we should do at every step. Sometimes the dictats were marred by irritation at our non-plussed attitudes to them. But aunty and reticent man got along well, because he never said no to the machinations of her mind.

That left the three of us out from her loop. We took delight in segregating ourselves from the duo. And whenever she got the chance, she took a jibe at our waywardness, tinged with a bit of prank. "Oh you are so organised," she remarked at my pen and notebook. "You must have a pen and a paper always," for those that had none. But she was quick to arrange it for the others. When the day got over and had we had a fill of touring the campus and meeting a few students, she suggested we all spend another two hours at the hostel interacting with the rest of the students. Of course, she got a vehement NO. We were looking forward to wrapping up tiresome day with a chilled glass of beer and wasn't going to let her throw a spanner on our plans. Later that evening, when we called reticent uncle to join us, he sweetly declared he was a teetotaller. Aunty said she doesnt drink at all, but an hour later called to ask if there was "some whisky". We missed a golden opportunity to see aunty let her hair down.

The next morning, aunty dressed in a starched sari and uncle in clean checked shirt, washed and looking fresh were ready to vist the famous temple in the region, the Tripureswari temple. We decided we wanted to visit the wild life santuaries instead. But she had her way again and we followed her car and drove an hour and a half to see a red temple and a pond where devotees were washing themselves, a al mini Ganga. But we managed to make her heart skip faster as we took our time to reach the temple, taking photographs on the way, yapping, laughing - the phone kept ringing to tell us that our car was out of her purview. I am sure she prayed for the atonement of our sins too.

And she even took back home the bouquets we got a day before. I had forgotten about it until I saw her walk out with it from the hotel to the airport. Back at Calcutta and heading towards the exit, "I love pulling the trolley," she said. And so, trip over, I bade them all an honourable goodbye and I am glad I am back in sada dilli.

The Ages

2009-10-25T00:22:00.005+10:00

My grandmother, at 80-plus, has a habit. She loves to prod and goad and ask innumerable questions the moment you introduce someone to her. So what is the name of your clan? Name your family members? Who all are married? The queries go on... Over the years, I have met people her age and I find they all share this habit. They are all friendly, and to a fault.

My old neighbour in Sarojini Nagar was one such man. He lived with his son and daughter-in-law and two granddaughters. Everyone seemed to pay him a deaf ear, for reasons not far to seek. I dreaded opening the door every morning to pick up the newspapers because he would be standing, waiting for the sound of the door creaking. Soon I would hear a, "May I come in?" He loved to discuss the morning paper headlines with us. It became a pain, so one fine day we decided to be rude. "No you may not come in".

My current neighbour is another old man, who walks about with dark goggles even at night and a walking stick. The dark goggles is because he had a cataract operation a few months back. Now it is a permanent feature on his face. Some days, I get a fright as I would see him standing outside in the dark at the the door waiting for a tete-a-tete. He will not press the bell with his fingers but he would be aiming for the bell with his walking stick and he would attempt many flings before he finally hits the bell.

"Suna hain dengue huwa hain kisi ko is ghar main? (Heard someone got the dengue in this house)", he recently asked me. The moment I said yes, he started telling me how I should be plucking these certain leaves from a tree nearby and boiling them and feeding the patient. He said James, another neighbour, got cured after he drank this same herb water. I told him that my patient was in a hospital which does not allow any food from outside and that the hospital was A-one and was taking good care of the patient. But he refused to listen. He wanted to show me the tree. I had to lie that I was in the middle of cooking. Sometimes, I run out of excuses. I have to endure his talks which range from food, his grandchilren to his village near Banaras.

We crave for company at every stage in life, but what we do not realise is how desperate this craving becomes especialy at old age. I am insensitive and find old people inherrently funny. And I dont want to live up to 80 years but I know, in time, the boot would be on the other foot. The cyle of life, alas!

In Anticipation Of Winter

2009-10-22T06:20:00.000+10:00

There is something inxplicably romantic about winters. I love foggy and rainy afternoons, and I am not a pessimist. I also love chilly nights and mornings. And I love the scent of winter tree flowers, more potent, as you drive along Race Course Road and Prithviraj Road.

So I have reasons to be depressed. I read a report that said the degree of coldness is going to decrease with each year. Global warming is my layman explanation. More depressed was when I was at the mall a few months back and winter clothes were on sale at the height of summer. The reason, the saleswoman told me, was because Delhi is going to be warm this winter. I don't want to believe anyone and continue with my fascination for snowy landscapes and barren trees and fireplaces inside houses. In the clutter and worry and stress for all things routine, these thoughts bring a sense of comfort to the mind.

Winter in the hills is holiday time. For three to four months in a year, the schools and colleges are shut and the streets wear a bare look. But it's also the time when Christmas and the New year add the tinge of cheer. December brings an altogether different feeling.

There is fresness in spring, warmth in summer, change in autumn and chill in winter. But I guess I will always remain biased to winter, and find warmth in its chill and fullness in its emptiness.

Come October

2009-10-22T05:50:00.000+10:00

I thought it was the swine. Sister and rommie were down with fever. And while one recovered, the other was hospitalised with dengue and typhoid. I was mother hen for a week. No complaints there but I had my first brush with a dengue patient up, close and personal. The skin had rashes like allergies and I kept glued to the platelet count reports every morning. Thankfully for our ever cheerful patient, she beat the dengue and the typhoid and came home after seven days. Lolo says people die of snake and shark bites down under and here we have to battle the teeny weeny moseys. Now we have installed the most powerful mosquito repellants in the house - a three-in-one All Out -to kill dengue, malaria and chikungunya. Hope they work.
******
Diwali was fun. We had lunch at Dilli Haat at the Naga Stall and digged on smoked pork with akhuni or fermented black beans and rice. Then we bought diyas to light up the house and my sister tried her hand at drawing up a rangoli which looked like the strangest rangoli I have seen in my entire life. But our house looked the brightest towards the evening. Then we headed off to our special invite of the night at our dear friend Yashu's who had arranged dinner and drinks for us. The evening was called the 'Charge of the mini skirt brigade'. No explanations there.
******
My infamous Mrs B's obsession with me hasn't died down. First she called me out of the blue to apologise. She said, "please forgive me for whatever I have done to you and come and stab me." I didn't how to react but must admit, thawed a bit. Two weeks later, she called me in my office landline. She has got the verbal diarrhoea laced with malice. She wants to talk to my boss to malign my reputation. People have so much time on their hands. But how does one treat mad dogs. I have been adviced to just ignore her and not give her her drugs - my reactions. Now she will become more insane than ever. Ya-hoooo!

Facebook Juju

2009-09-25T00:38:00.001+10:00

I was watching American talk show Conan O'Brien sometime back and he was giving a funny award called the Audiency Award. He picked up various people from his show for their uniqueness. One such awardee was a fan who had more than 2000 friends on his Facebook. But he got the award not just for that reason. The other reason was actual friends = none.

So that brings me to my Facebook discourse. Wonder why some people are averse to Facebook. I think it's better than all the other social networking sites such as Orkut or Linked In. I get Linked-In invites every other day but it goes to my spam without a second thought! And Orkut is just off putting. Don't know why.

I love facebooking. And I have been able to discover so many long and lost friends, friends who had literally gone out of my orbit. So, I was pleasantly surprised when I found my first roomate, someone I had shared a heart and a home when I came to Delhi in the early ninetees. After a decade of lost communication and lost love, we made up and became friends all over again. Now I know what's on her mind next!

And the other thing I love is going through the photos. You know, revelling in the cheap thrill that someone has put on so much weight than someone else or better still, me! Oh and I also get to check on my siblings and what they are up to. A cynic friend said "people abroad are so lonely, they are either online 24X7 or either facebooking". Well, better than being lonely I think. Perhaps she has no facebook friends hee hee hee...

Someone said there is an article saying that the fastest growing demographic on Facebook was the 35+ age group. Good news as Facebook has just topped 300 million users. Just hope and pray the site doesn't crash!

XY Factor

2009-08-27T06:07:00.000+10:00

Eunuchs continue to fascinate me. Tonight I was watching the Indian remake of Moment Of Truth or Sach Ka Samna, the TV progamme which even got Indian Parliamentarians laying aside national issues and debating heatedly on things such as why publicly admitting to sleeping with many partners can be bad for the moral health of society. Indian politicians think they also have the right to moral policing. But of course the voices of politicians crying hoarse over truth was silenced by one sane judge who ruled that there is a purpose why the TV remote was invented. If you dont like a channel, you either switch off the TV or surf channels. Coming back to the eunuch, the participant was a Lakhsmi, born male but eunuch by choice. And she had big breasts. Laksmi could pass off as any woman if not for her vocal chords. But that apart, I watched her on the show and felt a sense of admiration for her. And it led me to a series of thoughts in my mind.

I didn't grow up seeing eunuchs in my neighbourhood. I had only read about them. It's only in the city that I began to see them from close quarters. In the neighbourhood when a child is born or someone gets married, they come in droves to sing and dance. Singing and dancing is their main livelihood and they go back happy with cash and food, blessing one and all. Nobody wants to incur the wrath of the eunuchs or hijras because people believe that there is no escape from the hijras' cursing tongue. So people give in to their demands and they thrive on this fear.

Whenever my car stops at a red light, there is invariably one hijra from among the group that knocks on my windows to seek alms. Whenever I see one, my hand automatically turns to the window and I roll it up. There is an unexplained fear for the hijra. I don't know what it is. Maybe the fact that they are not fully women and have the strength of a man, maybe the thought that they could be a man disguised as a woman to rob you, maybe the fact that they are such mysterious people. My very limited research on hijras say they are either castrated or born deformed or some opting to become one in the face of abject poverty. Still they are gays to me, unique gays.

Laksmi today broke many myths of the hijra to me. I realise it's all a question of acceptance and accomodating the odd one out among us by erasing the irriational fear plagued in the mind. But if normal gay men and women in our society still struggle to fiind a place and continue to live in the closet, hijras have a long way before they are welcomed into the mainstream.

Gays or lesbians, hijras or enunuch, everyone is a little different than the other. But human beings we all are. And I guess I am as equally concerned as them about fairness and justice. I have just removed one darkness from my heart.

Bye Bye Theory

2009-08-15T03:15:00.000+10:00

“Guys… listen…” All heads turn to the feminine voice. We are about to witness a lecture on alfresco, currently the bane of our existence. But Sanj does it with conviction and fervor. I am yet to meet someone literally married to work and I wish I could emulate some of those qualities.

In life, we come across many people. But the workplace is such where you know who blows the competition away. That is why the young team members fear Sanj because of her level of consistency. But the world is also such that when one member of that close group, in which you often bicker, leaves it also leaves a dent in the emotion. I guess that’s why we all are human beings. We crib, we fight, we have our ups and downs, but there is a bond that develops, albeit unexpressed.

Saying bye to someone is always laced with a tinge of sadness. It’s the idea of missing the presence of someone whose presence you often take for granted. And for the one who leaves, it’s a form of uprooting yourself from a place you had called home. That is why Sanj’s leaving today is a form of prelude to me, to my moving to a different country, where all things familiar – from the shops next to my house to the people next door to the sounds of the vegetable vendors or the kabari wallah next to my windows – will be a thing of the past.

It is indeed difficult to erase certain things that have found their home in the heart. But there is nothing one can do except, accept the fact that in life, change is inevitable. Good luck Sanj!

June Recap

2009-08-13T04:17:00.000+10:00

I got married on June 16 at the ripe old age of 39 unlike most of my friends who got tied to matrimony in their early twenties, when they were probably still discovering the world, the stars above their heads and the notion that marriages are made in heaven. Most have known just one man all their lives and married the same man, their reputation and virginity intact! I, on the contrary, dabbled in relationships without the boundaries. To society, to family, to friends, I am now defined by law.

My wedding reception on June 17 was one hell of a party. I sang and sang and drank and drank. LoLo says he was proud to see me on the stage but the singing was questionable! My friends say it was a first for them to see a bride enjoying her own wedding so much. In our society, brides are supposed to be demure and coy and not let any of their maidenly qualities slip on occasions such as these. I was, I guess, every bride’s nightmare but I like to think of that evening as one when I celebrated in totality my stepping into a zone few spinsters fear to tread.

Honeymoon in northern Thailand was a perfect holiday for LoLo and me. It was our “us time”. Except for the bad tan, I want to savour Thailand again for the amazing food, massages and anything you can have just for the asking. Swadikha…

Countdown Begins...

2009-06-05T05:02:00.000+10:00

Ten more days of single(dom). Here is what is not fun. The weather is so hot that I have almost stopped short of thinking what to do and how to celebrate. I am also worried sick about how my family will cope with this heat which will take centrestage to all the celebrations as the weatherman says expect more hotter weeks. I hope the rain Gods have some mercy, please, please, please!

I get teased about choosing hot June as the month for a wedding. How do I explain that when the time comes, there is no looking it is autumn, spring, summmer or winter? It just happens. And poor Lozza, he is destined to come to India only during the summers. When all this is over, I just hope the hot wedding will make 'cool' memories.

But it's also the time of my life where I will remember having more than one dilemma and many, many, questions from all and sundry. The dilemma is apparel related = blue, red or pink. A favourite question from many: so who all are coming from the groom's side? I am still not able to figure out the strength of this question. Maybe it's just a general question but I am not able to shrug it off as I want to know why people are interested in this. Maybe someone needs to remind me that I over reacting!

Meanwhile, I need to be slim and stop eating like a pig. But it's hot and I all want is a chilled glass of Carlsburg beer. And my nervous well-wishers have warned me not to join the singers or get drunk on D-Day. I must, you see, be the quintessential bride and remember the special day. I hope I remember to behave myself!

The Story Of Mrs B

2009-05-06T19:41:00.000+10:00

I am breaking this spell of ennui and sharing an unbelievably interesting recent episode.

I have met a fair share of people whom I consider mad, but there is one whom anyone can officially call insane, if you go by this story. One Sunday afternoon Mrs B called me up frantically asking me if I wanted to save the life of the man I was going to marry. I thought she had a bad dream. She said, "Hurry up and I will take you to a dangerous place where your photos are lying," and hung up. I had no idea what I was in for.

Shell shocked, I drove to where she was waiting for me. I wondered who and how got our photographs and who had given the supari for us. Mrs B was waiting outside her gate. Seemingly impatient and nervous as hell -- more than me -- she refused answers in details and said a friend, who had been her best friend till late but fell out with her as she suspected the friend of having an affair with her husband, had left the photographs there. We drove to the lanes and by-lanes of a busy market area in South Delhi and parked my car at a point, after which she made me buy some sweets (as a form of bribe for taking back the photos).

After many nooks and corners and turns and twists, we reached a small house in one of the lanes. She rudely woke up a pregnant woman and requested her to take us to her mother. Another 10 min walk and we reached a small house. Outside, the shoes were piled up. It was a holy place, she said. An old woman, a young boy of 16-17 years and a middle aged man were the occupants of the one-room house. The room had some seven to eight plastic Gods on display. She explained they were the many "Matas" or Goddesses. The woman and the boy were possessed by the Matas and people came to them to find solution for all of their life's woes. In their possesesed state, they would tell them the many odd remedies to their problems.

I was appalled by what I saw. Placed right above the Gods and the many incense sticks and flowers were my photographs. At first, it looked like I was the Maha-God or the greatest God. The woman and boy greeted us with all enthusiasm. It was apparent Mrs B was great friends with them as they exchanged pleasantries. She was a regular visitor. "Kuch toh man main shanti hogi?" (There must be some peace in your mind now?), they asked her. She said she couldnt really tell as she was still disturbed and had migraines. I interrupted. "Give me my photos," at which Mrs B quietened me with a, "Shsshhh, don't show your impatience." Alright, I obeyed, and sat down to watch the dramas unfold before me.

"We'll do your puja today. Give me hundred rupees," Mrs B said to me. The middle aged man walked off with the money and returned with a handful of cloves and flowers. The woman got ready to be possesed, grunted and rolled her head three times. Then she decided the young lad would take the turn. "Aaj Gurgaon wali Mata ko bulate hain, (Let us call the Gurgaon Mata)," she said. Boy sat in action and rolled and rolled his head the way you would in a yogic exercise. Quickly he was given a hookah with probably hash to smoke, a cigarette which he took quick long drags, and then a cup of Bagpiper whisky poured from a bottle by the middle-aged man -- all at the same time. The ultimate high, I thought, so that whatever nonsense he blabbers is taken as God's words.

I was curious and nudged Mrs B. She said the God wants ciggies and whisky and what not. Some vices the God has, I thought! And then Mrs B prostrated in front of the boy, who was now her Mata and asked him many wishes, of which I distinctly remember three. "Mata, make me beautiful; Mata, my husband is going to sign a one crore project with the woman friend (who had supposedly left my photos), I need 50 lakh out of it; Mata, find me a friend." With his head still rolling, the boy replied, "Hogi, Hogi" to the first and third questions, "Manne bhi chaihiye (I want too)" to the second question. Mata wanted money too. Hmmmm... Mrs B replied, "If he gives me a few thousands, I won't give you, I want lots." Unfiied in their desire, the Mata gave Mrs B flowers, a lemon sliced into two to be thrown in some places, grains to eat, and ashes to mix in with the water in which she washes herself.

Next my turn. Mrs B told me to prostrate. I refused and asked her to do it for me. She then asked the Mata, "Let her marriage take place without any hurdles." I was given the same grains and flowers and cloves. Relieved it was all over, I asked, "Please give me the photgraphs now." "Nah," said the old woman. "It has now been handed to the Gods and will need many offerings to take it back." I asked what offerings. She listed: alcohol, saris, pigs, goat, toe rings and a finger ring. Mrs B quickly replied, "Oh she wont know how to get it all so tell us how much money she should shell out." The lady said, "Woh toh Mata batayegi, (the price Mata will quote)". After I insisted, old woman said two thousand bucks and liquor. I didnt know whether to laugh or to cry. I wasn't going to give them any more money.

Piqued and curious and still struggling to take in what I had witnessed, I asked Mrs B whether she really believed in all these. Pat came the reply, "How can you forget Indira Gandhi (our ex prime minister) who was surrounded by tantriks to remain in power"? I decided to say no more. I thought, let the Matas shuff my photos up their asses!

Haunted by it all, I called the friend who had allegedly left the photos there. She said she was taken through the same journey and tricked into getting my photos by Mrs B for reasons best known to her. This is a real life story of a jobless housewife, who does the rounds of Matas to save her failing knees and marriage, and meddle in the lives of others. I love telling this story! As for Mrs B, like a friend said, "It's a pity the Mata cannot see her future as well as we can, she is on the way to the psychiatric ward of the nearest hospital near her house."

How Much Is Too Much

2009-03-19T00:12:00.000+10:00

Jade Goody is dying. Who is Jade Goody? The introduction is perhaps little required now. The little-known British TV actress whose racial spat with B-grade Bollywood actress Shilpa Shetty in Big Brother made it to the headlines in India, is now truly famous as she televises her last dying days on camera. And the world is watching.

I do feel for Goody. At 27, the prime of her life, she is waiting for death to happen anytime and will leave behind two young sons and a newly married husband. It's no age to die for anyone, for that matter. But there is no telling when cancer can eat into your life and before you realise, you are waiting at the doorsteps of death. If life, death and sickness were predictable, all our mysteries would no more be mysteries and scientists would be jobless.

But Jade Goody comes to mind today for another reason. There is a controversy surrounding her death plan. And it is worrying the world. Goody made a living out of being in front of the camera and chooses to do die before the camera. Activists say reality TV has brought the horror to our bedrooms and kids have to watch someone die live. That her children will live with the scars of this image. That there has to be a line drawn between what should be shown and what should not be.

I find the arguments absurd. Today reality TV is a hit because there is an audience for it. People love to see such things or follow such news. That is why a battery of world press is at the gate of Jade Goody's house following the developments. So famous has her death trail become that the British Prime Minister even made a mention of it in Parliament. So, all the interest stems from the fact that we humans, from time immemorial, were always a sucker for what is gory, what is unusual and what is rare. How can we forget the stories of galleries where people turned up in droves to witness someone hanging or being beheaded? So, whats new?

And can we forget Goody's personal desire? It's her wish that she wants her last days being filmed. So who are we to object what she wants and it is the want of someone dying? Not to forget, she is raking in the moolah, earning million pounds for a reason - to secure the future of her children. Besides, awareness of cervical cancer which is afflicting Goody, we are told, has gone up so much that a recent poll showed more and more women are now turning up for check-ups. Is that bad or good? Wagging tongues should put to rest the question of how much is too much. Because you gotta move with the times.

Another Paradise

2009-02-06T03:00:00.000+10:00

"Do you eat food?" The airhostess asks me as I wait for my non-vegetarian dinner. She is busy handing out “vegetarian Indian” meal to the rest. I am on Thai Airways on my way to Bangkok and I get a taste of Thai hospitality and food right from the start. My flight lands on time but gets stranded at the old airport due to fog and low visibility. It's like Delhi stalking me but this is Thailand with a 30 above temperature during the day and supposedly cold because of the fog. Unusual day but the start of my one week break is already eventful. After three hours, we finally arrive at Bangkok's new Suvarnabhumi airport. Spread over 32 km, it's like any other mega shopping mall. I remember little of the old airport when I arrived in 2000.

I am greeted by an escort who has my name on his placard as Mr Laisram. I guess my name baffles the gender decipher for its lack of familiarity. Lozza thought he lost me and was frantically emailing at the hotel lobby. A sigh of relief when he spotted me walk in at Veingtai Hotel! We check into the room and then begin our tour into the city that never sleeps. A walk down Kho Saon Road and it's food, food, and more food that meets the eye. Filled with bag packers and tourists, pubs and massage parlours are galore. It's a different world. Colours, lights, sounds and smells - all mix to add to one flavour that is uniquely Thai.

Everywhere, we are greeted by touts. The unassuming taxi drivers, are the ones who lure you to the wildest and best shows for the best price. Soon you realise you have been taken for a ride, royally. As was our case. Go-go show, ping pong show, et al. “Don’t go to the market first, enjoy the show first,” they tell you. You believe them and pay up. Not quite worth the thousand bucks you shelled out, but you learn to take it all in your stride.

Pattaya is an enjoyable destination in Thailand. A two-hour drive takes you to this sea side locale. “Check your belong,” yells the driver as you hop out of the mini van. He says it’s his routine driving up and down three-times a day ferrying tourists who swarm the place. I love the hustle and bustle, the packed sea shores, the pubs and the amazing musical and busy nights especially at Walking Street. You see them all – gays, transvestites, prostitutes, normal people mix in unision. The bar girls play their role. “Only 50 baht for beer, check sexy lady inside”. Sex is the byword here.

While our Mangalorean moralists were busy attacking women in spaghettis and drinking in pubs, I was in a world where hypocrisy and double standards have not reared its ugly head. Long live Thailand!

O-B-A-M-A

2009-01-22T00:21:00.000+10:00

Two million people at the National Mall in Washington alone. The world watched too as Barack Obama was sworn in as the 44th President of the United States. So did I. I rudely cut roomie's soap operas and switched to CNN to witness history being created. Some day I may live to tell the tale of how Barack, the much touted Afro-American President of the United States, stumbled with his swearing-in oath.

I was a bit disappointed as I watched the man who had run the most successful of election campaigns, the man who Americans were pinning their hopes on, take his oath. Clearly, he was under too much of a pressure to be the best. So before Chief Justice John Roberts could complete the first sentence, there was Obama abruptly breaking out into his first names... "I Barack Hussein Obama.." and then waited for the judge to complete the sentence.. The next line was even taxing. He stopped short after two words... "That I will excute..." and then Justice Roberts continued "That I will execute faithfully the office of president to the United States..." But Obama did not get it right, however correct he was as he rhymed .."The office of president of the United States faithfully..." Oh No, I thought, the whole world is watching and he shouldn't go wrong. But then on second thoughts, a little bit of imperfection is admirable in a competent man.

And then the inaugural speech. Journalists were trying to decipher the finer sentiments in what Obama said. I listened with rapt attention to a man who is compared to Abraham Lincoln and other greats. The poignancy was only towards the end in this bit:

So let us mark this day in remembrance of who we are and how far we have travelled.In the year of America's birth, in the coldest of months, a small band of patriots huddled by nine campfires on the shores of an icy river.The capital was abandoned. The enemy was advancing. The snow was stained with blood.At a moment when the outcome of our revolution was most in doubt, the father of our nation ordered these words be read to the people:Let it be told to the future world that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive, that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet it.

Save this,the rest of his speech lacked anecdotes and was largely an impersonal one, and stressed too much on equality, layered with Afro-American hues. It was as if Obama was crying out to be known that he the Afro-American has arrived and that justice will pervail upon America. It was as if America did not embrace the ideals of equality and justice to the hilt and that he was going to change things. Every country has had its own journey, its own history, its own evolvement as a nation and he happened to be at the right time and right place. The rest of his speech had all the diplomatic platitudes. So, in other words, I wasn't greatly moved the way I was when John McCain gave his losing speech at the end of the American polls. That was a straight from the heart talk. Never mind his pre-poll idiosyncracies.

But I watched the rest of the scene and I wished I was at Capitol Hill as I saw the first lady and second ladies in their top gear and fineries. I thought it must be so frustrating for the millions having to watch it all from a screen. So near yet so far.

Comparing to swearing-ins back in India, I think the American style is so cool. Poetry, Rock concerts, Balls -- they all add up to a perfect celebration. I heard Obama attended 10 inaugural balls in Washington last night. I can't imagine the common pot bellied Indian politicians doing a jig with their saree clad wives. Or even giving their wives a peck on the cheek or walking hand in hand. Michelle Obama does compliment her husband and I am a wee bit jealous. O-B-A-M-A!!!

Cooking The Book

2009-01-10T04:51:00.001+10:00

So fudging accounts is cooking the book. These corporate scams one after another -- Bernard Madoff and now Mr Ramalingam Raju -- are doing good to my vocabs, I thought, when I saw this expression all over the papers and news reports. How do these corporate big wigs manage to siphon off billions of dollars/rupees? And then manage to keep the fact hidden for years till one fine day when they decide they've had enough of luxury, blow the lid and say, "Sorry I cooked the book". The financial world is an exciting world, somebody once told me.

Recession, corporate cons, job losses, bankruptcy, bailouts... I feel we are touching new nadirs. At work, outside, conversations veer round cost cutting, lay offs and whether the annual increments are happening. I am sick of talking about recession. It's like following the US election results: McCain, Sarah Pallin or Obama? We need a mental therapy. My advice to all is: go do your shopping as much as you can, that ways the money will keep rolling and the economy won't be too bad. People have stopped shopping and that is why the economy is bad. That's my layman theory!

Everything about the economy is puzzling these days. First the oil prices reach new highs, then they plumb to all time lows. And when they do go down, the oil workers go on strike. And cars join a marathon queue to fill gas as if there was no tomorrow just because someone flashes the news that petrol pumps are drying up. My boss said at such times, filling the cars with petrol and selling them would be more profitable. But as soon as cars have tanked up, the oil workers call of their strike because the government cracks down on them. There is no predictability and consistency in economics.

I do feel anxious when I wake up. I wonder what will grab the headlines next.

A Few Good Men

2009-01-08T04:09:00.000+10:00

Ram Bahadur. He has become my messiah of sorts. On dark winter foggy nights, when I step out from the warm confines of my office into the uncertainties of Delhi's roads, there he is recognising my face and offering to drop me home minus all the extra charges.

"Netaji Nagar?" He asked me the first time. I was a bit startled by the question. Stalker? Rapist? Thief? Only the negative thoughts came to mind.
"Yes, but how do you know?" I asked.
"I dropped you a month back," he replied.
"Oh, so how much?"
"The same, Rs 55," he replied.

Truth is, I don't remember paying that little an amount. Most autowallahs charge anything over Rs 60 to get me home. Night is the time when they make a killing and inflate the charges. So much so, that you hop into any auto thinking this could be the last bargain of the night.

And Ram Bahadur is exceptional. Today was my fourth ride in his auto. I found him in his favourite haunt, the tea shop down the road. I have begun to recognise his vehicle, not that I remember the number (I hate numbers) but it's just a sense. He waved at me today and said, "I was going to wait for another 10 minutes and leave," adding "lots of passengers came." I heaved a sigh of relief and jumped on to the seat, thanking him profusely. The chance meeting saved me 10 mins walk down the main road lugging my two bags of books and lunch boxes and water bottle. I do carry a picnic look at times!

Yesterday was different. I bumped into this autowallah. Old and weary looking, he was looking for someone all over the place. Out of sheer curiosity, I asked what he had lost. Then, he narrated this whole incident about how a woman passenger had no money and got into the ATM but gave him Rs 100 short. He said she seemed to be in a hurry and must have forgotten. No malice of thought! When I asked if he would take me home, he readily agreed and asked me to pay my usual fare. I was surprised. I thought he wasnt keen on making up for his loss and inflating his price, as most autowallahs do even during the day.

In the course of my conversations with them, I learnt a lot. Autos are so expensive. They cost as much as any luxury car - more than four lakh rupees. I wasn't aware. No wonder most of these drivers run on rent and make a little over Rs 300 a day. Dig deeper, it's a tough life.

In a city like Delhi, you go through a lot of trouble picking the right auto guy. There is no fair game, as nobody wants to run the metre, so it's usually a stated amount that they stubbornly stick to. I am car-less these days and I realise why everybody loves to hate the autowallahs.

But I have seen a few good hearts...

Yash's Party

2008-12-30T01:20:00.000+10:00

Sausages in shawls, breaded fish, deviled egges, marinated paneer, kahndvi quiche, mirch ka salan, sukha mutton, methi malai matar , malabar paratha, fruit with mint and ginger, vannilla with caped goosberries conserve... It's not my razor sharp memory, if you are wondering I am typing it away as I recall. A day before the party, Yash text me the list of menu she was slogging her ass on. I knew it had to be good knowing how worryingly meticulous she is as a host. From the colour of the napkins to the sizes of the crockeries, nothing can go wrong.

The party last Saturday was a good one. It heralds the start of my yearend bashes. Eat, drink and be merry will be by motto this week. To hell with recession. The more you think, the more it depresses. So don't think about it at all.

Like every year ender, I feel Oh Gosh how quickly the time has passed. And soon it will be another new year and ufff.. a grim reminder that I am getting old too. But the truth is I cant feel much of a difference. I always thought time will change things, at least the way I think but my late 30s feel much the same as my 20s. And like the earlier times, I am looking forward to all things sinful - drink, dance and party... Abrupt halt to mission size zero till the effects of the parties wear off.

After that, I am looking forward to my Bangkok holiday shortly with Lozza. We plan to have a blast and celebrate our birthdays together. There's a hint of anxiety, there's a lot of excitement and there are oodles of happiness at the thought. Yes I needed this change too, a change from the sameness that surrounds me. Goodbye 2008, welcome 2009. That should actually be the title of my New Year day post!

Red Is In

2008-12-17T03:54:00.000+10:00

When I was in university in the early ninetees, red lipsticks were in. It was good old Max Factor and Lakme that most friends relied on. Didn't know or have access to Mac, Lancome, Body Shop or Clinic. I am told today from a friend in Paris that the bloodi red lipsticks are back in trend, something that will carry on to 2009. I feel a little dated now having stuck on to the nude shades of pale pinks and naturals. So, this Christmas and New Year shopping wll include some of the vampire bits in my metal makeup box.

I love colours -- loud and flamboyant. And it is something that I would chose on occasions. So I am happy that I wont be totally out of sync with the times. Of course, it is not something that I carry to work. Loud makeup invites looks and makes you feel like a secretary. The same with perfumes. I hate strong odours during the day although some people make you want to empty your bottles of perfume because they just wont do something about the smells they emanate.

I admire dressy women, and the ones who consistently do it with a dash of attitude. Not the ones who come with a strong dab of foundation on a broad daylight. It makes the artificiality stand out from the rest of the skin. But some are just so unkempt that you want to pick them up and polish like an old brass to give some sheen. Drab dressing needs a dressing down! I don't know that people realise how much this is true but appearance counts a lot in life. It matters. Dressing well and feeling good and confident go hand in hand. It's also always nice to praise or get a compliment! Tomorrow I will glance at a few Elle and Vogue magazines...

War On Mumbai

2008-12-03T05:30:00.000+10:00

That night when terrorists took the city to ransom, I was lying inside the cosy warmth of my bed and watching a movie. There was a brief call from a friend saying gunshots in Mumbai. Roomie and I dismissed it nonchalantly as some stray incidents of firing. So we watched our movie and fell asleep. It was only until the next day early morning when we opened the papers that we realised the enormity of the attacks. Mumbai was burning.

And then, like everyone else, we were glued to the TV, calling, SMSing friends and sharing our thoughts. Then there was the news that Sabina Sehgal Saikia, whom I knew since my Times of India days, was in the Taj hotel and that she had smsed her husband saying the terrorists were in her bathroom. Suddenly, the attacks became even more personal to me. Sabina did not survive. A second tragedy was the news of a young Manipuri front desk manager at the Taj, who had just finished his shift and was waiting for his colleague to take over when he fell to the bullets. There were tragedies all around, so many lives were lost at the Trident, Cafe Leopold and the Taj. But for a moment I was biased in my expression of sorrow.

The Mumbai attacks have been one of the most horrific in recent times. It has affected one and all. Last evening, a friend called me home for dinner just because the attacks had depressed her so much and she wanted to share the pain. So did I. So over some wine and Carlsberg beer in a cold winter evening, we the fortunate ones who watched the horror unfold before our eyes from a distance drowned our sadness in talking and eating. We felt for the foreigners who lost their lives on Indian soil, the Israelis who for years had adopted Mumbai as their home, two-year old Moshe orphaned and whose cries for 'emmy' or mother filled the Mumbai synagogue, the many others who lost their near and dear ones.

We managed to laugh too at the numerous TV channels whose reporters like jokers were anchoring the shows. In fact, there are even laughable forwards doing the rounds on these reporters. One prominent face in the TV news business is Barkha Dutt, who has even started dressing like a politician. One of the mails says Barkha was running around shouting "shattered pieces of glasses, shattered pieces".. I missed this one. "So what was she expecting to find? A rare orchid?" My boss said she was almost going to explode herself. The Hindi channels were no less. They started playing old patriotic Bollywood numbers in memory of the dead amid all the mayhem.

I felt my patriotic sensibilty when "Vande Mataram" rent the air as the NSG commandos, the only capable security forces completed their rescue operation. My boss too said he wanted to join the NSG and another friend in Paris who I was updating regularly, who had left the civil services to study MBA said she too wanted to join the army. The police force in India seemed completely useless. Most of them looked so unfit to even run a mile. That's because by the time they have crossed four years into service they have put on so much weight for reasons well known. So, in other words, most Indians would be at a risk given the "weight" of our police forces. And the poor NSGs, after putting in such a brave fight, they had to wait for the bus to transport them back to their homes. In this country, it is only the cricketers who are treated like Gods.

As for polticians, the less said the better. One went on air to say that a few people with powder and lipsticks and well stiched suits protesting the ineptness of politicians do not necessarily mean they are the voices of the country. And one chief minister snubbed by a martyr's father who vehemently asked politicians not to come and pay condolences, said only a dog would have crossed the house had it not been for the martyr, Major Sandeep Unnikrishnan. The major and NSG commando was the only son. Think of the father's grief and the chief minister's remark, who as a colleague rightly said was reacting like a spiteful child. What maturity in our politicians!

It's a sad story. And one that will haunt us for a long time to come...

Silly Season

2008-11-26T07:18:00.000+10:00

I walked into office today. And on my table was a colleague's wedding card invite and a box of sweets. The first sign of an opulent north Indian wedding, where the invites come with sweets of all sizes, shapes and colours. Sweets mean good luck and good wishes. The wedding season is on, but so is the silly Xmas season, says Lozza. Plenty of calories to count. But I am in a quandary. I don't know what to wear in this cold.

On my way to a friend's place after work, I was hauled up in traffic. It wasn not the usual mad rush but wedding processions. First the men with the drums beating the loudest to the tune of Bollywood hits, followed by men in suits dancing completely out of tune, then the decked up women sparkling with jems and jewellry and colourful saris and walking as if their feets were chained, and finally the groom with his flowered headgear covering his face and sitting on the already lazy and reluctant pony. All moving at a snail's pace, trying the patience of impatient drivers like me.

My colleague says he will sit on a chariot. I thought he was joking! Have I seen one? Not in recent memory can I recall, but this one I don't think I will miss. Another friend whose brother is getting married is having an elaborate affair. She says he is the only son in the family and so her parents have not left any stone unturned to make this one stand out. There is a Mehendi raat with Kashmiri songs and dance, the main wedding of course and a big reception. And I have been specially invited to the two days when non-vegetarian food is on the menu. Otherwise most Hindu weddings offer only vegetarian fare. It's a sacred day and you don't want to incur the wrath of the Gods.

Now I know why most weddings have men standing outside their cars as if they have been banned from the wedding premises. It's sneaking sips of smuggled liquor. The thrill of indulging in the forbidden act. Liquor like non-vegetarian foods is offensive to the Gods on such auspicious days. Unfortunately, it's only men who get away with such indulgence here. As for the bride, even if she later finds out she has married a bastard, people advice her to stick to him now that they are married. They ask her to repose faith in the marriage because it is up to her how she moulds him as a wife. If, after a few years, he still is the same, it could be because they married on an ominous or inauspicious day or because she wasn't taught the skills of being a good wife at home. This is what makes Indian marriages so memorable.

And oh, a friend just said in times of such financial crisis as the current one, women are now marrying for love!

In My Skin

2008-11-25T05:20:00.000+10:00

Kate Holden. Amazing woman. Amazing story. I just read her memoir In My Skin. I got goosebumps reading the life of this literate woman whose addiction to heroin turned her into a prostitute. A dream, a hell, a messy life, a living lie. But every account of her life makes you ponder and think.

Kate's book, to me, sensitised the subject of an addiction and a profession not in normal society. When I think of a drug addict, I automatically think of a person whose despondent life, broken family or very unhappy circumstances make him/her so vulnerable to drugs. Not Kate. Born to succesful, loving parents, living in an affluent suburb, she studied in the university and had all the intelligence to eke out a successful career for herself. So what went wrong?

Growing up, shy Kate was a bit of a prude. She wanted to belong to the world of drinking, smoking, the hip environment instead of "hovering on the roudy fringe of teenage conspiracy." She resented the confidence among her peers and the idea of sex was frightening. Until she met James and "love ran through her like sunshine". But it was a love that would also result in her own destruction.

James was a heroin addict. Of course, he did not want her to even touch it. But Kate wanted to belong to his world. So one lazy afternoon, left on the lurch, alone, while James touched base with his cosy group of addicts, Kate made a decision. She broke free from her mental shackles and had her first taste of heroin. "A swooning rush, a halo of glamour," Kate finally arrived in the world of bohemianism, and it enveloped her for years to come. James got out of his own addiction after rehabilitating himself, while Kate plumbed to the nadirs of heroin addiction. They broke up because he got clean and moved on. Kate only degenerated. She resorted to stealing, lying and finally, prostitution, to fend a habit that had become her way of life.

In Melbourne's St Kilda's Street, Kate earned her bread and butter and then graduated to a classier brothel in the city. Not that her life got any better because by then she was supporting another partner who lived off her earnings as he too was an addict. Helpless, Robbie became her liabilty. But Kate's life as a prostitute tells a thousand stories. And in the five years that she was a prostitute, Kate's attitude to this profession is remarkable. She says her vanity grew with time, so also her humour, that she could help people and give them more tenderness. She wanted to give the best. An attitude that won her some good friends in her clients.

But it is the consistent faith and support of her family that finally lifted Kate from this messy life. She slowly took methadone as a replacement for her heroin addiction, egged on by her mother. And in nine months and after five years, Kate mustered the courage to leave Robbie, her prostitution, her present... to pick up again the threads of a life she left eons back. Then she backpacked to Europe. A year after that trip, Kate emerged as a new woman, cleansed of her past life. The result is her memoir In My Skin. And, she, heralded as the new talent in Australian writing.

The hours seem like eternity for some, for others it is just not enough.

Evyatar

2008-11-20T05:38:00.000+10:00

They were all over the papers. Young, handsome Israeli couple - Yonatan and Omer Gher - became proud parents of a baby boy through a surrogate mother at a fertilty clinic in Mumbai. Nice I thought. Children are the ultimate culmination of love too under normal circumstances. With that I flipped through the rest of the pages.

But India is outraged, it seems. Because later that evening, as I was surfing TV channels, I came upon debates over debates over adoption of babies by same sex partners. The fact remains, homosexuality in India is illegal. So it is with many other things in India which is governed by rules that have remain unchanged for hundreds of years. Our lawmakers have not had the time nor the inclination to change these antiquated laws. But commercial surrogacy, which is banned in most parts of the world, does not come under the purview of law in India, which makes it easy for foreigners to come and adopt babies here. The ire of many an Indians. Medical tourism is boon for some, bane for others!

The prime concern of self righteous citizens is this: since homosexuality is illegal, adoption by gay couples should also be banned. Because, they say, such news can shake the very foundation of the family system and leads to its breakdown; it can also have a bad influence on the minds of children. I am appalled. I am not a gay activist. But the question that looms large in my mind is: why are we such hypocrites? We accept enunchs, we have shared knowledge of sex to the world through the Kamasutra, we even have a Goddess married to five brothers at once (there must be more). But we cannot accept real people and their real needs.

What about human rights? Must we decide whether gays can raise babies or not? And what family system are we talking about? Why are the traditional joint family system disappearing and why are we seeing more and more nuclear families? Why is incest so rampant in north India? What about the rape of infants reported practically every second day in newspapers? The questions are endless...

Babies nurtured with love can survive anywhere and with anyone. Activists and concerned people should focus their energy on the many malaise in our society instead of debating whether gays are capable of affection, capable of raising babies or on the legality of it all. I am sure Yonatan and Omer's son Evyatar, (literal meaning "Father is Great"), will bloom under their parentage because he is a product of their love. And for those who chee chee gays, it's time for a re-think on disliking people just because they are gays. I would give prefer to keep a safe distance from such mentalities. Remember, your sense of worth as an individual is reflected in your acceptance of people as they are...

Resonance

2008-11-16T04:35:00.000+10:00

Hello blog.

I have been hibernating for a while, letting time take away every moment. That's life. Sometimes you feel so content that complacency sets in. You are content with living the routine. And then one day you realise you want to break the routine because the routine begins to stifle. You begin to write. You think what to write... coherence or incoherence, "The moving finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it." Hmmm... Omar Khayyam.

My life has changed. Lozza always said it will. He is right. I have just one problem, and that is coping with questions from all and sundry, especially my ex-colleagues. "Where are you? Are you in Delhi? Oh, We thought you left the country." Some think I fibbed about leaving the country because I wanted to leave the workplace. Some are still speculating why I am hanging around. Amusing. I don't care but I cant't help penning this down. Besides, you can't go on explaining to the world all the personal decisions that make you change plans at the nth moment.

The past three months have been good. The happiness of having someone around you always, the comfort of knowing you are cared for always, the sense of stability... But all good things in life, I won't say do not last, I will say has a break. So, with me. And in this break you are not overwhelmingly saddened by the absence of love, of sharing, laughing, crying, fighting on an everyday basis because you have a tomorrow that awaits you. A tomorrow to experience more things. A happier tomorrow.

Life is filled with all kinds of memories. Some short, some bitter, some sad, some happy, some hazy. But the memories you make with the one you love surpasses all things else. When you suffer a heartbreak, life loses its colour. Nothing feels right. You see a long life ahead of you and wonder if you can even survive the next 24 hours. But nature has a way of making time heal the pain. And with every heartache follows greater happiness.

I have experienced both heartaches and happiness in multitudes. Because I don't live by the rules, I don't live by conventions. It's also the reason why I am always met with the standard advice, "Now this time please think seriously about your life." As if. People assume too much. Their own lives are so screwed but they are ready to nit pick on someone else because that someone does not conform to the rule. Lozza says it is better to be loved than be married. I agree with him. And that is why I have been a non-conformist for most part of my life. But with this attutude I've found my own curtain of space in life. And a man who believes in me and accepts me for what I am. Thankyou Lozza.

An Australian's North-East India Exploits

2008-09-27T21:38:00.000+10:00

By Laurence P Belcher

I have now just returned to the Indian capital of Delhi after a most enjoyable and interesting visit to a part of India that I knew so very little about, two adjoining states of India called Assam and Meghalaya. Assam is situated up the north east part of India, bordering countries such as Nepal, Bangladesh and China. This part of India is so vastly different from the rest of India I have seen so far and does remind me of parts of Australia. The high mountains of the Himalayas, steep hills, deep ravines, forests, waterfalls were some of the most amazing views I have been lucky to view. Truly awe inspiring!Most western tourist seem to know so little about this part of pristine India or they don't consider to include this area in their India itinerary. Perhaps one of the reasons is the travellers' warnings to refrain from visiting these remote areas as some parts of the region have long histories of insurgencies.

I caught a flight from Delhi to Guwahati, a journey of around two hours and spent my time in both Guwahati and Shillong, the capitals of Assam and Meghalaya respectively. I did some day trips to the surrounding districts too.Guwahati is similar in some ways to the rest of India. The hustle bustle of the street markets, varied vehicles plying on the roads and people just everywhere. Not to mention the heaps of rubbish piled everywhere, the occasional cow wandering aimlessly around, beggars... all just typifies the fact that India is "the land of a 1000 smells". Guwahati had many.

The welcome break was the travel to a lovely place called Shillong for a few days. I thought to myself this was indeed a "small Oasis in India". I noticed an immediate drop in the temperature, the air was cleaner, the landscape beautiful and the town heaps cleaner than the rest of India. People do have a civic sense here. You don't stumble on the occasional pile of litter that are strewn on the streets as in other parts of the country.

The road to Shillong was a cool three-hour drive from Guwahati. But I must add, the road trip was a bit scary. Having hired a taxi in Guwhati and then being driven around some twisty mountain roads at break neck speeds, passing speeding trucks on blind corners, it was an interesting experience in itself. And it was something I didn't want to risk again. So for the return trip to Guwahati, I boarded a 20-min helicopter flight. So much a better option and my heart was not in my mouth!Shillong appears to be much more a westernised part of India and is a town that was established by the British. It is noted for being the local hub of the regions educational facilities including universities, colleges and schools. Many were started by the churches and missionaries and are still being run today.

The people are not only different in appearance than the rest of India, but I found them to be a lot more friendlier and helpful, and the language is not so much a barrier as English is the most spoken language. This area is comprises people from diverse and many old traditional tribal groups, main ones being the Manipuris & Khasi as well as many others. Most of the traditional populations have more of Asian appearance than Indian. Their customs being so different and diverse, the handicrafts and hand woven shawls are a must to see... I did get a couple of souveniors.

While in Shillong, I took a day trip to Mawlynlong, the cleanest village in Asia. It was a small remote isolated village comprising 81 families and is situated right up near the Bangladesh border. The traditional housing, well kept lawns and gardens, clean roads and biodegradable rubbish bins were a welcome sight. People elsewhere can take a leaf of experience or cleanliness from here.The road journey took me through small towns mountain roads. I was awe struck by the sheer beauty of it all.

Back in Guwahati, my hosts took me to visit a vast sprawling old Tea Garden owned by India's big corporate house the Tatas. The tea estate comprised about 400 ha of tea plants. I got to see and imagine how the British tea barons of yesteryear must have lived, Palatial bungalows opulence, servants, pristine gardens set in such a tranquil environment. The visit to the tea processing factory and getting to see the actual process of the tea leaf being transformed to the finished product was a most interesting experience Although I did missed out on seeing the wild elephants that are abound in the area....We were told that just a day before one of the elephants trampled and killed a woman tea worker.

I have a few more weeks in India before I head off home to Australia but my northeastern experiences have been worth its while. I look forward to visiting the region again!

Little Oasis In Big India

2008-09-22T23:21:00.000+10:00

That's how Darl describes Shillong. And how apt. I spent a good seven days in my hometown last week and three days in muggy Guwahati, my other home to attend my mom's second death anniversary. The time flies. In the process, we also make myriad memories. I was both sad and happy to be home. But Shillong is always such a welcome break from the humdrum of city life, that at the end everything else far outweighs the pain.

After two hours and 15 minutes, Darl and I reached Guwahati. Didn't feel different than Delhi because of the heat. We were received at the airport by my brother, sister-in-law and my little niece Likla aka Kikky. We didnt waste too much time in Guwahati, the gateway to the northeast, as we had to come back after exactly four days to attend the family ceremony at the Ishkon temple there. So last Sunday, we took off on the three-hour drive to Shillong from Guwahati on a taxi, which Darl says must find its place in one of the ten top thrilling rides of the world. Reason: The cabbie was speed high and overtook every truck and other motorists around the hair pin bends and was at his acrobatic best! We laughed a lot but on hindsight, not very amusing.

Barapani looked amazing. Time has not changed this scenic lake, the favourit haunt of college goers, lovers, tourists, et al. Being September, the waters had swollen above its normal height. The air was cool, the pine trees nostalgic. My only grouse along the way was the obnoxious smell of diesel from the many trucks that ply along. And Shillong is losing its space to the numerous vehicles and ever rising influx of people. Sad. Nowhere do we see the lanes and bylanes anymore as everyone is building concrete houses everywhere. Shillong is indeed jostling for space.

But move away from the town and you can still capture pristine nature. Cherrapunji, Dowki, Mawsynram.. it also now boasts of the cleanest village in Asia -- Mawlynnong (more on it later). Cleanliness, of course, is something that comes naturally to the Khasis, the main inhabitants of the place. It is said that the Khasis love to keep their houses, utensils and their heels absolutely clean. Not necessarily in that order! So you find sparkling wooden floors, sparking utensils and women with soft red heels. Darl, who comes from Down Under, seconds it. "It is not India and it is so clean," is what he says. Not to mention the simple, friendly, westernised people who make the place such a livable and lively one.

From pop singers to bikers to nuns to anglo Indian residents, Shillong has such a mix of interesting population. Darl, a bike enthusiast, also met members of the Royal Enfielders' club with whom he exchanged notes on biking expeditions. It was also my first exposure to Shillong's thriving biking community, thanks to Indari my friend and her versatile siblings. And thank God for my friends there too, each visit to Shillong always becomes a memorable one!

Manana Cream

2008-08-21T22:50:00.000+10:00

That was the vested interest behind the trip. To have one or two shots of manana cream and slip into oblivion for a while, not a moment. To absolve onself from all worldy responsibilities, immerse into complete oblivion and enter into a state of nothingness. But that would not happen!

Roadtrip from Delhi to Manali is a nightmare during the monsoons, especially if you go by anything the Himachal Transport Corporation spits out. A Volvo bus turns into semi delux bus without notice, and the route is longer than eternity. Twenty-ood hours, so you do have a sore ass by the time you reach your destination.

But Manali, despite the rains, was a good respite from humid Delhi. Old shanty town caught between tradition and modernity. Going by the number of foreign tourists around the area who have come to experience India in all its hue, you do realise why the place is a favourite with many.

Old Manali is the place to be in -- just above new Manali which is infested with domestic tourists and honey mooners with their trappings of gold and bangles and colourful wear and mix of seedy hotels. Old Manali has huts, cottages and guest houses to suit the budget traveller or a millionaire. And plenty of international food and cafes that you do forget your mundane dal, chawal and roti -- and all so cheap! One must have is the famed trout fish that on a lucky day you do get to gorge on one big trout -- all for Rs 100.

There are bikes, cycles on hire to see the picturesque hills, waterfalls, old temples. But nothing like trekking. You pass by quaint old houses as you walk up the hills, the apple trees grow in abundance that you can actually pluck one and eat along the way! The only disheartening sight is the tonnes of rubbish that flow along the rivers. Environmentalists will have a heart attack looking at pristine nature spoilt by consumerism. The only good thing is plastic bags are no longer in use now and anything you buy comes in paper bags. But I enjoyed the treks, taking the natural course to refresh the mind and heart! An American woman, Ellie, who I made friends with, along the trek became so involed with this natural life in India that she extended her two-month trip to six months. A businesswoman, she said she found solace with nature and life and found a deeper understanding to life.

I don't know the effects of nature. But I do know a break is always good. It makes you think about yourself for a while. The 'me' time or the 'us' time when you are with your companion is reflexology for me... You get away from the heavy moments that weigh you down in life. It's the balm to our stressed souls.

And oh the manana cream was a dampener. I did not get a high!

Faded photos, a blast in Kabul .....

2008-07-10T00:44:00.000+10:00

By Deepika Sahu

I was in high school (in small town Orissa) when Aseema, my eldest sister went to Hyderabad to do her masters in political science. The admissions to JNU was restricted that year due to some student unrest. So she went to Central University, Hyderabad to do her masters. It was a new university... Theirs was the second batch of students. So if it was a new beginning for my sister's batch, it was also a new beginning for the university trying to find a foothold in the high brow world of academics.

In many ways, my sister's going to Hyderabad opened new windows for me. Through her, I experienced a whole new world---- different from the soporific world in which I was growing up. Their campus in the city was called Golden Threshold --- which was named after a poem by Sarojini Naidu, India's nightingale. So, suddenly GT in Nampally Station Road became a reference point in conversations with my sister.

We used to always eagerly wait for her semester break in both winter and summer. She not only brought lots of goodies for us from Hyderabad, she also brought back a suitcase full of stories for us. She was the first one to go to a hostel. So, we all looked forward to listen to her experience, her rendezvous with the exciting outside world, her tryst in a big city. Through her stories, she slowly brought in a whole lot of new faces into our young world. She brought us photographs of her friends ----- Rajyashree, Venkat, Satya, Kamal, Jaba, John, Gayatri, Sabita and regaled us with her stories about them. Suddenly they were not just her friends. They became familiar faces. When we wrote to her, we asked about them though we did not meet them. Then as the months passed, some friendships grew deeper. Outside the comforts of home, some of them became her new family as they studied together, laughed together, ate together and of course fought on some occasions. She told us how they bullied Venkat into doing things they wanted him to do. How he never hurt them but sometimes he didn't talk to them for some days together. But then they were too close to stop talking for a long period. So the fights were buried too soon to start another new chapter in their friendship. Venkat and my sister became close friends. And she used to talk about his fascination for playing table tennis, his helping nature and his humble family and more.

From Hyderabad, my sister moved to Delhi. So also Venkat and some of her other friends like Satya, Gayatri and Sabita. She did her M Phil and moved back to Orissa to take up a job. And then following her footsteps, I moved to Delhi for my studies. And there I met some of her friends who were still in the campus Suddenly they came into life from the pages of album. They were there in front of me in flesh, blood. I could see them laugh, argue and have endless cups of tea in Ganga Dhaba. I no longer saw them through the lens of a camera. But through my own eyes. And I must say almost all of them were really nice to me because I was Aseema's sister. I understood the thread of their friendship, I understood the language of that delicate bond called relationship.

Then as they say life took its own turn and twists. They all got jobs and moved out of the red brick campus of JNU to fight their own battle in that war zone called life. Occasionally during my annual visits to Orissa, my sister and me talked about her old friends over a cup of tea. She talked about Rajyashree getting married to her old boyfriend, she talked about gentle-at-heart Venkat making to the Indian Foreign Service. When she came to Delhi, she went to Gayatri Didi's house for dinner to talk about old friends, new acquaintances, aging teachers, new passions for buying saris.

The rigours of life brought in new challenges. Even as we chased new goals, most of these faces again went back to that album of life called memory. They were there ----- but one did not take out the album from the cupboard everyday to see their faces. But somehow, you always had this secure feeling that they will be there --- safe and sound. Nothing can harm them.... at best they can just gather dust. And then you can wipe off the dust with your soft hand and they will all again smile and look at you with the same tenderness.

But destiny willed it otherwise. On 7th July, I got a call from sister in the night. She's the one who switches off her mobile at 9 in the night (and we have quite a lot of fights on this issue). It was almost 10 O' clock, so I asked her "Hello, what's the breaking news? You are calling up at this hour and your mobile in not switched off." She said, "Oh, you know Venkat died in the Kabul Blast.(He was the diplomat who died in the suicide attack in the Indian embassy in Kabul). Sabita just confirmed the news." Suddenly, words became too meaningless as my mind went back to all those years when she used to tell a hundred stories about Venkat, their close friendship and their carefree years in Hyderabad and Delhi.

And ironically, 7th July is my sister's birthday. Who will bring life to that photograph in the album which has yellowed a bit, torn a bit on the backside but still very much there?