grace

Her feet plod on, not particularly enjoying the enforced exercise but dutifully following the brain’s instructions. She was early today and the usually coterie of old men and women walking their Golden Retrievers and tube like dachshunds were yet to arrive. She wished she had left at the usual time – she missed them and their smiling, wrinkly faces. They always had something to say to her ‘Lovely day isn’t it?’ ‘My, aren’t you working up a sweat today’; the old man who always pointed at his collie and said ‘Why don’t you take her for a walk? She won’t come though!’ and then burst in to laughter waiting expectantly for her chuckle. There was even the stooped over old woman who always arrived with a full face of makeup and made her way around the park at an excruciatingly slow pace. The woman had stopped her once and asked what she was listening to. She had removed her headphones wiped them down and then slid them over the soft, whispy down covering the woman’s head. She watched the bemused expression on the wizened face as M.S’s cajoling voice filtered through. She had laughed when the old woman shook her head and said ‘I don’t understand.’

None of them were there though. In their place joggers in aggressively shiny track suits rumbled along the track, inhaling and exhaling ‘shoop whoosh shoop whoosh’ to the rhythm of their feet. They made her feel fat and slovenly. It was as though they were thinking to themselves ‘Lazy cow. Why isn’t she running?’ She had offered hesitant smiles at some of them, but they had been ignored. She stepped aside as a group of young girls ran by, terrycloth shorts moulded over their pert derrieres, their legs long and smooth. She thought shamefully of the Amazonian growth that covered her legs. Some young boys were playing basketball, their pale, hairless bodies supple flashes of light across the court. She spotted a jogger in the distance running towards her. Without thinking she launched in to a brisk jog.

‘I’ll run right by you’ she muttered herself ‘like a graceful gazelle’ and composed her features in to what she hoped was haughty disdain.

*

He watched the woman break out in to a manic run, face contorted in agony. He slowed down a little, worried she was one of those unstable types who attacked people without warning. She was all but a few feet away when she suddenly turned left and went scrambling towards the nearest exit. Shame, he thought to himself, picking up his pace, she had been rather attractive.

More images from London Pride...

I was at London Pride...

And nobody hit on me. Hmph!

On the Jubilee line

She is leaning against a scratched plexiglass surface, reading the paper when the train pulls in to Westminster. She grimaces and braces herself for the onslaught of dark suited City types with their lap top bags and single note, bespoke fragrances. She coils in to herself as a tall man comes and stands in front of her presenting his broad back and the pinstriped wool that is stretched over it. His hair is a floppy and the colour of sand. Tousleable. Is that a word? He smells like vanilla. The hairs at the back of her neck prickle and she feels a faint, long forgotten stirring below. It has been a while, a year to be exact. As the train arrives at Waterloo she allows herself to lurch forward with it, her hand reaching out to steady herself on his shoulder, her cheek grazing the wool, her nostrils delicately flaring out and inhaling his essence. She mumbles an apology and tumbles out alone on to the platform.

tagged again

Which book I read first – Kiran Nagarkar’s Ravan and Eddie or Allan Sealy’s The Everest Hotel - I can not remember. Nor can I recall what I thought of the books, other than the fact that Nagarkar’s books seemed full of rude bits (or so it seemed to my puritanical young mind) and Sealy wrote long, beautifully descriptive passages.

Indian authors. So much is said and written about them, so my initial reaction was: what on earth do I have to add to that? Plus, I’m terrible at writing about my reaction to books, cinema and music. The emotions I feel when reading a book or watching a film elude me when I sit down to write about them. But, I have been tagged, and since I have nothing else to blog about, why not? (Please ignore any previous blog posts which may have stated that I will never do another tag)

So here, in no particular order are Indian authors I enjoy reading.

Anita Desai: I first read Fasting and Feasting and was struck by how beautifully Desai captured small town India and some of the small minded people who live there. Since then, I’ve read many of her short stories, ‘Twilight Games’, ‘Diamond Dust’, ‘Private Tuition by Mr.Bose’ – the last a particular favourite: the slyly flirtatious student, Mr. Bose’s increasing embarrassment and fluster and his wife furiously making puris in the kitchen, one eye on the tuition room the entire time. Next on the list: In Custody.

Ambai: It’s a deep regret of mine that I cannot read Ambai’s short stories in tamizh, or rather that if I attempted to would take me the better part of a day to complete a few paragraphs. When I bought ‘In a forest, a deer’ in Madras last year I had heard of Ambai briefly as someone my mother read and didn’t really know what to expect. I was hooked after the first story though – ‘A rat, A sparrow’ – where a woman living in Bombay is both overwhelmed and disgusted by the city, overjoyed to hear the sound of voices speaking in tamizh but disappointed when she meets tamizh people. The story captured so many of my own feelings when I first arrived in Bombay and then London.

Rohinton Mistry A Fine Balance and Family Matters are two books I will always treasure. His writing fills me with horror, evokes tenderness and can make me laugh all in the span of a few pages.

VS Naipaul: Till recently I had only read Sir Vidiya’s non-fiction. And then Falstaff recommended Miguel Street. What a joy the book turned out to be. The stories are all narrated by Boy, a young lad living on impoverished Miguel Street where the likes of Errol, Hat, Mr. Popo and the poet B.Wordsworth lead their bizarre, funny, outrageous, indolent lives. I had to stop reading this book on the train because it made me laugh aloud far too much.

Meanwhile... Is jail hot too Paris?

An edited version of this piece appears here.

In, out and then maybe in again.

No, no that’s not the theme of the next Paris Hilton ‘film’ but the heiress’ on again off again tryst with the slammer which has been getting more attention than Ash-Abhi at Roland Garros (really Abhi we need to talk about you wearing a three piece suit to a tennis match.)

Now, back to Miss. Hilton.

‘I forgot.’

It’s such a wonderful excuse isn’t it? Especially when combined with raised, well shaped eyebrows, wide eyes and for added effect finger tips resting against a perfectly round mouth. It’s even better when used by delinquent celebrities brought before frowning judges. Better but not very believable. Somehow it’s just hard to accept that someone didn’t know or forgot that prostitution/shooting endangered animals/shooting up/driving under influence/driving with a suspended license/wearing a black bra under a white t-shirt is illegal. Even more so when those who claim temporary amnesia have an entire entourage who have been employed to remind them of such things.

Poor Paris Hilton. She obviously didn’t practice her ‘I forgot’ in front of the mirror before she was hauled in to a California court for driving with a suspended license. The heiress was sentenced to 45 days in jail after Judge Michael T. Sauer failed to accept her excuse and claims that her perma-tanned, Persian cat stroking publicist Elliot Mintz told her to go ahead and drive (ok, so all entourages aren’t entirely reliable). Apparently Mother Hilton never used the ‘If your friends tell you to jump off a bridge’ lecture on her daughter. Or the ‘always wear underwear’ lecture for that matter.

Personally I think Paris should have been locked up a long time ago. Now I have nothing against thin, blonde women who drive Bentleys and will one day inherit millions of dollars. But I do have a problem when they decide that shopping, chemical peels and retouching their highlights is getting stale and that it’s time to inflict themselves on society at large. Ever since Paris became the cynosure of the giant, unblinking public eye she has steadily gone on to assault each and every one of our senses. Reality television shows with other rich-(now) thin-sometimes blonde girls, acting (I use the word very loosely of course), writing a handbook on how to be an heiress (I think every mother who bought that book for their pre-teen daughter should be thrown in the slammer with blondie), creating a signature scent, releasing an album which contain the profound lyrics ‘give me a little more room just to prove it to you, what do I gotta do?’, parading about with a number of sweater-vest clad pets including Chihuahuas, ferrets and Nick Carter, trying to get a patent on ‘That’s hot’ and worst of all, going out in public in a leopard printed Alice band and matching sweats. 45 days seems too lenient a sentence if you ask me.

There are those who disagree. The heiress tried tears and apologies, her mother attempted a hissy fit in court and fans took their battle to the internet. A petition was set up by one loyal subject at www.ipetitions.com/petition/PH21781 that beseeched California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger to intervene. The petitioners claimed that Hilton should not serve time as ‘she provides beauty and excitement to our otherwise mundane lives’. My hysterical laughter (apparently echoed at the Governor’s office) was silenced when I saw that tens of thousands of people had added their names to the petition. Compare this to the few hundred people over at the ‘Paris must be jailed’ petition and you’ll understand why we should all despair over the future of this planet.

Paris’ staunch defenders must be overjoyed now that she’s been sent home to serve out the rest of her sentence. Apparently the poor dear was on the very of a mental breakdown which may or may not have been caused by officials forcing her to watch her film The House of Wax on loop. I like how the prison official that made the announcement kept insisting that Paris had been ‘reassigned’ and not ‘released’. I wonder how many other felons get reassigned to multi-million dollar mansions in Beverly Hills that they just happen to own. I have a feeling prison officials had no other choice - the other inmates probably threatened a riot if they didn’t get rid of the person who once said ‘I don’t really think, I just walk’. Who knows, vapidity may be contagious.

Paris will no doubt bounce back from her ordeal like a pair of perky silicone implants. A book about her prison experiences (she and Lord Archer can swap notes), a jail bait chic clothing line, an accessory line in the form of crystal embellished electronic monitoring tags, endorsing memory plus tablets – the opportunities are endless.
Paris, I hope you’ll spend your time in solitary confinement (in prison or in your pool house) wisely, contemplating your comeback. If nothing else, a month spent in the orange boiler suit they’re going to put you in might just wean you off animal prints.

The New York Minute

What exactly is a New York minute? To a baby boomer, it’s a song by those plaid-clad crooners, The Eagles. For the baby boomer’s tween daughter, it’s a movie starring the forever-shrinking Olsen twins, Mary-Kate and Ashley. For most, though, it is the exhilarating, accelerated passage of time that one can only experience in Gotham. Time is a luxury not everyone can afford, so what should one do if a New York minute is all one has in New York?

Read the rest here.

The keeping of secrets

She sits on the couch, hugging the secret to herself. It is not someone else’s, but her own. Unlike other secrets that are corrosive and gnaw at one’s insides, this secret is like a cup of dark rich cocoa that warms the palms of her hands.
She has always believed that secrets should be kept. In fact she has always discouraged others from telling her their secrets, an act that only spurred them on. Making them whisper stories of infidelity, betrayal and greed in to her ears. She began to bloat, turning in to unwieldy repository of other people’s grief and joy, aspirations and shattered dreams. She moved slowly, unsure of herself and unhappy. She stopped answering the phone, feared the office water cooler and no longer went out. And then one day without warning she burst like a dam.
She began stopping strangers on the street and telling them about her boss’s fetish for paper cups. She told her landlord his wife was sleeping with the factotum. Her mother was informed of why her only son would never marry. Everything came pouring out. Everything but the one secret she had always kept. The one about herself.
She wonders what it is like, telling a secret to someone. Wouldn’t that cheapen it? Devalue it somehow? Take away the mystery that made it so delicious. Once you have told someone your secret, it is no longer a secret but a tawdry tale.
So she decides to say it out loud. In her empty living room. She whispers her secret softly and slowly, pausing at all the right places.
When she is done she wishes she hadn’t. The woman in the Ravi Verma print is smiling. Knowingly.

Short and sweet

Stand up and fight for the short story!

Amma look what I won!

The winners of the Penguin Decibel Prize 2007 have been announced (scroll down to the second item).

Can you see a familiar name? (Hint, mine!)

in memorium

The memorial plaque read: "In honour of the 30 lives tragically lost in the fire of 82."
It was 31.
Not 30.
The media had a field day
'More proof of the Council's incompetence'
'Hardly worth the 25 year wait', they jeered.
The Council promised an enquiry.
The sculptor went in to hiding.
The families protested.
As they picketed and shouted they were all thinking the same thing.
'Please don't let them have forgotten my child'

Raise your karandi if....

You've ever felt like this.

Now, where's that take-away menu...

Off Broadway

Yesterday was one of those warm sunny days that Londoner's dream of all winter long only to start whinging about how hot it is after 5 minutes in the sun. A day like yesterday is a day not to be wasted. It is a day that should be spent out and about. Not at home, not at Tesco and not at The British Museum (which, if you ask me is one of the best places to be when as the Brit's charmingly say 'it's pissing'.)




So yesterday was spent at Broadway Market in Bethnal Green. Compared to sprawling, magic mushroom infested Camden Lock and posh Notting Hill, Broadway Market is small and sweet. Situated on a sliver of a road off Regent's Canal the market mainly hawks fresh produce, artisan food (any food that does not come out of a microwaveable plastic dish is now artisan), vintage clothes, eco-friendly skincare products and a smattering of chic, independent stores.








The street was packed with people weaving in and out of the stalls helping themselves to free olive & cheese samples, buying their fruit and veg for the week and trying out vintage sunglasses. This man was doing brisk business:






Women were trying out lovely long maxi dresses over what they were wearing, kids were running about petting other people's dogs, pale skinned girls in barely there dresses sat on the curb sunning themselves, the fragrance of ylang-ylang from an incense stall ('Guaranteed to neutralise negative karma waves') mixed with the familiar smell of oily samosas from the 'Gujurati Rasoi' stand. It felt like a big street party.

What I love about market stalls is how chatty and friendly the owners are. Sure, they have to be if they want to make money but it's still nice to be chatted up by a good looking man of a certain age while you try on a pair of leather sandals (£15 and very comfortable). While some of the stalls are rather focussed on what they sell, others are an eclectic mish mash - like the woman selling everything from vintage buttons and trim, handmade bags, old toy cars (at 40p a piece)and (my favourite) stacks and stacks of old Ladybird books. She sat their knitting away quite happy for kids to come and bang those cars at her feet while their parent's looked at old military style brass buttons.

There are some great indi shops here too. Black Truffle has beautiful shoes and bags while Art Vinyl MixArt&Music currently has an exhibition of record sleeves on. With it's worn wooden floors and threadbare killim rug The Broadway Bookshop seemed to be a (much) smaller version of Daunt's on Marylebone where the books are largely categorised by country. So whether you're looking for a cookbook a travel guide or a good old yarn about Peru it's all there under one section.



What I loved about Broadway Market was the sense of community. Sure I didn't know anyone else there and know one else knew me, but everyone was smiling, saying hello and chatting with one another. People weren't afraid of strangers smiling at their children. I'd like to think the market had something to do with that. Or maybe it was just the weather.

Wanted: French to English Translator

Action Against Hunger needs a French to English translator to work with them on an ad hoc basis. Those interested please mail me at acfcomms@gmail.com

is it just me

or does Amitabh Bachchan look like an extra from the yet to be released film 'Pirates of the Caribbean: Walk the plank thambi' in Jhoom Barabar Jhoom?

warning: doggerel on board

Oh Cutty Sark!
you were such a lark
coasting along the sea

Masts pure white
China in sight
bringing us our daily cuppa tea

But now you lie
unrecognisable to the eye
charred like a Pittsburgh rare steak

I wish I could cry
but that would irritate my eyes
so I’ll just take another coffee break

(Yes, yes you're right. It would be better not to blog when I have nothing to say)

I should be writing but...

This site is addictive. If you're tired of reading about how wrong people can get it (though I can't see how any one could get bored of watching Paris Hilton make a fool of herself) The Sartorialist is a refreshing change.

Why

The Paris Review interview book sits by my side, Margaret Atwood's Negotiating with the Dead is another new addition to the bedside table. I seem to spend more time reading about how other (real) writer's write than actually writing myself. And now this book begs to be bought. It even has pictures!

(Discovered via this blog.)

For rainy days

It seems I have missed the best of Spring. Lovely, sunny weather right up until I arrive from Dallas and then nothing but grey skies, rain and blustery winds. But this kind of weather is only awful when you're sitting inside and staring through a rain pounded window that trembles and groans. If you slip in to your raincoat (nothing with Noddy or Winnie the Pooh on it please) and head out for a walk it really isn't so bad. The tree branches are heavy with freshly minted leaves and rain, the air is wonderfully crisp and so fresh it seems brand new(no mann vaasanai - but one can't have everything) and then you hit shuffle on your I-pod and the strains of this song wash over you. Even Nizhalgal Ravi running in a dodgy red shirt can't take away from the beauty of the song.



P.S What's the heroine's name? She's gorgeous.

meanwhile

This week.

shoes shoes and more shoes

It’s been about three weeks since I arrived in Dallas and I can confidently say I am all shopped out. My wrist has become sprained from credit card flashing and I have some definite triceps and biceps from all that bag lifting. But this isn't about my new fitness routine, it's about the mecca of footwear DSW Shoe Warehouse.

It gladdens my heart to see a retail space the size of Wal Mart that is solely devoted to shoes, stocking everything from Converse to Giuseppe Zanotti. The shoes are arranged according to style, so you don’t waste time trawling through row after row of wedges when you’re looking for platforms (though I would urge you to go for the wedges.)

After almost two hours of shoe browsing and richer by one pair, I decided it was time to turn my attention to shoe felons. Now while a beautiful pair of shoes can be a truly uplifting experience a heinous pair can give one just as much joy.

I present to you the worst of the worst (kindly modelled by yours truly)

I like to call these Kermit the Pimp. Don’t you think this is what the amphibian would make Miss. Piggy wear while walking the streets of Muppet Land? (Though it's highly possble these shoes were made with Kermit rather than for him.)





I have a feeling these shoes are very popular on a commune for arty crafty people too high on dope to notice how ugly these they are.





This pair I call Hooker with a heart of fake diamante studs. (And yes, I am in need of a pedicure.)



Miss. Simpson decided that tormenting us with her reality shows and sister wasn’t bad enough.






Biraather, I bought you a Rakhi but decided to stick it on my shoe instead.





Betsey Johnson, I know you’re crazy and that you like cartwheeling down the runway in pigtails, tutu skirts and pink leggings. But really, leopard print and flowers? My eyes! My eyes!




Even I have no words for these.
Just so the bags didn’t feel left out and to show I’m not prejudiced. (Might go with the crazy Betsey shoes.)

Meanwhile

(An edited version of this appeared here.)

With so many ‘Weddings of the year’ being celebrated (it’s only April and I can already count two headline grabbing nuptials) I thought it would be a good idea to ponder over what it takes to have your shub muhurth splashed about in all the dailies.

For starters, being famous helps. Let’s face it, no one wants to know about Sarala Mami’s grand-daughter’s third cousin getting married unless that cousin happens to be Paris Hilton’s ex-boyfriend’s lovechild with Tina Turner (remember, a Paris Hilton connection always helps and there are plenty of those going around). Now for those who aren’t well endowed in the rich and famous department it is acceptable to use the six degrees of separation trick. Just imagine this headline:


‘Abdul Kalam’s secretary’s sister’s third daughter’s grandson’s best friend’s boss marries Pop Idol loser’


Has a nice ring to it doesn’t it?

So now that you have media interest it’s time to give you and your better half a marketable brand name - think Bennifer, TomKat, Branjelina, Abhiwarya – names you can envisage on coffee mugs, commemorative plaques and pre-nups. Now some names don’t really lend themselves to such co-joining. Take for example Liz Hurley and Arun Nayar (who you’ll be reading about more and more as this article progresses). Perfectly nice names on their own but put them together and you end up with Lizrun (sounds like an expectorant) or Hurnay (reminiscent of the reallocation of various internal organs). In such cases it’s best to change one’s name. After all, haven’t we all felt at some point of time or the other that our names are what are holding us back from greater success?


The next thing one needs to arrange for is a wedding venue. Think international. Think exotic. The chathram at III cross street just won’t cut it I’m afraid. And don’t even think of Italian castles and boring Bali beaches – they’re so passé. If you really want something special then head to a developing country. Somewhere with poor infrastructure and enough orphans for you to adopt and kick-start that rainbow family you’ve always wanted.


Once location, future children and other pesky details have been taken care of it’s time to focus on the most important thing. You. Well actually your clothes. They’re what will really set you apart. Make sure there’s something unique about your outfits and how they’ve been made. Perhaps your choli was embroidered by visually impaired Belgian Nuns. Or maybe your shoes were stitched by super intelligent dolphins off the coast of Australia. Abu and Sandeep just won’t cut it anymore. Once you know what you’re wearing turn your attention to your guests. You don’t think they should be allowed to wear what they like do you? Of course not! Hessian sacks for all your best friends (very eco friendly) or maybe they’d prefer to wear blue boiler suits – utilitarian chic rarely goes out of style. Since it’s your special day you can be as demanding and Bridezilla as you like. And since the big day is being touted as the wedding of the year thanks to that instantly recognisable brand name and distant familial ties to Elvis Prestley (rumoured to be attending the wedding) everyone invited will be willing to put up with even the most humiliating of things (just ask all the British women forced into wearing ghagra cholis and jhatkaing for Liz’s sangeet).


Speaking of those who are coming to the wedding it’s important to get your guest list down right. Screw the best friend you’ve known since nursery and your aunties and cousins – you can always send them a commemorative plaque or mug. Your wedding list has to show the world just how well connected, cool, cultured, cash flushed and contemporary you are. Politicians, business tycoons, writers, dancers and an assortment of models and actors (who of course will be conveniently forgotten when it comes to taking photographs) that you’ve never met before are the people you want to share your special day with. You don’t really need to know any of your wedding guests. You just need their addresses. Or their PR agents’. Have your people call their people. Most people will be too polite to call up and ask who the hell you are or so desperate to squeeze in to the OK! Magazine photo-op they won’t really care that they couldn’t even pick you out of a line up. Worst case scenario is they won’t show up but will feel obliged to send over a gift which would have hopefully come from the wedding registry you signed up with. Why settle for one more crystal Ganesha or ornamental grape bunch when you can get something you actually want? Or something that Wallpaper magazine tells you you really want.


To really prolong your minute of fame, instigate as many wedding day dramas as you can. The more people you piss off the more post wedding press conferences your guests will hold to publicly air their grievances. Then you can host a retaliatory press conference refuting everything they said. Just look at how long Liz Hurley and Papa Nayar have managed to stay in the news. It’s not all that difficult pissing people off. In fact it’s the one thing that all weddings – infamous and otherwise- have in common. Haven’t all our periamma’s complained that they only got one jangiri or that the second helping of sambar never made it their way? Hasn’t every Ramu Mama complained that no one bothered to enquire about his gout?


At the end of the day all weddings have some basic things in common. A bride and groom (or any other permutation and combination that tickles your fancy), irate wedding guests, ugly gifts and endless speculation are what form the foundation of every wedding. Everything else I’ve mentioned is what turns a Vanitha weds Vineet in to an Abhiwarya. (Ash, Abhi if you’re reading this, I’m still waiting for my invitation.)

New York New York

Grand Central's food market was amazing. Walking up and down the aisle my eyes were flitting from one side to the other.


Artisan cheeses, gourmet pickles, cinammon infused oils and these sea urchins.


Seeing double at the MOMA.


Central Park must be beautiful in full bloom, but I quite liked it like this too.


more to follow

I stepped out of the MOMA

And look what I bumped in to...

Falling Water

I love beautifully designed homes. The stacks of design and interior magazines leaning against various walls in our own dwelling is testament to this. There’s nothing I like more than gazing at ingenious storage, Zen gardens in the heart of Hackney and kitchen islands that I’d gladly be marooned on. So on our recent sojourn to Pittsburgh, where the Sherpa and I stayed with very dear friends I was overjoyed that we were going to see Frank Lloyd Wright’s architectural marvel Falling Water. Designed in 1935 for Edgar J. Kaufmann Sr., a wealthy businessman this house in southwestern Pennsylvania was intended as a place for the family to escape to on weekends.

The 50 mile drive southeast of Pittsburgh took us far away from the industrial browns and grays of the city to rural landscapes dotted with farms, open fields, towering grain bins and run down houses. The snow that initially fell with a soft waltz like rhythm soon took on a more aggressive tango-esque stance. After living in London where snowfall is often a one day affair that leaves everything grey and slushy rather than pristine and white I loved the otherwise inclement weather conditions.

We reached Falling Water after two and a half hours on the road close to lunch time. One can only access the house through a guided tour and ours wasn’t scheduled to start for another 45 minutes. So we sat down for a meal at The Falling Water Café and then moseyed off to the gift shop and browsed through overpriced tie pins and wind chimes all inspired by the man’s work.

Our tour guide was a somewhat theatrical woman. I say somewhat because she seemed to be in the process of finding her thespian voice. Throughout the tour she paused at the most inopportune of places, would look at the group with wide eyes and then suddenly burst out with a torrent of information at a distinctly higher pitch. The theatrics were futile for the house is where all the drama lies.
Built partly over a waterfall (hence the name) Wright’s organically designed private residence is modern without being stark and cold. The house is connected in many ways to the land it’s built on from the water falls that run beneath it to the fireplace and hearth made of boulders found on site. The wavy patterned stone floors are waxed giving the impression of rocks protruding from a rippling brook. Cantilevered terraces (some larger than the rooms they adjoin) bring the outside within giving the illusion of great space and flooding the house with natural light and sound.
Not only has this habitat been designed with a great eye for detail (the distance between the natural vertical stains of the white oak cupboards are the same as that between the vertical lines of the grilled terrace doors) but each and every piece of furniture and art that fills the rooms of the house have been chosen carefully. Except for the kitchen (chosen by Mrs. Kauffman), an homage to the plastic and melamine mania of the time nothing else in the house has aged. There is nothing that is gimmicky or faddish, something we can thank Wright for, for he culled most of the furnishings and accessories himself. From the gorgeous Tiffany lamps to the original Picasso’s to the jewel like cushions that scatter the seating areas each piece has been lovingly chosen. There’s a global feel to the house which doesn’t leave one feeling like they’re walking through a museum exhibit entitled ‘Me and my travels through the world. Everything fits beautifully and quietly in to its chosen space and nothing shouts out.
On the hillside above the main house the garage, servants' quarters, and guest bedroom maintain the same look and feel of the main house. I loved the dark, quiet passage to the extension where a Japanese armoire and Diego Riviera painting shared space with a 17th century bust from an Indian temple.
As we left the house to take pictures outside (no photography allowed within) I couldn’t help but wonder how I would have felt, having someone else design and decorate my home. Falling Water is without a doubt beautiful and welcoming. But how much of it felt like home to Mrs. Kauffman? How much of it felt like hers?

Family tree

'You're just like your Athai'

She had heard it all her life. And she had fought the statement and its implications every step of the way. She dropped her drawling Palakkad accent. Curbed her darting serpents tongue. Smiled the moment she felt a frown creep on to her forehead. Cut her long, thick curling hair in to an abominable variant of a bob. Eschewed drip dry nylons for cottons even though they took forever to dry in the perennial rains.

As time passed the similarities were less and less obvious. And one day the comparisons stopped.

She looked at herself in the mirror. The hair was still an abominable bob. Her body was still swathed in block printed cottons. But her Athai's hips. Her thighs. Her breasts. They had somehow managed to slip through her prisonguard vigilance and become firmly entrenched in her body.

'You're just like your Athai' she whispered to herself.

Still on vacation. In Dallas.

The Walmart makes our Tesco look like a newspaper stand. The squirrels are so well fed they startle my sister's dog. Even the not so nice parts of town look nice.

When I first told people I was visiting Dallas they reacted with a facial expression that was part surprise part sneer.

"Why on earth would you want to go there?" they would ask.

A valid question I suppose. Dallas is hardly on Conde Naste's annual list of holiday hotspots.

"I have a sister there and she's just had a baby" I would reply.

On hearing this some would nod as though they understood and others would still look baffled, no doubt thinking 'but who would want to live in Dallas?'

Ah well, there's no pleasing some people. The fact is, here I am in George Bush territory (there's a turnpike of all things named after Bush Senior) and I have to say I'm enjoying every moment of it.

For one thing, I'm with family. Now for some people, this probably sounds like hell. But for me it's bliss. We're one of those weird families that get along and we enjoy one another's company immensely. We're (wait for it) friends. Yes, I'm sure you'll cross the road to avoid catching our cooties should you ever run in to us.

Life is relaxed here in Dallas. Mornings are spent leisurely sipping coffee and munching on toast. Showers are languorous affairs. My sister's dog (or first son as she prefers calling him) is taken for a long walk every morning where he is allowed to smell every tree, lamp post, and dog urine soaked bushel en route. Trust me, it's a long walk. My mother's excellent lunch is wolfed down in a matter of minutes, and then the afternoon is spent in one of two ways: sitting out on the deck or choosing a mall to shop at. The latter is one of Dallas's few past times. The others being strip joints and football. My brother-in-law didn't think it appropriate to take me to the former and the latter was of little interest to me. Late afternoon coffee sessions and dinners in the fading daylight. It has been some time since I holidayed like this. And after the long high way drives in Pittsburgh's frozen Spring(another post - I can almost see the surprised looks of 'Why did you go there?') and the frenetic pace of New York (The MOMA, The Met and too many late nights wiped me out) this gentle way of life is welcome. I feel soothed. Perhaps it's being around family. Perhaps it is the limitless Texan sky. Perhaps it's all the food. I really don't care what it is.

"What, you've never been to Dallas?"

This and that Amrika

Men in Dallas really do wear Cowboy hats and boots... New Yorkers aren't all that rude...April is the wrong time of year to visit Pittsburgh...

Yesterday

'So where does your sister live?'

'Dallas.'

'Oh really! I have an Aunt who lives in Delaware.'

!!!!!!!

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