Pappachan's Videocam

Pappachan came home radiant like the 'Olay model'. He had a video cam in his hand and flashed it proudly at his wife Treasa and kids.It  did not come as a surprise to any of them because there had been heated debates at home with regard to the purchase of this contraption.Treasa was worried about the wasteage of money on a second hand camera when they could buy a decent enough new one. Pappachan had his way with money and ego so he let himself  fall for the camera of Simonachayan who praised its clarity over 4 pegs of chivas regal.Now since Pappachan wanted to be in the same league as Simonachayan and his flock he fixed the deal over booze and this to Treasa was a poor business deal.What upset the kids was the fact that they did not get a video cam the year before on their trip to Muscat where they spent a month watching Cecily aunty and her huge belly anticipating it to burst any moment like a watermelon with a thumbelina baby. They were disappointed with their father who did not purchase this contraption two years back on their vacation to Cyprus and Israel where they could have made the best home videos. And now in this uneventful year he was buying it when none of them felt thrilled. 

Pappachan was oblivious to the plight of his family members.He was jubiliant for his youngest brother Johnichan the fairest baby boy with the best looks 'after him' was tying the knot.And Pappachan dreamt of  shooting the whole affair in his Panasonic videocam in his silk mundu and red velevety shirt. He had even made up his mind on the new hair style he would adorn and a month long facial treatment he would do for the glow people commented he had when he landed India.The kids had vague memories of this uncle.He was the one who gifted them the mango juice in a green carton that read Frooti and a chocolate in Violet wrapper that read cadbury. The uncle had pronounced it weirdly enough for them to follow him then.All these years they never heard their dad speak about his family and if he ever did they found it hard to catch up to his swearing skills.

Treasa was upfront logical in reminding Pappachan rather snapping him out of his reverie that they had no formal invitation to the wedding and this news was just a rumour they heard from a childhood friend of Pappachan who called him for a personal loan."Why would my brother need to invite me formally?",gnarled Pappachan but then he had to know the dates to book the flights he told himself.

The days thereafter were filled with nostalgia. Pappachan narrated his tales with Johnichan where the Big B carried the little one to school, how the little one once wanted to go see a temple wedding and could hardly pronounce 'Ambalalthil Kalyanam' ( wedding in temple) and ended up dragging Pappachan saying 'Ambathi kandanam'. 

As days passed by Pappachan grew impatient expecting the call from India. He checked his phone lines, dreamt of his red shirt and silk mundu and kept practising on his video cam.The bride would be fair for my brother is a hero he kept telling his kids and then narrated other tales and adventures of his childhood with Johnichan.Three months later Babykuttan came from a vacation in India and remarked what a beautiful sister in law Pappachan had.Having seen all his Sister in laws whom to him ranger from ambassador to fiat and maruti 800, he had no idea who the maruti esteem was that Baby referred to. Sensing the surprise Babykuttan blurted that he saw Johnichan and his wife at the church,the previous sunday.

It then dawned to Pappachan. The fight he had at home with his brother Georgekutty who had taken a loan of 1 lakh and never returned and how Johnichan intervened on behalf of Georgekutty. How he promised he would not marry unless he settled the account of 1 lakh." So he did not have the money so he was worried I would mess his wedding", he spoke to Treasa who was sympathetic to his grief." But  he was my baby brother", he continued.And then breaking all restraints Pappachan cried.His kids who had never seen their father cry was dumbfound by this miracle even jealous that their father never loved them so much to cry for them

The videocam lost to the world sat in the corner for the rest of Pappachan's life. He swore never to meet Johnichan and his wife but could not resist when they invited him home with pork fry. And that's how Pappachan was gullible, vulnerable,emotional and human.

Iftar Celebrations- Street food from Frazer Town Bangalore

The Holy month of Ramadan holds great significance in my life perhaps,even more than Christmas or Easter.Having grown up in Kuwait, this was the only festive season I saw in my childhood. Kuwait , post gulf war was quite dull and morose.The country was grappling with issues of safety and post traumatic experiences with war. My dad never let us out anywhere except during the month of Ramadan.Everything in our lives changed during those 40 days. Dad had evening shift so would be home more often, shops would be open after midnight and discount sales enthralled shoppers. But the most exciting part of Ramadan was the Iftar- the snack with which Muslims broke their fast. Street accidents were common during that time when noone bothered traffic signals.Mom often came home lamenting over the number of accident cases she had to deal in the children's ward ( kids falling into biriyani pots, burns and indigestion- the list was endless). There was a frenzy unexplainable in front of every shawarma, arayis, kabab stall and the streets looked gorgeous with the lighting and decorations.I can still smell the mutton fried with shallots in olive oil and herbs, and never have I tasted the same flavour ever since I left Kuwait. Back in India, I never even realised it was Eid until a holiday was declared.There is quite a solemnity and simplicity in the celebration of Eid and Ramadan here in India comapared to the Middle East. So when my hubby told me about the Iftar street stalls I was all excited.

My hubby was more excited than me to explore some street food in Bangalore during Ramadan.We kept stalling it due to some reason or the other every year.So this time when I was in Bangalore we decided to explore the street. A friend of my hubby's suggested Mosque road near Frazer town and I am glad we did go, because I learnt a lot of new recipes and their history. I recommend all my foodie friends to try this place. They have a variety of stuff and we had no issues digesting them so it is quite safe for people who don't experiment street food. Here's some of the delicacies we tried and some others I thought was interesting.

The highlights for us was pathar ka kabab. It's an escallop of beef or mutton marinated and cooked on stone- so the name. Meat often eaten at stalls and restaurants are never well cooked to my taste but this  time I was taken in for a surprise and so,I loved the experience.

Haleem was something we looked forward to as it was something hyped about. But it somehow did not suit our taste. Haleem is a mixture of broken wheat, pulses, meat, curd, and spices cooked for hours to form a porridge.It is supposedly the extravagant treat for those breaking their fast. I think we did not strike the chord.

I loved the chicken stick it was different and a combo of flavours exploded at the tip of my tongue leaving me too stunned to decipher the ingredients. But I think I can figure that out.

The kheema roll was quite filling , too bland to my hubby but fine to my taste. I guess we really were in our foodie trance ( as I would call it modestly when people hog non stop) so I guess we polished it off. Otherwise this dish alone could make a sumptuous meal.

I guess there's something fascinating when people gather randomly and eat together. It's exciting and motivating to foodies to eat with fellow foodies around. The ambience is so conducive for food lovers that you savour each bite even more. I find this experience distinct from the one you have at huge spreads and buffets. Maybe it's also because you burp and belch and fart and start all over again ;).

Some where there on the street you don't bother about your clothes and manners and you feel you belong there- your love for food connects you to those strangers eating their hearts out. And that's what I call a 'foodie orgasm' :)

Mutton Soup

Kheema roll ( Roomali roti coated with egg and stuffed with minced meat)

Chicken Stick

Desserts - Phirni, Rabri, Halwa and more....

 Katti rolls- Schezwan chicken, Chilli chicken, Mutton, Hariyali chicken

Chicken manchurian, Chicken lolipop, Chicken stick, Beef fry

Pathar ka kebab

Kheema roll - in the making

Rasmalai, Gulab Jamun, Rasgulla

Hyderabadi Haleem 

He insisted to be photographed :)

Chicken spring roll, Lemon chicken, Ginger chicken

Kebabs- Malai, Hariyali, Lasooni, Tandoori

Rare moments

There are those rare moments in life when we find ourselves alone and lonely. Being alone is a physical attribute, I prefer being alone when I read and write. Being alone never implies that one is lonely. While being lonely is an attribute of the mind. I can be lonely even when I am with a group of people. Sometimes I like being alone and lonely and sometimes it just happens even when I don’t want it to. There are also those rare moments when my self-esteem crashes like a hard disk unexpected, out of the blue- those rare days I really don’t want to be alone or lonely and yet I do end up that way. And before I can recover, the smithereens of my self respect, I am done. It takes me months to recuperate ,frankly though I can put up a face that ‘’ all is well’’. This happens to many of us we admit it or not is a different thing altogether. These fatal blows always come from people whom you value the most. Technically they should not matter for the pain they cause you but unfortunately we call them “FAMILY” so they have all the rights to kill you every time they think so. I so wish I could apply my postmodern view of family and life onto these individuals when they misjudge me. I check my pocket and mails for the credible details I could furnish to disprove them I am not the same old butter fingered girl who was responsible for every havoc at home. I don’t swear anymore (not always), I am clean, and I manage two homes, live in 3 cities and am considered quite popular in my circle. But then ‘Families’ always have short term memory loss and they don’t tend to move over from where they last saw you ( And that’s always when you were 10 years old and was coming into terms with your identity). So you tend to still be mean, demanding, selfish and self centred. And they somehow are always right. And you can never be right and that’s how god scripted this scene in your life.

So I have learnt that not everyone can be for you when you want them- you like it or not !!!! So if you think you would rather commit suicide discovering this truth, I would say it’s waste of effort, life would go on you die or not ( and even for your family members !!! ). If you decide not to work and take a day off, you lag by a day and days together makes months and a year and I have lost those and my antagonists never realized. And finally when you muster up courage to put things in perspective they turn around and tell you “ You are ranting out of stress and need to think straight”. And then it falls flat your greatest pride which is also the universal myth “ I live for my family and they know me”.

I have spend many moments of my sleepless nights crafting those lines in my thesis’s acknowledgement – that I owe it all to my family. And then I realized very recently had I left it all ( which I did feel like and I was always asked why I chose PhD in the fisrt place), would they have bothered, now that I struggle what is it that they do for me? A call , a mail, a letter, a visit ( none of this actually happens) so is it out of modesty that I craft these lines? Maybe yes many of us do it out of clichéd modesty.

I have decided to write these lines no matter how arrogant they feel-

“I tried, tried and tried alone, therefore I succeeded”

Some journeys are meant to be alone, should be traversed alone for they are yours and if it was left to family every child would end up being the same in life, but since we  struggle and aspire to do something different in life, it’s we ourselves who bring us up to a point.

And yet, many a times we still yearn for that word of appreciation from a loved one. It won’t happen, life is not merciful and so is everyone in this world. After all families too are composed of human beings. Sometimes it hurts, very badly, I wish people realized that. And sometimes I wish I never realized the pain. But these rare moments in which your life flashes in front of you- tells you who you really are and how far you can go tolerating all the crap people tell you and the mess the create out of their and your life.

A friend of mine once told me “No one will understand your pangs in doing this PhD, for you chose something different when you could be out there earning and taking up vacations. But PhD is nothing great it’s just an academic exercise. It’s waking up every day and pushing yourself beyond your limits. Each day you create new limits. And the degree is not for the miracles you did but for the endurance”

All the disappointments and those rare moments of madness and loneliness is just part of pushing oneself beyond the limits. It’s part of the test for endurance. So every day I wake up I ask myself two questions. Is it worth staying away from my hubby? And am I ready to tolerate the crap being asked and thrown at , to push myself even farther?

I do, so I am here.

On the rooftop

Some days I reflect on how misconstrued our notion of our self is. How we spend days reflecting, selecting, vomiting grandiose ideas for ourselves. When I look out of this window from a 4 storeyed library hall, I feel grandiose, I feel delusional, I feel I am god. The cars on the road looks like a race course I designed, and I feel exhilarated, I feel the cars can speed and slow down at a snap of my finger. A swarm of dragon flies look like speck of sand to me and an airplane like a bird. And the reflection of my  physical self  seems larger than all of them, the cars, the plane, the dragon fly and the whole world beneath me.What would cause me to look smaller than all of them, I contemplate? And my dream from last night comes to my mind- A thud and me crashing down from the top of a building. That’s all that would require bringing me back to reality. That would be enough to remind me I am just a bubble waiting to burst and my delusion lasts as long as I am intact. Do I feel grateful for this life I have? And the multitude of possibilities of utilizing it for my ‘self’ and others? Some great star recently said when he needs a dose of humility he travels to ‘US’ J I think he just needs to get onto a rooftop and look down. Sometimes our egos are large than burj al khalifa maybe we need to look down from there once in a while. I think every man ought to do something for the other, share what he has rather accumulate. Emptiness of soul is nothing but a symptom of over accumulation. After all people often say I have it all and I still feel empty, you never hear that from a slum dweller. He still has not got everything. So the simple solution to boredom and emptiness is to give… share…..

And to think of it we end up paying masters and mentors to do this J, learning soft skills, lifeskills and ‘what not skills’ to discover this, while all you had to do was go upto your rooftop. No wonder people got realizations at Himalayas.

I still feel god like from this 4^th floor looking down at those cars and dragon flies…………. J

A journey to Assisi

Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time

Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)

Sometimes reminiscing old journeys tend to be bittersweet, the sweetness haunts and the bitterness lingers. You may not remember the details that you would if you wrote them then, yet they seem so sweet. Such was my trip to Assisi. It happened to be my first ever road trip and remains close to my heart. I joined an old friend of mine 'John' a sweet boy who constantly reminded me of my Indianness through his endearments of me as 'akka' ( big sis) . 3 years ago when I really did meet John, never did I know that, he would be the sole 'soul' for me out in Italy to console, and tolerate my frights and flights in an alien city.

So when we thought of catching up in between my Erasmus project in Padova ( or when I persuaded him to travel with me in my explorations of new cities) he suggested a trip to Assissi. Though this small trip was planned unexpectedly when John's friend Illai ( my first Chinese friend ever) offered to drive us to Assisi ( as he was from Perugia and Assisi is in  the province of Perugia), I was thrilled. We soon had Marina- Illai's friend join us too our journey sort of rolled. We planned to touch Florence where I obviously fell in love with 'David' ( already written earlier) .

I often wonder if I should have had the luxury to explore every city but the fun of rushing from one city to the other skimming through visual landscape is an adventure of different sort.
When one enters Assissi what strikes you first is the serenity in the atmosphere. Ours was no pilgrim trip but maybe my associations with St Francis of Assissi made me feel calm and serene. The saint of poor, animals and nature had captivated my mind as a child. Of all the places in the world I dreamt of visiting, Assissi never made any place in the list, yet I was touched by what this beautiful city had to offer and to some reason it stays etched in my mind as one of my favourite destination.



Perhaps what amused me was how ancient and traditional this city looked. Unlike Florence, Milan or Venice with modern buildings and crowded cities, Assissi was quite traditional with stony huts, old , narrow roads and houses that had a low ceiling. The weather too was sunny and the houses were beautifully adorned with flowers.


The visitors who came here came for a quiet retreat, many were pilgrims and the others wanted time out from the madding crowd. We were a mixed group two of us god believers and the rest agnostics.So for us the trip was a mix of pilgrimage and retreat. We did not spend much time in the church as some of us would have loved to, but the journey was beautiful. Though I don't remember much of it except for what my snaps tell me, I do remember going to the church and feeling peaceful reading the lawn mowed into the three alphabets "PAX" which meant peace.


The church has a thorny bush in a glass jar for display, it is believed that St Francis embraced those thorns when he felt tempted by carnal desires.We also visited the Convent of St Claire's and I remembered the story my mother told me of how Francis and Claire were to be betrothed and St Francis decided to become a servant of the lord and Claire decided she too would give her life to services. Italy and Europe has always fascinated me with struggling actors who dress up for a living and perform on the street. I was fascinated by this actor who bore such a strong resemblance to 'Jesus', We met him on our way back from St Claire's


After all god does reside inside every man :) I don't know if I did contemplate on these thoughts behind my camera, but I love these shots of all those I clicked in Italy. I also fell in love with spinach in Assissi while tasting one of the wraps they prepared at a cafe.John being a vegetarian always tried something new in veg. It is here that I learnt from Illai that lunches and dinners can be fixed by choosing basic ingredients from a supermarket. And this is where I had by first bagel with cheese for 1.5 euro.



And for reasons many as these, I loved my first road trip to Assisi and I look up to many more back here in India though the roads may not be great but the journey could be long enough to enrich me. And I pray they do teach me a lot in the long run. I am not a travel writer, and I think Indians don't travel much, maybe we are lazy and find excuses or wait for the best opportunity to travel to that one dream destination. But I think we should travel more often, meet new people, taste new flavours and learn new cultures.And for those who visit Italy please visit Assisi it's worth it.

Flash fiction - Twice the fun this time

A general feedback we get for our posts is that they are very long. We see this as an expression symbolic of the 'fast-food generation', which needs immediate gratitification. Gone are the days, when we troubled our parents to tell us long stories, enjoyed reading long letters from relatives and friends and when 'Shantaram' was the perfect companion for a train journey. But today all good things seems to be preferred in small packages and reading as a habit has also been  hit by this bug.

As a result we thought of experimenting with something short. Bhujji had already got her feet wet in writing 'flash fiction' and today I too gave it a try. But we did it in our on style. Bhujji wrote the starting paragraph and then we both improvised and came up with our own second paragraphs for the same opening.  For those who enjoy the short things in life, hope you like it. Now the fun for you is to guess who wrote which endings. You could leave a comment!!

First

It was a hot sultry, summer afternoon. Just the kind of day for the job she had in mind. She cleaned her flower vase, carefully pulling out the wilted flowers. He would have hardly noticed them. But she pondered if she should leave the half dead ones. Perfection was important to her, especially today. She decided to leave them for the day. She arranged her records in alphabetical order, but from the last to the first this time. Last time he had arranged it the other way round. She then remembered her disheveled dresser. She arranged her bottles according to their height all facing the west, West for today. The Yardley tin was almost over, but she wanted it to stay. He had promised to buy a new one and then she can do away with this one. She polished her shoes, one piece had a scratch. It was an unpardonable mistake; she wanted it all perfect today. If only she had two pairs of the exact same shoe as him. She tried waxing the shoes but then she lost som nail paint in doing so. When she applied a fresh coat, the other hand looked dull and needed another coat. But coat after coat both the hands did not seem to match. She removed them all and started afresh with a new colour. This time his favourite- Red. The flowers, the records, the dresser, the shoes, the nails - she tried recollecting her list for the day. Tom was chained tight to the ottoman. He could not move far freely but could pull the ottoman out of the front room window if he wished. The clock struck three and she rose from her reverie. She had slept more than usual. She was late by twelve minutes and that too on a day like today.

She should have been out in the garden by now, exactly under the window sill. She rushed to the front door hoping that the ice cream wagon was also late. She opened the door. The ice cream wagon was turning the corner of the street towards her house. She rushed down the stairs and just then the driver honked. Tom dashed to the window and with his jerk pulled the ottoman attached to his leash all the way, down the window sill and instead of her; D’mello got crushed under the weight. And then she remembered her last item on the list. She was to call to D’mello asking him if he could pick up her favourite flowers at twelve instead of three today.

 Second

It was a hot sultry, summer afternoon. Just the kind of day for the job she had in mind. She cleaned her flower vase, carefully pulling out the wilted flowers. He would have hardly noticed them. But she pondered if she should leave the half dead ones. Perfection was important to her, especially today. She decided to leave them for the day. She arranged her records in alphabetical order, but from the last to the first this time. Last time he had arranged it the other way round. She then remembered her disheveled dresser. She arranged her bottles according to their height all facing the west, West for today. The Yardley tin was almost over, but she wanted it to stay. He had promised to buy a new one and then she can do away with this one. She polished her shoes, one piece had a scratch. It was an unpardonable mistake; she wanted it all perfect today. If only she had two pairs of the exact same shoe as him. She tried waxing the shoes but then she lost some nail paint in doing so. When she applied a fresh coat, the other hand looked dull and needed another coat. But coat after coat both the hands did not seem to match. She removed them all and started afresh with a new colour. This time his favourite- Red. The flowers, the records, the dresser, the shoes, the nails - she tried recollecting her list for the day. Tom was chained tight to the ottoman. He could not move far freely but could pull the ottoman out of the front room window if he wished. The clock struck three and she rose from her reverie. She had slept more than usual. She was late by twelve minutes and that too on a day like today.

Tom was his usual vivacious self, barking and wagging his tail relentlessly, looking towards the door. Maybe he heard the faint sound of the opening of the gate. Dogs can do that, she knew it. She got up from the chair, momentarily looked at all corners of the room and walked towards the door. On the way she released Tom and he galloped towards the door. He started barking as though talking to someone on the other side. It should be him. They both could talk, man and his dog. She anticipated the bell would ring before she reached the door. It didn’t. She unlatched the door and opened it. Tom ran out of the house. There was nobody at the door and the main gate was also latched. She looked around. Not even today, she thought. She went back and reclined on the chair. The door was left open for Tom to come back, who would sniff at the gate, all the way back to the front door, then do the same all around the house, and once he is through with the garden, he would come and lie down beside her legs. She would then go and close the door. 

Pettikaran

I have never warmed up to the idea of shopping. I guess I owe it to my dad's dilligent stinginess and my mom's utilitarian shopping skills. Mom shopped for us when we grew out of clothes ( which did happen quite often owing to her great cooking skills). Dad on the contrary refused to believe his kids grew( "Oh they are small, its just above the knee, no my daughters arent old enough to wear a bra"). Mom had strategic plans for shopping. She shopped mostly at home. 

No !!! these are not days when online shopping happened and we lived in the Middle east ( also known as the Ggulfffu by the proud Malayalees). My mom who could never shop without dad's approval found solace in her magical man ' pettikaran' ( the suitcase man). He was the hero of my childhood days. A pot bellied man with a skull cap and a magnificient beard with few greys, always dressed in lucknowi chicken kurtas or embroidered shirts, that's how I remember the 'pettikaran'

You could call him the modern day self fashioned kabuliwala who came home with a world of fashion captured in his huge suitcase. And mind it!!! these were days when parents did not know the difference between tailors and fashion designers, so pettikaran to us was our family fashion designer. He decided more than anyone else what our options were for the year and the bonus was we could select from his large suitcase- a liberty we never had in dad's presence in a shopping mall.

His suitcase never failed to meet my mom's expectations. It had everything from vests and briefs to dresses and night suits, sarees and hair clips, yardley and brut. He was my mother's accomplice in her secret shopping spree. He smuggled stuff we needed and mom treasured the sarees he supplied which she would then gift her family when we went for holidays to India.

I remember vaguely the pronouncement of the 'pettikaran' which was a synergestic sound with the mix of a goat and camel cry combined at a low note. I still dont remember what exactly he announced was it ' kapde', ' samaan', or something like 'eeeehaaaahhjjkk'. But whatever it was , it was the sweetest sound I had  heard and I longed to hear it on and on.

Times have changed, I have the freedom and luxury to shop from malls but my heart does not skip a beat at the sight of any piece of cloth or accessory, I never feel the warmth from any mannequin or sales girl as I did from the pettikaran. I don't know if it's my status of being an adult or the new found freedom, that deprives me of such pleasures.Or is it the realisation of having to decide on clothes a chore I disliked so much and left to mom, that makes me feel empty in these malls today. And as I slouch and drag my feet making the same old irritating noise with my sandals hoping to hear mom scream from the corner -" walk without dragging"- I inhale deeply and close my eyes and I can hear the 'eeeehaaaahhjjkk' somewhere in the distance and I wait for the pettikaran to rescue me from this chore like  I did for Santa Claus.