In horse meat country

(A piece I wrote on Brussels, that nobody wanted. boo hoo.)

Past travels in continental Europe and the Far East have proven that it’s not all slim pickings for vegetarians such as myself. Paris has its croissants, Rome offers the weary herbivore pasta in arabiatta sauce and enough Udupi restaurants abound in Interlaken for it to qualify as a suburb of any Indian metropolis.

So when the good people at Lonely Planet informed me that the Belgians like nothing more than a spot of horse meat for lunch, I wasn’t unduly worried. If worse came to worse then I would merely waffle my way through our weekend in Brussels.

We arrived close to noon and after we’d checked in to our hotel and jumped up and down on the beds (Why not? I didn't have to make them in the morning) we decided the exertion of sitting out the 2 hour Eurostar journey from London had worked up a considerable appetite. On the advice of Didier, our smiling concierge we headed to rue de Bouchers. This cramped street reminded me of the alleys radiating out of the Piazza San Marco in Venice. Waiters and managers stood under striped awnings, joshing one another good-naturedly in an attempt to lure diners in to their establishments. Mussels, fish and crabs were displayed on beds of ice next to large boards informing us of the day’s special. None hinted at anything even remotely vegetarian. After turning away from a succession of places, I read the glint in the eyes of my carnivorous companions as ‘choose lunch or be lunch’. So we turned in to the next open door and sat down to a somewhat forgettable lunch. I say somewhat because two out of four of us were satisfied. My boiled vegetables and cheese omelette did little for my piqued appetite, though it did arouse my curiosity – since when did an omelette and veg cost over thirty euros?

Lunch had done little for my appetite and so I was understandably overjoyed at the sight of the gluhwein and waffle stalls that dotted de Grote Markt (called Grand Place by the French). Gluhwein translated means ‘glowing’ wine and is similar to what the English call mulled wine. With the chill seeping in to our bodies, the lightly spiced, hot drink was a soothing restorative and put some spirit in to our step.

The Grand Place’s title as one of Europe’s most beautiful town squares is well deserved. Hemmed in by imposingly ornate baroque and Gothic buildings on all sides, in the fading later winter sun, the gilded colonnades and ornate doors of The Town Hall and Guild Houses are a sight to behold.

Housed in the King’s House, The Brussels City Museum flagged itself out with strident red and green pennants. Not wanting to be called philistines and eager for some warmth (the gluhwein was but a temporary remedy) we trudged inside. Small, beautiful to behold and not offering a great deal to see The Brussels City Museum is much like the city it showcases. And with its high vaulted ceilings, worn wooden floors and wide staircases it seemed more a grand home than a museum. The portraits of ruff collared gentleman sporting jewellery (an eighteenth century precursor to bling perhaps), antique maps and a rather puzzling shelf filled with ornamental ceramic cabbages caused my friend to remark that the entire museum would easily fit in to a minor gallery of the V&A.

Though if one does persevere there’s something definitely worth seeing. Housed on the third floor is the dressing room of Belgium’s most famous urinating tyke – the Mannekin Pis (a well chosen name I think). Fashioned as a walk in wardrobe of some sort, the gallery has more clothes on display than even Carrie Bradshaw could imagine. Bemused visitors can look at replicas of the statue attired in everything from an Elvis costume to a Maharaja’s bejewelled angharkan (gifts from visiting heads of states apparently) all provided with appropriate apertures for the young man to relieve himself.

Feeling unsettled by the bizarre exhibition (because that’s exactly what it is), we felt a waffle was just what we needed to restore our balance and headed to a trendy café just outside the Grand Place.

The waffles or gauffres were divine. Crisp and dusted with a smattering of sugar, it seemed impossible that these light as air culinary creations could be high in anything let alone calories. Some advice though to first time waffle eaters, quash desires to try the ones smothered in chocolate and banana slices (called gauffres de Bruxelles) and try them neat (gauffres de Liège) instead.

Our rather ho-hum lunch had left us determined to make a better go of dinner. But after our afternoon tour of his wardrobe we were keen to see Mannekin Pis in person. Tucked away on the corner of Rue de L’Etuve & Stroofstraat, the tiny (in every way possible) statue has been piddling away since 1619. The look on everyone’s face said the same thing: apart from the juvenile hi-jinks of seeing someone pee, exactly why is he so famous? Obligatory photographs taken and voyeuristic needs fulfilled, we ventured in to one of the many kitsch pubs (all named after Mannekin) in the area and sampled some of Belgium’s best brews. Light blonde Leffs and Kuacks (served in equally quirky bulbous glasses) were the perfect precursor to our dinner at Le Cap. Situated on Place de la Vieille Halle aux Blés, Le Cap is a fashionably French Brasserie with a touch of Belgian flavour. While there was no horse meat on the menu, everyone enjoyed some traditional Franco-Belgian fare while I helped myself to some of the best spaghetti I’d ever eaten (not that odd considering I’ve had fabulous aloo subzi in Edinburgh of all places). Dessert was a three tier chocolate mousse for me though I couldn’t help but longingly look at my friend’s choice of warm strawberries with peppercorns and ice cream. I had a bite, and it was a wonderful explosion of cold, hot, spicy and sweet sensations. All this was washed down with some very fine Bulgarian wine and at the end of the evening I would have paid someone to carry me back to the hotel.
*
Brussels seemed slow to wake up to Christmas Eve and the near empty streets reverberated with the bells of The Cathedral of St. Michael and St. Gudula tolling out Joy to the World. Despite our best intentions to walk we hopped on to the first tram we saw trundling our way and sat back as the Museum of Musical Instruments, Palais de Justice, the Palais de la Nation and the Museum of Modern Art overwhelmed the quiet morning scenery with their size and heavy style.

We alighted at a stop just off the Avenue Louise (Brussels’ very own Bond Street) and had a chance to admire the art nouveau balustrades and stained glass windows whose fluid lines, curves and arches were echoed in the Centre Belge de la Bande Dessinée (the very impressive French name of the Comic Strip Centre). Everyone from Tin Tin to Lucky Luke to the Smurfs co-exist in a riot of glorious colour in Victor Horta’s classic art nouveau building. After two hours of fun pretending to be Red Rackham and posing with Snowy, we lunched at the centre’s Brasserie Horta. I quickly forced myself to eat another plate of spaghetti, but had no problems reprising waffles for dessert.

Satiated, we slipped in to Galeries St Hubert, a gorgeous, glass roofed arcade in the center of town lined with cafes and luxury stores selling outrageously priced lace doilies and tapestry foot rests. It has the distinction of being the first shopping arcade in Europe and the refined bustle of last minute Christmas shoppers did feel as though it belonged to a different time. Miles away from the frenzied Sloane Rangers no doubt causing havoc on Oxford Street at that very moment.

There is something distinctly old world and courteous about Brussels. Now that may not seem like much, but it makes for a refreshing change from busy city life as we know it. Head there for a weekend of leisurely walking, shopping and eating. New year resolutions can always wait.

(Ps. Though a travel article of mine should be appearing in the April issue of Marie Claire, India :))

Plunger please

A block seems to have formed. Odd phrases, words and character sketches have congealed in to an unrecognisable mass lodged in some u-bend of the mind, refusing to budge. ‘I thought we were friends’ I plead. ‘Come on, move why don’t you?’ ‘I created you!’ I thunder ‘I can destroy you too’. I can hear them smirk and giggle among themselves.

‘I don’t need you. There are others better than you – you’re a dime a dozen.’

But there are no others.

So I wait, pen in hand.

(I know, there's nothing more boring than someone writing about writer's block. Say that fast 10 times)

World Water Day (a few days late)

Also in the current issue of Newindpress Sunday is this piece for World Water Day.

My abiding memory of the summer of 93 is the acute water shortage in Madras. Though it was not the first (or last) in the city’s history, it certainly was my first brush with water scarcity. I can still remember my initial excitement when the dozen, shiny, plastic water pots arrived at home and how my sister and I fought over who would mark them with the family crest - a bespectacled teddy bear - so as to differentiate them from the dozens of other identical pots that lined the parapet walls of our street. Of course the fascination was short-lived. After a week of having our lives held ransom by the smoke belching water lorries, we had had enough. Aching backs, sore shoulders and the mini turf wars that erupted along our street added to our tedium and we soon joined those praying to the Gods for rain.

Looking back, I realise now how lucky we were. The presence of a retired judge in our lane and the not-so-discreet five rupee notes that residents passed on to the lorry drivers ensured the arrival of the water lorry every other day. But across the developing world, living without water has become a way of life and with World Water Day on March 22, there is no better time to look at how water and the lack of it affects us.

“We forget that the life cycle and water cycle are one,” said Jacques Cousteau. Nothing could be truer. Without food a human being can survive for 40 days, whereas without water the chance of survival is bleak after two to three days. Yet we live in times where over one billion people across the world do not have access to water. While the World Health Organisation recommends a minimum of 20 litres of water per person per day (for bathing, cooking, drinking and washing clothes) in times of crisis, the reality of the situation is very different. In Darfur the quantity of water available per person per day was no more than 7 litres in 2006, a situation familiar to people living on the outskirts of Ulan-Bator, Grozny and rural Afghanistan.

Finding water is often an arduous mission in developing countries, with people walking an average distance of 6 km, carrying loads weighing up to 20 kilos and this task is often shouldered by women and children. Apart from the obvious affects on public health, this trend also adversely shapes socio-economic development (the time spent on this chore means a loss of income from farming and other income-generating activities) and education.

The solution to water scarcity does not end with finding a supply. Contaminated water is a source of disease and contributes to more than one-third of deaths in developing countries. Annually, 1.8 million people die of diarrhoeal diseases of which 88 per cent are attributed to poor water quality, inadequate hygiene and sanitation (WHO 2004). In India, 90 in every 1,000 children die before their fifth birthday from preventable diseases like diarrhoea. Close to 45 per cent of Haiti’s population have no access to drinking water, 40 per cent of the world’s population do not have basic sanitation and a paltry 15 per cent of India’s rural population has access to toilets - the list of apocalyptic facts and figures is a long one. Yet, thankfully, as with all things there is hope.

WaterAid, an international NGO has been in India since 1986 and works in both rural and urban areas to help populations gain access to safe, sustainable and affordable water, sanitation and hygiene education. Working in 10 Indian States, WaterAid hopes to ensure that at least 245,000 people gain access to safe water and at least 200,000 people have improved sanitation every year by 2010. Take their work in the slums of Tiruchirapalli, Tamil Nadu, where over 115,000 people live without clean water and sanitation in overcrowded, filthy conditions. WaterAid joined forces with three local partners and negotiated with the local government to develop sanitation infrastructure in 100 slums. WaterAid’s three-year targets were reached within one year and nearly 15,000 people gained access to latrines. Action Contre La Faim, a charity that ensures food security, water and sanitation in countries afflicted by war and natural disasters, has helped close to 165,000 Sri Lankans by installing water points, latrines and showers in the two years since the South Asian tsunami. These are just two examples of work done in the subcontinent. Across the world, similar success stories are being enacted every day.

So what can we at home do? Though ‘Coping with Water Scarcity’ is the theme for World Water Day 2007, helping conserve water isn’t a bad place to start. From running the washing machine only when there’s a full load to rain water harvesting, every drop of water saved counts. And till the Water Gods start listening to the prayers of those doing without, things could be as simple as turning your tap off.

Sources: ACF UK, WaterAid, The Johannesburg Summit Report 2002, Image copyright of ACF UK /Sri Lanka

Meanwhile...

An edited version of this appears in the Newindpress Sunday.

The 21st of February or Ash Wednesday saw millions of Anglicans across the Sceptered Isle give up something they truly love. The day flags off a period of abstinence known as Lent. For those of you who up till now associated lent purely with the past tense of the word lend (and it’s not lended as a mathematics tutor of mine once insisted), then allow me to educate you. Starting Ash Wednesday, for 40 days and 40 nights people are encouraged to forego a pleasure and focus on self examination, penitence and thoughts of God until Easter. (Now where else could you read up on Theology and grammar in one go?)

So, in keeping with my grand ‘When in Rome’ scheme, I felt it was important that I too give something up. The list of options was endless, but I didn’t want to make a hasty decision and sacrifice chocolate hob nobs or cheesecake (the retro dessert du jour). As Lent is a time of self examination it felt right that I take time to weigh my options carefully.

Now I’ve known friends who have abstained from meat, alcohol and smoking during this time, but I wanted to do something different. (Also I don’t smoke, drink or eat meat. Really ma! God promise.) So I decided I should give up something I really loved. Something that made my toes curl and heart sing. Something like cooking. I mean really, nothing gives me greater pleasure than tearing myself away from reruns of Friends, Richard & Judy (think Vanakkam Tamizhagam but without the tacky sets) and
E!Fashion Police to make dinner. I love cutting butter nut squash, the tight assed or should I say arsed cousin of the red pumpkin (funny how vegetables in this country bear a startling resemblance to some of the locals) in to edible chunks for sambhar. I’d so much rather be chopping a hundred different kinds of vegetable for aviyal than trying on some new shoes. And when compared with my other passions – washing dishes, vacuuming, dusting, ironing – cooking is a clear winner. Looking over the list made me realise how spoilt I was – all these wonderful things just for lil ol’me? Especially when my poor husband has to make do with making the bed and taking out the garbage. Shame on me.

As being self-centred didn’t seem to be in keeping with the spirit of Lent, I decided to take interest in what everyone else was up to (this is not to be confused with nosiness). 23 year old Katie Austin who works for a women’s charity is giving up shopping at supermarkets over Lent (and managed to get in to the papers by doing this. I have reservations as to whether my no-cooking plan will get me very far, but hey it’s worth a shot). The Gujurati Aunty who owns our corner newsstand and the volunteer at the council library both said they were eschewing chocolates – a difficult choice, if like the newsstand aunty you’re surrounded by Mars bars and Twix all day.

In contrast to all this denial is the campaign launched by the Archbishop of Canterbury Dr. Rowan Willams called ‘Love life, Live Lent’ (try saying that fast 10 times). Instead of giving something up the campaign asks people to ‘be generous to themselves, their neighbours and the world.’ (I can do at least one of those. The first to be precise) A book has been published with a list of simple acts of kindness to perform and just to show how tech savvy the church is these day you can even receive one act of kindness every day as a text message on your mobile. God really is every where.

The acts prescribed are indeed simple, though not all will be met with universal approval. For example, my husband didn’t particularly like the ‘hug a stranger’ one, no doubt imagining me wandering along Sloane Square lunging at every Hugh Grant look-a-like in a Burberry trench. So I decided to take up some of the other suggestions that weren’t sure fire ways of finding yourself in Britney-KFed land (plus, I would look awful bald). So I paid for the next 5 strangers’ purchases at the newsstand satisfying the ‘buy something for someone anonymously’ tenet. Had a very long chat with the Italian grandmother who works one of the tills at Tesco (who told me we were practically related since Sonia Gandhi was Prime Minister of India. I didn’t have the heart to correct her) which let me strike off ‘have a conversation with someone from another generation’ from my list (her bad highlights didn’t fool me).And spent some time in silence today (talking to myself was getting a bit boring).

Now I think Lent should be made mandatory in India. Auto drivers could give up fleecing customers and calling motorists ‘savugrakkis’. Soap operas could make all their mother-in-law characters super nice for 40 days and then switch them back to evil, conniving harridans – thereby lulling daughter-in-laws in to a false sense of security and providing enough drama for at least 100 episodes. Pepsi Uma could kindly offer to go off air. And never come back.

I’ve personally decided to opt for a mix of self-denial and Dr. Rowan Williams’ spirit of generosity by hanging up the oven mitts and handing the better half the washing up liquid. It’s true you know, random acts of kindness do make you feel better.

Do you remember how on one New Year’s Eve you and I sat and watched Thillana Mohanambal? Giggling at the histrionics, eyebrow quivering emotions and dazzling, gaudy costumes, yet still moved by the story somehow?

Do you remember how you would wait for me by the stairs near the flagpole every day after school?

Do you remember how I cried every time you left for college? At the end of every summer and winter vacation for five years. My eyes red and cheeks wet, unmindful of the bemused somewhat embarrassed stares of others.

Do you remember how you used to read Stephen King novels and then tell me the stories late at night? How Amma put a sticker of Hanuman on my headboard after you told me the story of Pet Cemetery. It stayed there for a good 10 years.

One day, I will say ‘Do you remember the day your son was born? How I fell asleep early and found out through the message you left on the phone?’

Welcome, nephew. If you’re very good, one day your Aunt Shoefiend will buy you one of these.

Quick docs

Before most of us started writing 55 word stories and micro fiction, she was writing her sometimes funny, sometimes sad and sometimes just plain quirky quick tales. She's also been making short documentaries for some time now (I've been lucky to work with her on a short film commissioned by BBH) and uploading them on to Channel 4's Fourdoc's page. From Plants, shoots and leaves to the very touching Remembering Mother Ammani's films are effective. There's no jazzy unnecessary camera tricks - just simple story telling. Her latest film, The Bookseller, is FourDocs' Film of the Week and the protagonist is a figure familiar to many of us. Ammani is also listed in the Filmmakers of the Week section and gets mention in the Fourdocs Blog.Knowing Ammani as well as I do, she's the last person to write about herself and her achievements, so I thought I would so on her behalf! Do check out her docs and the other films on the site. They are all well worth your time.

She waits for the first of spring’s green buds to appear on the barren, spindly branches. All day she sits by the window, hoping to witness this miracle- tenderness pushing through rough, unyielding bark. She waits unmoving and unmindful. Time, family, and life hover at the edges as she waits. She sits awake through out the night, torch in hand, training the steadily weakening yellow beam on the emaciated macabre limbs. As the early morning skies bathe in the bruised morning light dark circles rim her eyes. Her hair is dull and her skin sallow. Force is used where coaxing and cajolery have failed. She lashes out silently, arms flailing and nails unleashing blood. Finally. A sign of sentience to accompany the ragged rise and fall of her ribcage.
A week goes by. She does not notice the thin tube that feeds her through the veins. The cleansing sponge and laden pan. The buds are yet to appear. A secret corner of her does not want them to. For the longer they take the longer she can believe. The longer she can hold on to the notion that nature is sympathetic to her loss. That it too is barren and dry.
It is the ruddy nurse with the rough touch and unfeeling touch who finds her. Head leaning against the window, eyes wide open, staring at the tiny green pennants that flutter in the early spring breeze.

La Dolce Vita and a bag of oranges

My weekends are precious to me. They’re usually spent slowly cooking lunch, tidying, eating, grocery shopping and then reading the newspaper in bed. All activities are punctuated with long and short naps. Every other week, I stir out of my routine and explore the city I live in. Weekend markets, museums, the theatre, walks in Hyde Park when the weather is nice, (like today – clear skies, sunshine that really warms your face and a soft breeze) nipping in to Patisserie Valerie for coffee and profiteroles.

This weekend shouldn’t have been very different, except the better half is in Calcutta (Kolkata?) on work. So I looked forward to doing things no amount of sambhar sadam would cajole him in to agreeing to. (The Geffreye Museum/Alvar Aalto at the Barbican/Brick Lane)As I sat mulling over these options yesterday morning, I received a call from a good friend inviting me to join her and her husband at an exhibition in Hammersmith. I was promised Italian food, wine, design, clothes – in short everything Italian on a Murano platter.

I was immediately reminded of the ‘ejibitions’ I used to visit with my mother as a child. Invariably held at Valluvar Kotam or Congress Grounds in Madras they were filled with people selling and buying the most wonderfully useless things. Paper Mache letter racks, key fobs with little sandalwood horses attached to them (that lost all fragrance the moment they were paid for ), pens drowned in chamki and glass bangle shards. I would stare at these things with fascination and greed, wanting them all. My eyes would silently plead with my mother as I pointed out mirror work skirts and kalamkari patchwork satchels, for I knew better than to ask aloud. I would always return home, hands laden with brown packages bulging with finds that would be admired and used for a week before they were relegated to a corner (and the next exhibition bounty arrived at home). It had been years since I’d experienced that wonderful feeling (last weeks shoes were a pleasure of an entirely different kind) and so I agreed to my friend’s suggestion, filing away my plans for another weekend.

We arrived at the venue after what seemed to be a never ending train journey, thanks to staff strikes on the Underground and the capricious nature of the District Line. As I waited in the serpentine cash machine queue, my friend went up to the entrance and came back with the happy news that it would cost us £16 to get inside. Perhaps my face registered a look which was a cross between ‘I’ve just ate lemons/Are you insane?’ (I was under the impression that entry was free) for I was quickly told the amount included food vouchers. Seeing that we were already there and comforted at the thought of espresso and ciabatta, I paid for the ticket. Once my card was swiped, I was informed that food and beverages were not covered by my lowly, peasant ticket. Smile plastered on my face (to prevent the feral scream in my throat from escaping ) I entered the tiny corner of Italy in Kensington Olympia, imaginatively titled La Dolce Vita.

It was disappointing to say the least. As I drifted away from the four stalls hawking leather bags and coats (which suspiciously looked like they’d come from Petticoat Lane Market) and the odd jewellery stand (£15,000 ring anyone? Didn’t think so) I realised that that was all the Italian style I was getting. After admiring some particularly lovely red vintage Alfa Romeo’s (in my opinion the best thing there) I bumped in to a young lady who asked me if I was interested in purchasing a property in Tuscany. ‘We have some lovely vineyards and castles if you’re interested’ she added. I politely said no and walked away, secretly smug that someone thought I looked rich enough to own a castle. Until I realised she was asking everyone who walked by the very same question. Hmph. It was then that I realised that the main purpose of the exhibition was to get rich, middle class Brits to buy holiday homes in Tuscany and Abruzzo. Or get married there. Or take a holiday there. Cheap skates like me who couldn’t afford a £3 million palazzo had to make do with the free olives.

Which was the only thing left to do really. Eat I mean. So we walked from food stall to food stall sampling olive oil, pesto and as many thimble sized shots of wine as legally possible. By the time my mini-gastronomic tour was done, I was exhausted and a little tipsy, so we sat down for a live cooking demonstration by Aldo Zilli. You’d thing they’d have opted for someone a little hotter, but we had to make do with the pint sized, stocky, bald chef. After turning up half and hour late he proceeded to shout at people in the audience who were talking like a stern smock clad school teacher. As a vegetarian, I can’t tell you how useful it was to watch the man make meat balls and shrimp sauce. I’ll be sure to serve it up the next time I invite the Mami’s around for vethalai paaku.

I was relieved that it was time to go home, but sad too. Sad that I hadn’t found one thing I wanted to buy. It was shameful. Me at an exhibition and returning home empty-handed. As we walked towards the entrance a sign caught my eye and I made a beeline for a stall selling blood oranges.



Well settled in to my seat on the train journey home, I looked back on the day. As far as exhibitions go, it wasn’t a patch on my old haunts at the Congress Grounds. Though the hours had passed pleasantly enough, I didn’t once felt the excitement and buzz I used to feel. I hugged my purchase for comfort and realised that perhaps those feelings were part of a time that had passed on. Never to return.

Link love (or writer's block :))

Wonder Women

Do check out Blank Noise Project's Action Hero's blog-a-thon.

My award for best blog name

Baby Vijayanthi and Puppy Manohar

(prize: 2lakh happy thoughts)

Tonight I'll keep a stake and some garlic under my pillow tonight

Because of this.

Update: And this in today's Friday Review.

(Actually, I don't have writer's block, I'm just busy writing so many other things I'm too tired to blog. sorry. please don't go away. all visitors get a hundred happy thoughts free!)

Don't

put frozen Cadbury Creme Eggs in the microwave.

Roses are red, violets are blue

Some people call roses boring. A cliché. Predictable. Unimaginative. Some people prefer calla lilies and rare orchids, exotic birds of paradise and carnations (once relegated to the back of the class with roses, but now enjoying a revival). Some people prefer their petunias in plastic. Some people should have their heads examined.

Me, I like my roses – thorns and all. Whether tightly closed virginal buds or brazenly in full bloom, there’s something so perfect about this flower. My attachment to roses goes a long way back, for the first one I ever received was from my father. I was five going on six and he was away travelling. On my birthday my mother came to pick me up from school, and there on the car seat was the largest bouquet of red roses and delicate baby breath I had ever seen. Next to them a giant card from my father. This was before flowers came from industrial hot houses in the Netherlands, a time when blooms still exuded their god given fragrance. Fifteen years later, a man I had just met sent me flowers on my birthday. Red roses and white baby breath. Perhaps it was at that moment I realised he was a keeper.



So last weekend as we tromped down the short narrow lane that is Columbia Road Flower Market, awash with rain and the many hues of proteas, tulips and cherry blossoms I couldn’t help but fall for the giant bundles of roses. The drizzle dampened no ones enthusiasm, as men, women and dogs tramped about in search of a bloom of their own. Stall owners selling bulbs, seeds, flowers and trees shouted out offers and bargains, calling on the men to treat sweethearts and on women to treat themselves. As others went away arms full of gerberas, daffodils and narcissi I carted home forty long stems of old fashioned romance. I sit here looking at my roses as they gently shed their petals, glad they are there to keep me company on this cold day in March. They bring to my home the promise of summer and a reminder of the past.

Postcard

She arrives. Hair in disarray. Sari rumpled. Her eyes glazed with jet lag and back to back in-flight movies scan the room taking in the plumped russet cushions and beige carpets offset by bronze idols, temple bells and a serene Buddha, eyes closed in sleep or contemplation. She approves. Her eyes settle on the postcard. But she keeps up her stream of inconsequential chatter about haughty white air hostesses and the bad food they serve, pretending not to have seen it

All the while she watches her mother, waiting for the sharp intake of breath and narrowing of eyes. The postcard says: ‘See! I’m not a goody two shoes. There’s a subversive streak under this long hair and diamond nose pin you forced on me.’ But nothing is said that day. Or the next. She tries more and more outrageous things. She leaves the pocket Kamasutra out where it can be seen. Walks her through Soho, past the sex shops and peep shows. She leaves her taali hanging on the bathroom mirror. But all this is met with silence.

A month passes. It is time for her to leave. She sees her off at the airport and comes back to the flat. She feels a wave of sadness, wishing she hadn’t done all those things. What had she proved? Nothing.

She leans back in her seat and takes out some magazines from her handbag. Out of the corner of her eye she checks on her neighbour. Fast asleep. It is close to midnight and they are flying over a desert. She opens her Kalki and surreptitiously takes out the postcard and marvels at the man’s bottom; glad her daughter has inherited her good taste.

Chola Bronzes

Oh Lord Shiva
On that day when you looked at me
You enslaved me
In grace entered me
And out of love
melted me

Thiruvachakam Hymn 38

These words of Manikkavachakar, printed in reverse on the lac coloured walls of the Sackler Wing, The Royal Academy of Arts, London greet those who have come to see Chola: Sacred Bronzes of Southern India.

I came to know of the exhibition late last year, on a northbound Jubilee line train home. As it pulled in to Westminster station I briefly looked up from the book I was reading and my gaze settled on an image that was all at once familiar. The curved windows seemed to hardly contain the large muscular thigh, gracefully wrought in bronze. I didn’t even need to bend down and look at the rest of the image. It was Lord Nataraja, engaged in his eternal cosmic dance encircled by a ring of flames.

It is the very same sculpture that stands below the above stanza and is the first in a series of 23 Chola sculptures which have been divided in to three broad categories – Shiva Imagery, Saivite Saints and Vishnu Imagery. The exhibits - all utsavamurtis or festival images, are made using the cire perdue or lost wax technique wherein the sculptor or sthapathi fashions various units of the idol using beeswax and shal tree resin down to the very last detail before dropping them in to cold water to harden them. This model is then covered with layers of coarse clay and baked. When heated, the wax melts and (hence the name of the method) runs out of holes in the plaster. Molten pancha loha (an alloy of 5 metals – zinc, lead, gold, silver and copper) is then poured into the space formerly occupied by the wax.

Utsavamurtis are used on auspicious and festival days when they are taken around the temple courtyard and tank in a procession. The figures are always dressed for the occasion, wrapped in resplendent silks, glittering in jewels and redolent with the fragrance of garlands made of rose, jasmine, marigold and lotus. Devotees are lucky if they can glimpse the statue’s face or a hand raised in benediction. Even when they are in repose, the utsavamurtis are dressed, though not in such a grand manner.

In stark contrast, the statues in the exhibition have been stripped of ceremonial garb. They stand as on the day they were created, but smoother and a little worn after centuries of being anointed with milk and sandalwood.

It is an altogether breathtaking and rare experience. The chance to stand as close and for as long as one likes to these expressions of divinity does not come along frequently. After all, I have spent hours crushed in thronging temple crowds, waiting, anticipating that moment when the procession - all at once chaotic, divine, majestic and haphazard - will turn the corner and come down the path overflowing with the faithful. Torn between the desire to bend ones head in reverence or look up so that the eyes may seek out what lies beneath the royal splendour.

Here one can stand for hours on end and study the sinuous, sensuous curves of these sculptures which are on loan from The Cleveland Museum of Art, The National Museum Delhi, The British Museum and The MOMA, New York among others.

From his matted dreadlocks to the ever so slight upturn of his lips, Shiva is a study in wild abandonment yet one knows that he is fully in control of both his movements and the universe he perpetually creates and destroys. Uma, in the typical thribhanga or three bends pose is all woman, from her ‘mound of venus spread like the hood of a cobra’ to her breasts which the child Saint Sambandar describes below.

Fresh as newborn lotus buds
Lustrous as kongu buds
Honeyed like coconuts
Golden kalashas filled with the nectar of the gods
Are the breasts of the resplendent Uma

The exhibition can be accompanied by an audio guide. Though each room has cards for visitors to read from, explaining the significance of various aspects of the sculptures, the audio guide allows one to keep his/her eyes free for the beauty of the murtis. As the words wash over you there is nothing to distract from what is a visual treat. A mixture of poetry, music, history and mythology, the audio guide is narrated by a number of voices. Though most pronunciations were accurate, some were not – Skanda came out as Kanda in a number of places.

The second room was devoted to Saivite Saints and Durga imagery. Amidst depictions of the Saint Sambandar as a child and Bhadrakali stands a twelfth century statue of Karaikkal Ammaiyar. The story of ‘Mother of Karaikkal’ tells us that she was a beautiful devotee of the Lord, but asked that he relieve her of the burden of flesh so she could watch him dance unfettered by physical shackles. With her bald head, sagging breasts, sharp teeth and bony hunched back, by traditional standards Karaikkal Amaiyyar is not the most beautiful of pieces, but her story and the beatific smile of satisfaction on her face captures the heart and makes her one of the most memorable.

The last room is dedicated to Vishnu imagery. After Shiva’s wild abandon and the adoring Saivite Saints, Vishnu stands proud, tall and regal. The main attraction of this room was a towering depiction of Krishna with his two consorts and Garuda. But my favourite was a slender, playful looking Hanuman – so unlike the serious, muscled depictions of this son of Anjana and a depiction of Kalingamardhana. What is interesting about the latter is that unlike most paintings and pictures I have seen where the serpent King is depicted as a many headed snake, here he is half human half snake and his hands are folded in gratitude.

As I walked out of the hall past Lord Nataraja the words of Appar’s hymn rung true.

If one may see his arched eyebrows
The gentle smile upon his lips
Of kovai red
His matted locks of reddish hue
The milk white ash upon his coral form
If one may but see
The beauty of his lifted foot
Of golden glow
The indeed one would wish
For human birth upon this earth

Chola: Sacred Bronzes of Southern India till 25 February 2007 at The Royal Academy of Arts. For more information please go to http://www.royalacademy.org.uk/

(Image courtesy Royal Academy of Arts)

(This appeared here)

London Diary: Surviving January

I can’t believe I made it. To be honest, I didn’t think I would. Or could. I was sure I would crack, buckle under the pressure and snap under the brunt of other clichés. Yet here I am with a discernible pulse going and my mental health somewhat intact, on the other side of the most depressing day of the year.

The most depressing day of the year started off like any other Monday (surprise, surprise!). I woke up to a dark mid January sky and was greeted by the icy demeanour of our flat. Though most of the night had been spent trying to free the duvet from the clutches of my not-so-better-half, I wasn’t glummer than I usually am at the start of the week. And I couldn’t think of a single reason why I should be. That is until I saw the headlines in the papers.

‘Blue Monday: the most depressing day of the year,’ said The Independent. ‘And now for something completely dreary,’ said The Guardian, as though the temperature plunging well below zero wasn’t dreary enough.

And just how had the media come to such a conclusion? According to research carried out by Cliff Arnall, a part time tutor at the University of Cardiff Monday, January 22nd was the most depressing day of the year. Appalling weather, post Christmas blues, failed New Year resolutions, mounting holiday debts and a lack of motivation all connive to depress people. And before you scoff and pass this off as the machinations of some mad scientist trying to lull us in to a state of depression before taking over the world, Arnall has a formula to prove his theory.

1/8W+(D-d) 3/8xTQ MxNA tells us just why Monday 22 spells such doom for us all. Here:
W: Weather
D: Debt
d: Money due in January pay
T: Time since Christmas
Q: Time lapsed since New Year resolution failed
M: General motivational levels
NA: The need to take action

So post this ground breaking scientific discovery, every English newspaper worth the fish ’n’ chips it wraps was full of advice from GPs, other scientists (no doubt kicking themselves for not having thought of it themselves) and Agony Aunts on how to combat the worst case of the Mondays since well, the previous Monday.

I realised I didn’t satisfy most of the criteria listed in the formula to feel as depressed as the day allowed. Sure I lived in a country plagued by miserable weather eight months of the year and my resolution to ensure that I could make a packet of chocolate hobnobs last for at least 2 days had failed at the word go. But other than that, I didn’t owe Visa enough money to call it debt. The only thing I had celebrated over Christmas was the sales that followed it. And as someone in pursuit of the pure art of writing, I wasn’t so crass as to be concerned with matters of money (a statement the editor of this newspaper can ignore). My rapidly growing disdain for January was something new to me.

After all in January Chennai is pleasantness personified. Cool breezes, the hope that a thalaivar film will release and holidays courtesy Pongal and Republic Day. Mumbai Januaries hold the promise of temperatures that ensure one won’t melt in to the pleather seats of its bumble bee cabs. As an advertising professional, January is a slow month. Award deadlines loom and everyone dreams of holding aloft statues and award parties awash with enough champagne to savour victories or drown losses. After years of looking forward to the month and all it promised, it felt odd to suddenly mourn its coming. Instead of evening strolls along Marina beach I’m waddling about in novelty socks and a quilted robe my Mother says embodies the look ’Merlin meets Confucius’. When your own mother brands you a fashion disaster you know it’s time to weep.

Despite all the scientific mumbo jumbo, I was a bit sceptical of the most depressing day of the year. The euphoria brought on by uninhibited shopping, drinking, eating and partying is bound to wear off sometime, so was the reality of everyday life being confused with depression? After all, if you travel by stretch limo to work every day for a week, going by bus after that may be just a tad difficult. Plus, if January the 22nd was the most depressing day of the year, how are the British going to feel the next time England took on Australia at The Ashes? Or at the next interview Madonna gives in riding breeches talking in her faux British accent?

Not wanting to appear churlish and worried I may be accused of not trying to fit in, I assured myself I was depressed and read the advice being doled out by the newspapers. I was told to eat a healthy breakfast, try yoga, write down things I was grateful for, be disciplined or visit Australia where it was brighter and sunnier (something I don’t need a PhD to tell me, thank you very much). So basically, unless I was a health-nut, new-age, army general doing bhunjangasana in Kurri Kurri there was no way out of this psychological quagmire I found myself in? The only one that brought a smile to my face (and hence worked) was to remember that as it was Blue Monday, I wasn’t the only one feeling low. Misery loves company.

Professionals who have access to an unlimited supply of prescription free Valium and Prozac can no doubt afford to pontificate all they like and ask people to take a holiday to Australia (exactly how that’s possible when people are already up to their cashmere scarf encircled necks in debt is beyond me). I wanted to know what ordinary people who were down in the dumps were doing. So I logged on to www.beatbluemonday.org and looked at the advice of other sufferers. The forums were clogged with people ranging from ‘I’m holidaying in Mustique’ smug prats to ‘I watch The Sound of Music’ crying out for help saddos. So much for connecting with my troubled brothers and sisters.

So at the end of the day I chucked my newspaper in the recycling bin, hoping it would be reincarnated as a far more useful creation (a winning lotto ticket, a 50 percent discount voucher at Prada, round trip tickets to Paris maybe) and went home to the most comforting thing in the world. Sambhar and a Tamizh potboiler (apologies to the not so better half). Who needs Julie Andrews when you have you have Asin? And for those intolerant to sambhar, Asin and Julie Andrews, I suggest a neat whisky. Or three.


(In this Sunday's Newindpress)

He knows all 156

His voice. Sigh.

(Link via Filmiholic.)

spotted

At the Waterstone’s on Oxford Street the Biography and Autobiography section is monopolised with tomes written about (and by) former Big Brother house inmates. Most of them are imaginatively called ‘My life’ ‘My story’ ‘Her life’ ‘Her story’ ‘His life’ and ‘His story’. Makes perfect sense since they are in the (auto) biography section. There was also a book on how to cope with life damaging problems using techniques mastered by celebrities. Well of course if we could all afford law suits, botox, Buddha-con, spa-tox, pet therapy, multi million dollar mansions, designer rags and enough Manolos for everyone in China to slip into we’d be happier. Some of us just have to make do with chocolate covered hob nobs and a Gu pudding. Or three. But my favourite shelf had to be the Poor little rich girls section. Books by luminaries such as Paris Hilton (‘How to be an heiress’), Posh Spice (‘That extra half inch’ though I think she would have been better off writing a book called ‘How to be friends with Tom and Katie without becoming a scientologist’) and Jodie Marsh (‘Keeping it real’ She’s obviously not talking about her breasts).
Sigh. I need one of those hob nobs.

rule of three

Ok, ok. So last year I may have said I’ll never take up a tag or something like that. But with the single hope of resuscitating my blog, I’ve decided to do this one. Shyam, since you tagged me and since I’m obliging how about baking me a cake for the next time we meet? (I haven't spell checked this. So please excuse any errors.) (And I have no idea why I chose this picture)

Three things that scare me:
1. Strange men in bowler hats and three piece suits who address me as ‘sister’ and ask me if I’m a believer. (Avoid the Starbucks outside Victoria station at all costs)
2. Tripping and breaking my teeth
3. The green fuzzy thing that looks like a tennis ball and used to be a chow chow in the back of my fridge. Yesterday, I swear it grinned at me.

Three people who make me laugh:
1. Ian Hislop (actually, Private Eye the magazine he’s editor of)
2. P.G Wodehouse
3. Paul Merton

Three things I love:
1. My shoes
2. My stuffed mouse (a toy, but real in every other sense)
3. My quilt

Three things I hate:
1. Cockroaches
2. The cold
3. Washing up (the dishes, not myself. I have scrupulous personal hygiene standards)

Three things I don’t understand:
1. Bond trading (and this is after my husband explained it to me for half an hour in the tone he usually reserves for goofy dogs)
2. Scottish accents. Have you been to Edinburgh?
3. Some of the ‘art’ installations at the Tate

Three things on my desk (at home):
1. My cell phone
2. A bowl of fruit
3. The Sunday Review from last Sunday currently moonlighting as a mousepad

Three things I’m doing right now:
1. This tag
2. Trying to finish a short story
3. Scratching my back

Three things I want to do before I die:
1. Get published
2. Get published
3. Get published


Three things I can do:
1. Talk. A lot.
2. Proof read menus in restaurants
3. Read maps.

Three things you should listen to:
1. Your mother’s advice.
2. Anything on BBC radio 4.
3. Seu George

Three things you should never listen to:
1. E! News.
2. The voice in your head when you’re four drinks down
3. Those people with tiny stereos who stand on the side of the road claiming non believers will burn in hell.

Three things I’d like to learn:
1. Origami. Then I could make myself paper pets who’d never need to be fed or walked.
2. The lyrics to the Macarena. I already have the moves.
3. How to do a cartwheel.

Three favourite foods:
1. Pizza
2. My mother’s puli kozhambu
3. Avakkai sadam and sutta appalam

Three beverages I drink regularly:
1. Coffee
2. Coffee
3. Coffee

Three books I read as a kid:
1. The entire Miffy the rabbit series
2. Mr. Men books
3. Everything by Roald Dahl

digging

The day after her 9th birthday, her father told her she was going to have a brother or sister soon. She was a big girl now; she had to help Amma he said. She shouldn’t ask to be fed and carried. She would have to share things with the new baby. She nodded in agreement, kissed them goodnight and went to her bedroom. On the bed lay the largesse of her friends and family. That night as her parents and unborn sibling slept in their bedroom she tiptoed downstairs dragging a bin bag bulging with Barbies and red shiny balls in one hand and a plastic spade in the other. She silently opened the door to the garden and got to work.

I wish I lived here

Winter and a bit of a writer's block seems to have set in. Well that's my excuse for not writing anyway. Till things thaw, here's a wonderful series by American cartoonist, Chris Ware that's been appearing in The Independent called Building Stories. Read this too.

Enjoy.

kiss kiss

Today's headlines

Jade and Danielle apologised to Shilpa Madam for among other things calling her Shilpa Poppadom and smirking and laughing at her. Big Biraather porducers deny staging the apology, though Lloyd and Goody were prompted in the diary room about what they thought of their actions.

Carphone Warehouse has pulled out of their sponsorship deal with Big Brother production company Endemol, believed to be a front for the Universal Society of Keralite Togetherness.

Periya Annachi (as the show will be called when it is dubbed and released in Tamil Nadu for the pleasure of Tamizh's who have calmed down over the inflamatory statements of Germaine Greer after she changed her name to Germaine Sokkathangam Greer) has promised to donate the proceeds of tonight's eviction phone vote (an estimated £3million) to the charity Celeb Victims of Big Brother Fallout.

Gordon Brown, serial frowner and Prime Minister in the wings of Great Britain today urged Britons to vote for Shilpa Shetty, claiming that a vote for Shetty was a vote for Britain. The Chancellor obviously does watch Celebrity Big Brother as voting for Shetty would result in her eviction.

Shetty has retracted a statment made earlier that she felt the bullying was racial in nature.

The London Paper, so enthused by Madam Shetty had a double page spread in today's edition where prominent Bollywood stars were compared to various Hollywood leading ladies. Rani Mukherjee was likened to Nicole Kidman, Kajol to Julia Roberts, Kareena Kapoor to Drew Barrymore, Priyanka Chopra to Cameron Diaz, Preity Zinta to Renee Zellweger, Aishwarya Rai to Angeline Jolie and last but not least Shilpa Shetty to Sandra Bullock. Why have these similarities never been apparent before?

Oh and then this.

Unsleep

She lies wrapped in a 200 thread count cotton cocoon. Warm and unwilling to emerge, she turns over to stare out the window. Rain drops cling to the pane like transparent pearls, trembling as the howling wind and police sirens swirl together. Like operatic valkyries they swoop down and carry away the recently deceased silence.

Big Bully?

So are the Terrible Trio (as Jade, Danielle and Jo are being referred to) being racist? Should Channel 4 evict them? Should Big Brother intervene and have a ‘chat’ with them in the eye blinding gold Diary Room?

Having watched a bit of Big Brother this season (more than I will publicly admit to) I will say one thing of the goings on in the house these last few days – it’s disturbing. Would I call it bullying? Is that a preposterous word to use to describe the behaviour of three grown women? Maybe. Maybe not. When three children get together on a school playground and target another child with name calling and whispering, we’d call it bullying wouldn’t we? So far, Shilpa has been called a dog, allegedly been called a Paki (though some say, No no she was just called a cunt. Like that’s any better) and a nightmare.

We can’t expect to get along with everyone. And it’s especially hard when the person on the other side is from a culture you can’t relate to and aren’t making an effort to understand. There are people we like and others we don’t. But when you’re an adult (though I realise it’s quite a stretch to apply that term to Jade) you are expected to know how to deal with the people you don’t like. You do not tell them that they make your skin crawl. So might say they’re all just being honest. Isn’t that better than being two faced and air kissing one minute and sharpening your knife the next? Frankly it isn’t. I’d rather be ignored than be attacked by the likes of Jade Goody.

I can see how Shilpa Shetty might annoy some of the house mates. She tries to be in charge of most things – the kitchen, the shopping etc. But she probably thought to herself, “If I leave things to this lot we’ll all starve to death.”

On the allegations of racism.While they’re definitely being ignorant, stupid and mean, the fact that the person on the receiving end of all this is brown adds a racial undertone to the entire thing. As someone on the news said today ‘If they were making fun of a French girl’s accent they wouldn’t call that racist would they?’

At the end of the day, it's unlikely Channel Four will do much about the whole thing other than make a few cliched 'statements'. They've got exactly what they wanted. After three stars walked out of the show, the whole thing looked like it was going to go belly up. The controversy has given them just what they wanted. Better ratings.

(Note 1:I do think it’s amusing that the girls call Shilpa a fake when the three of them put together have enough surgically enhanced body parts to create a new person.)

(Note 2:Yesterday, Jade repeatedly shrieked that Shilpa was a liar and a fake. Our Shetty replied with a toss of hair 'You're only claim to fame is this show. What does that say?' Ah the joy of television!)

(Note3: This just in from 30in2005.)

it just gets better and better

Those of you who thought Jade Goody couldn't possibly sound sillier obviously missed out on last night's show. Big Brother asked contestants to pose a question they had always wanted to know the answer to. Jade wanted to know about eskimos. In particular, how it was possible 'they weren't icy cubes, y'know coz the wither n'all. And 'ow they tok to one nother. Is like dolphins communicate? Do they go mewmewmew to one nother or sumthink?'

Jack her expressionless lump of a mate asked why men had nipples. When big brother answered the question he sat their slouched in the chair with his trademark expression (ie expressionless) and said 'woz any that in English?'

In Shetty news, things get better and better. As the current object of hate for Jade and hair tweaking freak Danielle, Shilpa has emerged as a real, normal person who knows when to fight for herself and when to let others do the talking and look stupid. Inspite of being called a dog and 'just a cook' by certain po face idiots, she's managed to not stoop to their level and retaliate. There by capturing the hearts of television audiences everywhere. Your former display of stupidity regarding Kannadigas and Hindu Feng Shui is forgiven Shetty. Go forth and toss those auburn locks!
This is what Mama Shetty has to say about how her daughter is being treated. (Link via Ammani, who rightly calls it a gripping human drama of epic proportions!!
)

Retro pick!

I don't know what I love more: the lyrics, the outfit or the accompanying dancer's boots! Enjoy!



(Thanks to s, for the link!)

in today's paper

The latest entry in my London Diary and something that will no doubt leave me friendless.

Wisdom from the house

A-Team wisdom courtesy Dirk Benedict

"The secret to life is saying goodbye."

I wonder what Mr. T would say?

home sweet home

So the one armed lesbian has been kicked out of the house. If you ask me they should have voted out Jade's boyfriend who doesn't seem to be doing much. (Though he did try to control Jade by telling her her Ma would be alright as she had 'invented' Jade. Yes, Jade Goody does appear to be a scientific experiment gone wrong)

But fear not, Shoopa will have someone to fight with. Danielle (famous for having her Miss. Great Britain title revoked when it was discovered she had slept with a judge) whispered to blondie singer Jo that she thought Shilpa was 'controlling' and that she 'din't like 'er'.

Shoolpa was called a nightmare by one armed lesbian Jackie before she left and spent the rest of the evening under a duvet with her sunglasses on. She has also admitted that she found Dirk sexy and went 'ewww' when someone suggested that Jackie was sexually jealous of her. There goes your one armed lesbian vote bank girl. Tsk tsk. Our girl reportedly described herself as India's Angelina Jolie before entering the house. And I'm George Clooney's wife. Desi Jolie complained to Big Brother that it was cruel to not let her wear any make-up. I'm calling Amnesty right now to report this violation of Bollywood actress rights.

Over and out.

I ask, you write 15

She was born in 1940. The second of five children born to Vedaranyam Seshadri and Rajalakshmi ammal. She passed away after a brief illness in November 2006. How will Jagada be remembered?
Sumathi looked around the room. Who were these people? Why had they all come to mourn Amma’s passing? She wasn’t a gregarious person. She didn’t have many friends. She hardly kept in touch with relatives. And yet, dozens of people had turned up to condole her family. There was so much she didn’t know about Amma, Sumathi realised with a twinge of guilt and regret. Her eyes searched the room for the family solicitor. No point in delaying the inevitable.

Srinivasan mama looked around the house spilling over with people. ‘This should all be mine’ he thought savagely. Appa and his silly ‘Jagada should be given the house now that her husband is no more.’

Akhila stared at her sister’s picture on the wall. Rather, she stared at the four thick strands of gold that went round Jagada’s lined neck, gathered with an ornate ruby clasp at one end. Amma had always meant to give her that. She was sure of it. How had it fallen in to her sister’s greedy hands?

Ashok sighed. He was tired. Tired of the half-hearted ‘I’m so sorry’ everyone said. Tired of the priests and their incessant chanting. Tired of his wife’s nagging. Couldn’t the woman wait? How would it look if they went and asked for the will to be read before his brothers and sisters had even broached the subject? He had always been Jagada’s favourite. Of course she would remember him. Wouldn’t she?

Saroja from Dindivanam wondered what had become of her cousins antique brass lamps. Shekhar her nephew hoped they had not thrown away his Mami’s collection of books. Priya wondered how many carats her mother-in-laws diamond earrings were.

*

Lakshmi wiped away another tear. How she would miss Jagada Amma. She had always been so kind to her. Never treated her like a servant. They had coffee together, lunched together and even watched Selvi every evening together. Lakshmi fanned herself with the pleated palm leaf visiri. It had belonged to Jagada Amma. May her soul rest in peace.

in the mad house

At the behest of Witchy, an update on what's happening in the house.

1. Blonde haired (apparent) rock singer Donny (or is it Danny) Tourette has jumped over the wall and escaped the house because he didn't want to serve Jade Goody and her family.

2. Ken Russell, ageing film director and super loud snorer has also left, post fighting with Jade and her wonderfully weird Ma Jackie over cheese and biscuits or some other matter of great importance.

3. Jackie Goody and Shilpa have had words! I was worried that Shilpa would induce herself and millions of television viewers in to a coma with her boringness. But Ms Shetty showed all signs of being alive by asking Jackie to call her by her name and not Princess. Since then, Jackie has been calling Shilpa the following: Shoopa, Shipa, Shulpa, Nss and OI (my favourite!)

4. Jade Goody is horrified her Mother is shooting her mouth off all the time and cried to Big Brother about it. Perhaps she should watch Big Brother Season 2 again.

5. Jade asked Germaine Jackson: a) If the reason Michael kept changing his appearance was because of psychological or mental problems. b) If Michael was bankcrupt and c) if Germaine was proper full black or half.

6. Shilpa has claimed that she never speaks from her head. Only from her heart. Which is good. Poor dear might try the former and realise she hasn't got much up there. She also claims to have never fought with anyone in her life and that it's awful she's come all the way to the UK and done it on national telly. Tsk stk. So hard this fame stuff. She also told other housemates that Kannadiga was a religion like Islam or Christianity and that Hinduism was made up of lots of religions like Kannadiga. And people say television can't be used to educate.

That's about all I can manage for today. Over and out.

Somebody please tell me

what Shilpa Shetty is doing on Celebrity Big Brother?

me, myself and shoes

I have been tagged! And seeing that the New Year is but three days old, why be a curmudgeon and refuse?

So here are five things you didn't know about me:

1. When jaywalking I'm always on the left or right of someone else. That way, should a car/truck/malfunctioning wheelchair come flying out of no where someone else will get run over first and I'll have enough time to escape. (Patent pending)

2. I have to read before going to sleep. Even if I get home at 4:00 am (something that happens less and less as I advance in age) I have to read for at least 10 minutes before I shut my eyes.

3. My first crush was a Canadian boy called D.J. I was six. And very chubby.

4. One our first date, my (now)husband and I went to an Italian restaurant. He had some soup and I ate an entire 12 inch pizza. How he still wanted to get married after that is beyond me.

5. When in doubt, I call my Mother.

So there you have it. Useless information about myself. I tag no one at the risk of incurring the wrath of the tag God. Plus, witchy tagged pretty much everyone I know.

100 words to begin the year

This year she will lose the flab on her thighs, stomach and arms. Ass too. She will drink less and exercise more. She will repeat her affirmations everyday. ‘I love you’. Twenty times. In front of the mirror. (That’s not silly is it?) War & Peace, Ulysses and Tin Drum will actually be read. She will stop lying about her age. And dyeing her hair. She will stop swearing. Unless the situation calls for it. She will be a shiny, brand new person. Unblemished. Like the new calendar that hangs on the kitchen wall. Until the second of January anyway.

Are we there yet?

Finally. We’re here. The end of another year. And like a bunch of avaricious relatives around the death bed of an uncle no one ever spoke of when alive, we all gather as he breathes his last to reminisce and commiserate. For who thinks of a year when it is a breathing, living thing running swiftly from day to week to month? Who cheers for it from the sidelines half way through the race? No, we all ignore it until it begins it's last leg limping towards the finish line.

These last few days of a year are always a confusing time for me. Should I start my healthy living regime now or stuff as many brownies in to my mouth as it will possibly allow ? Should I take my complete inertia to write as natural year end laziness or a premonition of a whole year of blank notebook pages? Should my good intentions kick in now or can I afford to wait for a few more days?

I also hate all the ‘best of’ lists. They only make me feel inadequate – the books I haven’t read, the movies I haven’t seen, the exhibitions I never got tickets for, the plays and musicals I missed and the bands I never heard of. It makes me realise how much I’ve missed out on and wonder exactly what I was doing instead (and if I can’t remember then I was either doing some pretty boring things this year or was very drunk).

Well anyhow, the year is almost done and there’s no changing it. And looking back (come on, did you really think I was going to abstain from my retrospective look at a year spent living under a rock? Don’t worry I won’t go in to any details) there’s little I would change. There have been some fabulous holidays, good movies, great books and one very uncharacteristic job quit.

That’s about all I can manage for now. It’s hard typing when one hand is entirely devoted to stuffing divine pieces of chocolate heaven in to my mouth.

If I don't see you all again, Happy New Year!

8 years on

Once upon a time, she knew exactly where he was if given a day and time. Mondays at 4pm - remedial classes. Thursdays at 7:30pm - adipradakshinam around the shrine of his namesake Subramanian. Sundays at 11:00am - he would be hand fed Molagu Kozhambu by his mother, struggling to keep his eyes open after a soporific oil bath. And every day at 9:00pm he would wait for her near the tank on the terrace. ‘What are you doing now?’ she wondered sighing as she called out her son’s name. A roundel of molagu kozhambu clutched in her lined palm.

(Today's 100)

What's young speak for ageing bat?

Remember those wonderful heady days of being a self-absorbed youth? When you didn’t care about the environment until the cute guy from Greenpeace came to hand out leaflets in your college? When you thought nothing of going to Parry’s Corner on your rickety moped at 2:00 in the afternoon on a Madras Summer’s day just so you could get t-shirts for your departments march drill on sports day? Even though you knew the BBA girls would turn up in shorter than short skirts with perky balloons and body parts and win the trophy. Remember when you cared enough to wax your legs in school, even though the only men on the premises were the near blind pot bellied watchman, the crotchety man in admin and canteen uncle? Remember what it felt like when you could still turn heads on the road?

I’m suffering from the early onset of ageing. I know, I know. It sounds implausible that at 26 I’ve suddenly become a relic from the Pliocene era. But this fossilisation hasn’t happened over night you know. Oh no. I’ve caught myself doing certain things more appropriate for an OAP for a while now.

Every time young girls in derriere grazing mini skirts and hot pants board a bus or train, giggling and texting one another I’m the first one to shake my head in disapproval (140 to Heathrow regular Doris is usually quick to join in, but she’s been in a neck brace for a while now). I’m only concerned for them of course. Frost bitten bums have never been particularly attractive to the opposite (and in some cases same) sex.

My once enviable knowledge of hip music (is hip still a socially acceptable word?) has also plummeted. Kooks were what we used to call crazy people back in the day. And the last time I checked, Arctic Monkeys were what oxygen deprived explorers mistook one another for on first arriving in those cold climes.

I always carry a sweater with me in case it suddenly gets cold. I only get my hair done once every six months. I have started to make my own kitchen cleaning solution (equal parts water and vinegar for those that are interested. Works like a dream). I bake cakes on birthdays and anniversaries. I plan menus for the week ahead, so that when I do grocery shopping I know exactly what I need. I DO GROCERY SHOPPING.

One would think that with all these signs I would have figured out much earlier that I was headed for premature hip replacement surgery. My only excuse is that I have also been blessed with mental faculties of an 80 year old. It takes me a while.

It struck home though when my husband came home last night. He opened a large bag and took out two bottles of Beaujolais and a Chablis.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“New Year gifts for the team from clients”

“What? Wine? No dried fruits like last year?” I whined.

And there you have it ladies and gentleman. Final proof that I should be put in a home with lavender walls and made to share a room with someone called Rose who thinks Thatcher is still Prime Minister. I actually wanted almonds instead of a nice red. I’m an ageing squirrel.

So today morning I said enough is enough! I will recapture my lost years! I will seize the moment! Etc etc. While having an affair with a younger person was ruled out (I might get thrown in jail given the age group I would have to prey on to have a suitably Stella getting groove back moment) I decided I would use the only weapons available to me. My shoes. Why, what did you think I was going to use?

So before I set off to complete a few errands I put on some eye liner and slid in to my red heels (I was also wearing clothes, just in case the above sentence makes it sound like that’s all I had on) and set out in search of my twenties.

*

In case you’re wondering I didn’t find them. They certainly were not at the post office, newsagent or hidden under the sack of basmati rice I bought at Tesco. I did however discover the biting cold. And remember what I said about frostbitten bums not being very attractive? Well frost bitten toes aren’t that hot either.

An intruder

Winter crept in to our home last night. Did I forget to shut a window? Was the front door unlocked? Or did she break in, sliding a thin icy finger through the key hole, turning it this way and that before a tell-tale click let her in? I could hear her wandering about rattling windows and banging doors shut. I was too scared to come out and ask her to leave. Like a squatter she crouches in a corner, trying to be invisible. But the chill in the air and drops of water on the window panes give her away.

Today's 100

Can you hear them too? The ants. They march single file inside my ear. Their army surplus boots going crunchcrunchcrunch. A marauding column of arthropods heading towards my neo cortex. In search of what though? Will they each carry away a tiny crumb of grey matter? In the morning will I not know who I am? As the cold sun trickles in will I realise I can no longer use my arms and legs? Will I lie paralysed in bed as the ants march away with tiny pieces of my life? The can of Flit at arms length but unreachable.

Kalvettu

Soaked in rain and dried by the sun. A buttress to the slender, curved backs of lovers as they sigh against you, leaning away from the world’s prying eyes. A refuge to those that seek to escape the heat, wrapping themselves in the sparse folds of your cool shadow. The faithful walk by whispering, singing and pleading. My hand brushes against your ancient soul. Tracing the chiselled lettering I push my finger in to the tiny canals carved in your body. Vowels and consonants. Su. Na. It.
I wonder what you have seen - mutely witnessing the passage of time.


(Today's 100 words. Inspired by this.)

View

From my table I can see a grey blue sky with no clouds to distinguish it from the grey blue sky across the street. Damn cloning. Slats are missing from the weathered wooden fence that guards the compound. Yesterday, a fat black and white squeezed itself through the gap and meowed at me. Begging to be let inside. I should inform the factotum. We don’t want riff raff in here. Sloping roof tops, television aerials and chimneys that are no longer in use are in profusion. The bush I pluck yellow flowers from and lay at God’s feet is bare.

2 minutes.

Twice a month, seeking lips and probing hands come visiting. Impatient. Greedy. Without grace. Clothes are divested of. Her kaftan removed in one fluid motion that ensures it is never inside out. Else she will struggle when they are done - head tunnelling in sleeve and arms flopping about. Everything happens according to plan. Cursory touches and the inevitable thrust. She shields her eyes as the light comes on. Her legs automatically lift. Coaxing creation. Flabby cranes on a construction sight where nothing is ever built. She studies her worn toe rings. 15 years and she still lives in hope.

(Tooday's 100 words)

a hundred words

In an attempt to get myself to write every day and not capitulate to the call of the duvet and comfort of a book I am going to follow this idea and write exactly 100 words of anything every day.

Today's 100

Her fingers were numb. She couldn’t wait to finish the dishes and watch the DVD. The familiar cadences of her mother tongue would envelope her like a shawl knit with comforting words. She rubbed the SV etched on the surface of a tumbler. “So when you lend sugar to neighbours they’ll know which vessel to return.” Amma had explained.

But that never happened here. There was no milk man, iron man or call of ‘Post!’. No flower seller beseeching her to buy an extra strand of malli. She was alone and cold with nothing but an imaginary shawl for comfort.

Why do I even bother

This Sunday I was at our local Waterstone's browsing through row upon rown of 3 for 2 offers and Richard and Judy Book Club Reads when it occured to me to enquire about a certain book I had recently read and wanted to buy. So I went up to the counter and found myself facing the kind of gel-haired, multi pierced, Nuts reading youth that seem to have taken over the retail industry. I should have known how things were going to turn out and left then. But I didn't.

Me: Do you have The Collected Stories of Colette?

Gel-head: Is that Tony?

Me (feeling a little guilty for having had such mean thoughts about a hearing impaired person) No no COLETTE not Tony

Gel-head (who by now thinks I'm the slow witted one) NO I M-E-A-N-T T-0-N-I C-O-L-E-T-T-E

Me (back to feeling morally superior) No just Colette.

Gel-head: Let me check. How'd you spell that?

Me: C-O-L-E-T-T-E

Gel head: I don't think there's anyone like that

(So what now I'm imagining books by non-existant writers?)

Me: Can you check anyway please?

Gel-head: Whatever

So Gel-head spends about twelve minutes searching for Colette on the database. I'm sure it was hard locating the alphabets on the keyboard what with all that Gel seeping from his hair in to his brain and clogging it.

Gel-head: You sure it's not Toni Colette?

Me (gritting teeth) Positive

Gel-head suddenly gets up and wanders to the blonde girl at the next counter to chat her up and tickle her.

Gel-head (suddenly realising I'm still standing there) Yeah. Sorry. Nothin like that.

Me: Thank you

Gel-head: If you want I'll check for Toni Colette. That's probably who you want anyway innit?

This young man ranks second in my list of useless book shop staff. The first place is occuppied by a dread-locked lady of indeterminate age at W.H Smith, Kings Cross Station who informed me that no such publication entitled The New Yorker existed. May be it is just me.

London Diary

Christmas eve in Oxford Nagar

Home is where the incense burns

The other day I was walking home when the sharp combination of mustard seeds, gingelly oil and tamarind stopped me in my tracks. Veththa kozhambu was bubbling away in someone’s kitchen and I couldn’t help but envy the recipient. There's nothing quite like vengaya veththa kozhambu and sutta appalam to thaw a wintery soul.


Many months ago, Sunil at Balancing Life had written a post on the science of smell and how our noses function. I must admit, I needed to read a few things twice over to understand them but the post made me think about something else – the emotions that a scent can evoke.

There’s something nostalgic about certain smells. The brow furrowing whiff of sour curd always brings back memories of wooden classroom benches, stainless steel lunch dabbas and secret exchanges of curd rice and vadu maanga for chapathi and kurma. Anais-Anais conjures up my mother in pearl encrusted green organza and the memory of being six and watching her in this ethereal oufit is part of the reason why the scent remains a personal favourite. A freshly opened bar of Cinthol always takes me back to the hot summers of my childhood and waiting for the thanni lorry.


Every morning I wake up in a foreign country that perhaps will never be home. But when I open my canister of carefully rationed Leo coffee powder the strong aroma reminds me only of Madras. And if I close my eyes, I am there.

Amma’s home is the smell of rose petals in an urli, bodhi sattva incense, withering parijatham and malli. Ripe mangoes in season and water infused with vetiver roots in summer. Coriander, curry leaves and Sabena. These smells mingle to produce a bouquet that can perhaps never be replicated, and even if it were only two people would want a bottle of it – my sister and myself.

I’ve done my best to recreate the smell of home in my small corner of London. Every trip to Madras sees me return with ridiculous quantities of Auroville incense sticks and Giri Trading’s annual stock of sambrani. I go overboard though, and it’s not uncommon to see my husband red eyed and spluttering as he drinks his morning chai, enveloped in a white gauzy aromatic mist.But I can’t help myself. The scented candles and incense you get in London do not remind me of my home but of Laura Ingall Wilder and her little house on the prairie. Sweet Potato Pie, Washed Linen and Spiced Cranberry say Thanksgiving not Thai Poosam.

A few weeks ago I was at The Pier – a store with an impressive range of some very bizarre candles. Coastal Winds and Tamarind Raspberry were just two of what seemed to be many questionable combinations. But then as I billed my Ginger tea and green mango pillar candles I realised that perhaps to someone out there these smells were reminiscent of a sweet distant memory of their own.

As I write this, patchouli and the citric smell of orange juice tickle my nose. I realise I am creating a smell unique to my own home and perhaps that is the first step to feeling at home.

At 4:30pm

The cold has frozen the joints of time. Seconds and minutes hobble along like senior citizens at Gala Bingo.

Towels fresh out of the dryer are spread on the sofa. She burrows in to their warmth and cookie dough smell.

Perhaps when she resurfaces it will be Spring. But it is only quarter to five.

on a train bound for london

They sit opposite me. Entwined. Morsels of cheesecake, saliva and love are exchanged.
She notices my stare. And refuses her lover’s next offering.
Twenty years ago it was I who wilted under an ageing dowager’s disapproval. I feel smug as the girl turns crimson. But deep down inside gurgles the sorrow of an ageing dowager.

Better late ...

Ammani's latest project has been going on for a while now and it's great fun. I'm joining in a little late in the day but it's great fun!

Here's my answer to I ask you write 11

At first Ramesh had found Shailu’s indecisiveness endearing. He had thought it was her way of making him feel important. That she valued his opinion. She would call him up in a breathless quandary – “Should I make rotis or stir fry for dinner?” He would hear her frantic call from the changing room at M&S – “Do you think I need extra support?” Four years of “Should we go to Mallorca or Fuerta Ventura?” and tearful “Should we call the Swami’s over for lunch next week?”

Ramesh had decided enough was enough when she landed up at work in near hysterics because the stylist had asked her how she wanted her hair cut.

“Make up your own god damn mind Shailu! You’re an adult for God’s sake!” he’d bellowed that evening.

What a mistake that had been. Now he had to eat rotis and stir fry for dinner. She bought three pairs of shoes instead of one. And invited people he couldn’t stand over for dinner.

The living room walls were the last straw. One week red. The next yellow. And then red again.

Ramesh opened the front door, hoping that she’d finally settled on a colour.

“Hello darling! What have you been up to today?” he murmured as he hugged her close.

The yellow and red candy stripe wallpaper answered his question.

Trafalgar Square in 55 words

The National Gallery. Fountains. Lord Nelson standing tall. The solemnity is reflected in a pearly grey sky spattered with melancholic clouds. Perhaps it is the weight of unshed rain. Birds perch on lamp posts, indulging in avian musical chairs set to the beat of traffic. One sits on Nelson’s hat and immediately her mood lifts.

London Diary - Farm and Fortune

How many tribulations must a soap opera family matriarch face (and resolve with the aplomb of a UN negotiator) before the tears and wailing become tiresome? How many episodes before the conniving local businessman and his machinations for world (or neighbourhood) domination become old? In short — how long can a soap opera hold its viewers interests? A hundred episodes? Five hundred perhaps? A thousand even? On Thursday, November 7, The Archers celebrated its 15,000th edition and gave the term mega-serial a whole new meaning.

When it first aired on BBC Radio in 1950, the show was intended as a tool to pass on agricultural information to farmers in the British Midlands and was produced with input from the Ministry of Agriculture. Set in the fictional village of Ambridge, the show follows the lives of various families (including of course the Archers) and every local scandal worth the twitch of white lace curtains. All peppered with a great deal of talk about farming subsidies and organic vegetables.

So how does a radio show sustain interest for over fifty years? Well apart from subliminal discourses on hybrid seeds The Archers has tackled everything from homosexuality and inter-racial relationships to drug abuse and jam making competitions. Add to that cameo appearances by Dame Judi Dench and designer Zandra Rhodes (why even Princess Margaret dropped in once at the local fashion show) and you have a soap opera that has captivated and divided audiences and critics for over half a century. (Ekta Kapoor please note.)

So would our own serials back home be able to stand such a test of time? Perhaps a better question is, would we want them to? Twenty years from now will we still want to watch Tulsi Virani and her clan grapple with what seems to be the collective misfortunes of the world in their ironically named homestead Shantiniketan? Would we still be interested in the power struggle between a geriatric, wheelchair bound Adi and Abhi from Kolangal? Maybe not. After three hundred episodes or so, it might be fair to say that the average viewer does begin to grow weary of the constant melodrama, tears, plots and sub plots. (Not to mention the impossible task of matching the right Swarovski studded designer bindi to the right vamp). It is here that The Archers has succeeded. Though scandalous love affairs, mysterious deaths and infertility feature in story threads, the show also weaves in mundane everyday stories allowing listeners a reprieve from all the edge-of-the-seat tension a local pig auction can bring with it.

Every day, the faithful tune in as they drive home from work, brew their tea and supervise children's homework. A rather opinionated bunch they are too. This week the debate that raged alongside America's mid-term elections and Madonna’s Malawian offspring was regarding the extra marital peccadilloes of a certain character. Such cornfield canoodling was against her nature irate and loyal fans informed bemused Radio 4 presenters.

My first brush with The Archers was at work. A colleague who I happened to share a cubicle with was a devoted BBC Radio 4 listener. Every morning, he would come in set his bag down, switch on his Mac and head off to make a cup of tea. Once he was settled in his swivel chair, Tetley in hand he would tune in to the station and commence work, occasionally pausing for interesting debates, news updates and of course The Archers. What drew my attention to the show was its cheery signature tune and the delightful broad accents the character's spoke in. The ten thousand plus episodes I had to catch up with though seemed too daunting and I didn't attempt to follow these good farming folk who led far more interesting lives than I (or anyone else I knew for that matter) did.

However the last couple of months have seen me play writer at home and I have discovered nothing helps one forget writer's bloc and conundrums over the appropriate placing of apostrophes like tuning in to The Archers with a cup of tea, feet firmly ensconced in fluffy slippers. (Very British of me if it weren’t for the fact that my chai is always laced heavily with adrak and elaichi.)

As the theme tune faded away at the end of today's episode I couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if DD had treated Vayalum Vazhvum in a similar manner? Moustache twirling landlords, romantic trysts behind hay bales and missing cow herds would have no doubt helped the program withstand the onslaught of satellite television and manipulative mother-in-laws.

All the brouhaha over the landmark episode has died down and the villagers of Ambridge are getting on with life and milking cows with that quintessential British stiff upper lip. Here’s to the next 15,000.


(This appeared in the Magazine section of NewIndPress on Sunday. Link here)

hot chocolate and a good yarn

Today, after nearly a gap of two years I read a book in one sitting. When I was in school and college I would start books on a Saturday afternoon and read non stop until the early hours of Sunday ignoring my mother and her impatient calls to eat or to turn the lights out and go to sleep. I would ignore all her entreaties and threats and read till the last page had been consumed, finally tumbling in to a satisfied sleep giving reprieve to my aching eyes.

My four years in advertising saw me with hardly any time to myself. As a result most of my reading was done on wonderfully rain sodden weekends. We had a large two seater in our living room and I would sink in to it book in hand. Every now and then I would look out the windows at the large Parsee mansion opposite our flat and at the soaked Naagchampa trees in its garden. My husband and I would make our way down the road to Crossword on weekends and argue all the way home over who would read what first. And once we were home we would fight over who got to sprawl out on the two seater and who would make the tea.

When we moved in to our first home in London I remember the first visit to our local council library. After two years in the library-barren desert that Bombay is, it felt like I'd been given a nice tall glass of Perrier. During those six months of cold, early evenings and disappointing job hunting my library membership and the eight books I was allowed to bring home kept me going. I would bring our duvet downstairs make a hot chocolate and settle down on our sofa to read. Not very different from my book reading sessions in Bombay, except that now it was no longer confined to weekends. I would spend hours inert, but for the flick of my finger. No wonder it took me so long to find a job.

When I started working I joined millions of other Londoners and began reading on the commute to work and home. The Underground is a wonderful place to read, be seen reading and see what others are reading. I have groaned with impatience at times when the arrival of my station and a particularly gripping chapter have coincided. I have read on the short walk from station to bus stop and in summer even from bus stop to front door. But one should choose their books for commute with care. After a week with Jung Chang and John Halliday's Mao The Unknown Years I developed a wrist sprain.

Now I am back at home. Winter is upon us once more. The duvet has been aired and much hot chocolate has been bought (nothing like Green & Blacks on a rainy, winter afternoon). I started my book this afternoon on a Metropolitan line train back home from town. I read as I prepared and consumed lunch, coffee, tea, hot chocolate and dinner. It felt wonderful. All I could hear was the rain, the daily foot stomping from the Swedish family upstairs (I like to imagine they're practising for the local leg of Feet of Fire - Sweden searches for the home grown Michael Flatley) and the crisp whip of pages turning. I could lose myself in the book without having to surrender to the distractions of the real world.

My back hurts and my eyes are burning. I’m sure if I listen hard enough I can hear my mother telling me to go to sleep. I think I’ll listen to her this time. Good night.

(I leave book reviewing to far more able bloggers, but I cannot help but recommend Anne Fadiman's Ex Libris - Confessions of a Common Reader. Every book lover will identify with something in it. As I've read it a little voice has been going 'That's so true!' all the while in the back of my head. The book I read today though was Anita Brookner's Booker Winning Hotel Du Lac. For those that enjoy short stories, The Collected Stories of Colette is wonderful.)

Shhh

I have a secret. One that I wish to share with you so that I no longer shoulder its burden alone.

I never use the last few pages of a notebook.

Exhale.
As far back as I can remember I have coveted notebooks. When Aunts and Uncles from distant lands asked what I wanted when they came a-visiting I would always ask for notebooks. When my father travelled abroad on business I didn’t ask for chocolates and toys – I wanted notebooks. My favourite day of the school year was the one on which they handed out our text and exercise books. How I loved the neat tower they made in the corner of my room, some of the pages still stuck together, naked and waiting for the rolls of brown paper sitting on the side to envelope them. Opening pages waiting for the first pillaiyar shuzhi of the calendar year. My handwriting always neat and legible on those first pages, descending in to an unintelligible scrawl as the months progressed.

The one thing every school notebook, what-I-thought-was-teenage-angst ridden diary and doodling pad of mine had in common (apart from the poor penmanship(woman-person-ship?)) was the fact that the final pages were always left blank.

As a child it was (I think) that somewhere half way through the notebook I got bored. The shiny, newness had worn off. Its pristine pages were sullied. And more often than not, something prettier, bigger and much better had caught my eye. While I couldn’t bring myself to discard a half-used book I had no issues in setting aside one with just a few pages left blank. What was the harm? It meant I could move on to my next conquest faster and with a (somewhat) clearer conscience. (Though I did go through a phase where I drew giant, smiling sunflowers on these blank folios. I stopped when I realised I was being unfair – either I filled it with what I thought were my brilliant ideas or with nothing at all. The sunflowers were a cop-out. And a disturbing one at that.)

This secret of mine has gone on unchecked all these years. As a mature (ha!) adult who recycles anything I can get my hands on I realise how wasteful I’ve been. But for the life of me I can’t bring myself to stop. Whether due to force of habit, superstition or the fact that somewhere deep down inside me lurks a grubby handed 7 year old with an eye for nice notebooks I do not know.

Last year I treated myself to a moleskine. I loved the soft black leather binding, the smooth creamy sheets, the first page that said

If found, please return to



Reward


It was gorgeous. I’ll never be able to waste a single page of this one I thought. It’s too elegant. Plus, it cost the equivalent of a nice lunch for one at Busaba. I was quite smug until a few months later I saw another moleskine, its pages covered in little squares, reminiscent of French school notebooks. Ooh la la. My fingers itched.

Like a woman who fantasises of George Clooney when in bed with her husband, I thought lustfully of my French amour as I wrote in my faithful moleskine that evening. I plotted and schemed. Perhaps I could get the new book and use it to maintain my accounts. Perhaps I could ‘forget’ my current moleskine on the train. Or ‘accidentally’ spill cleaning acid on it. What a wicked, low creature I was. But it wasn’t my fault. I had no control over myself. Like Michael J. Fox in Teen Wolf (but with waxed legs and less facial hair) would I need to be locked in a cage too?

And then the solution presented itself to me in a flash of light and harpsichord playing cherubs. I’d just use up the last few pages now. So I inverted my book and began to use my book in reverse. Genius!

A mere twenty pages separated my forward backward scribbling. I hoped that I could find and draw upon a hidden reserve of moral character to help me cross this chlorine-free crossing.

Today if one was to go through any of my books they would find all the pages accounted for. Well, except for a few somewhere in the middle. But please don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.

at the dining table

Her thumb dug into the nubbly exterior releasing a squirt of juice and signature scent. She peeled it carefully so that the skin unwound into one long corkscrewy coil. When she was a child her mother would open each sliver and feed her the juicy, pulpy bits inside by hand. The scent would linger on Ma's fingers for the rest of the day and she would often run up to her, grab hold of her soft hand and inhale deeply.

She smiled and popped a piece in to her mouth whole. There was no one to prise open the white, spider web cage. But at least she would always have the smell.