Compulsive Chatter

I did turn into that person!!

2010-09-04T18:52:00.001+01:00

Early this morning, I checked out of a hotel in Jakarta, where I have spent the last two days (in various meetings about WSPA's proposed anti-rabies vaccination project, to eradicate the dreaded disease from beautiful Bali ... but more about that another time!) and headed for the airport to catch a flight back to Denpasar, Bali.

Having spent a total of six hours over just two days in Jakarta's notorious traffic, I was taking no chances with my flight! I asked the hotel to arrange a taxi two and a half hours before my flight, even though they insisted that it would take no longer than 45 minutes to the airport. (Yesterday it took me two hrs and twenty minutes for a journey that the locals suggested would take "about thirty-forty minutes"!!!)

So, this morning, I settled into the taxi armed with supplies: a bottle of water, a coffee-to-go and a newspaper. As I sat back, sipping my coffee and idly turning pages of the Jakarta Post, I smiled as I remembered a conversation with a college friend, Deepa Pathania...

We were sharing a ride in a packed DTC U-special (a reference only my Delhi-based friends will understand!) and in conversation typical of the real-lives-ahead-of-us mood of the time, we sighed over how we "can't wait till we're past this University bus stage".

At that time, the limit of our aspiration was to be driven, preferably in a black sedan, by a competent and polite chauffeur who would knowledgeably - and in respectful silence - drive us to 'office' while we read the morning paper, blissfully untroubled by banalities like insane traffic and inclement weather. (We had no idea what we'd actually do in that 'office', it was enough that we knew how we'd get there!)

Today, I smiled; yes, I had become that person... and more! Here I was, being driven, for work, in a black air conditioned car - and to the airport! In another country! Imagine what the 19 year old me would've made of that!!

But just as I settled my smug nose in the paper again, I remembered a slightly less flattering association, an observation I'd made when my more recent friend Vinuta and I passed a taxi in Bangalore, with an obviously foreign young woman (ok, I'll say it: a blonde, white woman!) sat alone in the backseat, nose buried in a newspaper.

Then we'd been disparaging; what kind of person comes to another country, then shows no interest in her surroundings, choosing instead to read about things happening far away - and on the previous day, after all! - while real life was around her now!!

Today, I put my paper down guiltily: yes, I had become that person too!

In my defence, though, what I was driving (sorry, being driven!) past in Jakarta wasn't much to look at anyway, especially at that early hour on a Saturday morning - just one empty office building after another, one nearly empty flyover crossing another.

Almost as though to prove the point though, my taxi at the other end - from Denpasar to Ubud - got stopped twice! Once because a passing van grazed the paintwork as it overtook us (leading to a short but angry exchange that ended with both drivers rubbing the scratches on their vehicles as though competing for worst damage, before shaking their heads and getting back on the road again).

The second time, we stopped to allow a procession to go past. I tried to ask the driver what it was all about but his English being limited (but less so than my Bahasa!) I honestly don't know.

This time, though, I did remember to enjoy the view, to ask about it, smile at the passing children, admire the elaborate offerings they carried, and even take a quick photograph... And then felt compelled to blog about it all.

What kind of person does that make me, I wonder?

From the mouths of babes...

2009-12-26T00:34:00.000Z

December 18/31

This has to be the sweetest, funniest version of the traditional carol 'Away in a Manger' - so sweet it is entitled to a blog post all to itself...

Little Ananya, the three-year-old daughter of Chandra and Kripa (Bindu and Raghu's friends, also invited to the beautiful lunch party on Christmas day) had been trained to perform as part of the Christmas play in her school.

Given how confident she was (apparently, even on the big performance day, she had no stage fright whatsoever, and directed her parents quite assertively, "Now you need to clap!") and how well she had learned the routine, she didn't hesitate to do a repeat performance for an audience of five.

And so she sang,

"Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,
Our little cold Jesus, laid down his sweet head
the stars in the night sky, looked down where he lay,
The little cold Jesus asleep on the hay!"

No matter how many times her mother tried to correct her, "Little lord Jesus, Ananya!" for her the issue was closed to discussion... and the logic is clear, don't you see?!

If he was born in a manger, and sleeping on hay - in December, at that! - you've got to agree he would be the little cold Jesus long before he was recognised as the little Lord!!!

Keeping some Christmas traditions!

2009-12-25T23:12:00.000Z

December 17/31

I might not go to church, I might not put up a tree, I might not be running around getting presents (or at least not as many as most people need to get!) and I definitely do not (like the better organised amongst my colleagues) schedule annual leave on a weekday in November in order to get Christmas shopping done when the crowds are a bit manageable... but yes, I have kept to some Christmas traditions this year.

Secret Santa
I thought Secret Santa was a lovely idea - everyone buying presents for people they wouldn't normally feel particularly generous towards... seemed like the right kind of Christmas spirit to me! And based on the gifts I saw exchanged at last year's office party, it is also a good way to make a few good-natured jokes about your colleagues. (A regular pub-goer got a hangover kit, for instance)

But this year, I have to say, I'm not getting the joke... I got given a set of fake eyelashes! Really! Fake lashes? For me? What was the joke? What could they possibly have meant? Ah well, at least I enjoyed buying, wrapping and hiding the present I got for the colleague whose name I drew... I can only hope they liked it too!

I love the Christmas-tide, and yet,
I notice this, each year I live;
I always like the gifts I get,
But how I love the gifts I give!
- Carolyn Wells

Eat, drink and be merry!
Dhruv and I thought we would use the Christmas break to lose some weight - with him not travelling and me not eating out to have something to do on his evenings away, it seemed like we would be able to 'eat sensibly' and actually shed a few kilos. And when friends told us how unrealistic that was, we scoffed and said, "Ah, but Christmas isn't really our festival so we won't have massive feasts."

Famous last words... Thanks to the massive efforts made by Muditha and then again by Bindu, our Christmas has been about pigging out, eating till we were stuffed to the eyebrows and barely able to move. What gorgeous, extravagant meals, both of them! Traditionally elaborate, exquisitely served, and unashamedly indulgent... Without exaggeration, Bindu and Raghu fed me so much they had to bring me home at the end of the party! (OK, so my travel options were limited with public transport shutting down on Christmas, but still, they did have to!)

A time for family
Finally, after days of having to say, "I'm sorry baby, shall I call you when I get back home?", I was able to talk to all three of my nieces today, and saw my nephew on Skype again. (He has started to recognise me, that much was clear from how he smiled when he saw me on Skype but peered at the screen with an inquisitive little frown when he saw Dhruv!)

As for the nieces' Christmas, I think my youngest niece is by far the closest to discovering the truth about Santa... when she opened her presents and discovered that she hadn't got the present she wanted, she sat back quite complacently and said, "My chaachoo can be my Santa. I'll ask him to bring me it." Needless to add, it worked. She will get what she wants, next time he visits!! (By chaachoo she means her indulgent uncle i.e. my husband Dhruv)

All in all, it's been a great Christmas even for the un-Christian me; one that I feel well-justified to end with a Seussism:

And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow,
stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so?
It came without ribbons. It came without tags.
It came without packages, boxes or bags.
And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before.
What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store.
What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?
- Dr. Seuss

Santa outsources... largely to women!

2009-12-24T20:27:00.005Z

December 16/31

It is Christmas Eve and I can't help but wonder - would the Santa myth have carried on all this time if it weren't for all the help 'he' gets from women around the world?

There's my sister for one... for the past week, she has been rushing around with baby Shawn in his stroller, going from shop to shop ticking items off the 'letter to Santa' that Thea wrote, bringing home all the little things that she will then have to creatively hide around the house, in places Thea wouldn't think to look. Then she will stay up till past midnight wrapping and packing and taping and tying... finally putting a note on it that says all the presents are 'From Santa'!

But then, as the saying goes... Christmas is when kids tell Santa what they want, and their parents pay for it. (And I can't resist adding - Global crises are when adults do just what they want... and their children pay for it!)

Dashing through the snow
I had to go in to work today, and everywhere I looked, there were women slipping and sliding on the snowy - no, icy! - streets, lugging big parcels on and off buses, tubes and trains, all definitely stashed with presents, given the profusion of ribbons and bows and twirling streamers poking through! (And the names of popular high street stores on the bags... surely they love Santa too)

One sat down next to me on the bus, so overladen that she couldn't even take the top-of-head-to-lower-back-pack off her back; when I asked if she needed a hand, she just laughed and said, "It would take me so long to get all this off me, I wouldn't have time to pick it up again before we reach my stop!! So nope, I'm just going to rest me down with all of it on me..."

I would've asked her then if I could take her picture for my blog about women helping Santa, but before I could steer the conversation around to that, she had a phone call. Somehow wriggling a phone out of her jacket pocket, she managed to pick up before it stopped trilling. I couldn't help but overhear as she then described to someone how she had stayed up till three am getting everything done... (She then asked 'darling' if he could please just pick up a bag of salad since that was all that was left and actually had to sweetly suggest he could 'get it from that Sainsburys at Clapham Junction on your way home' but no, I will not get sidelined into discussions on sharing work!)

I just hope that 'Santa' remembers to generously thank his lovely helpers - grandmas, mummies, sisters, aunts - when it is time to open all those lovely presents under the trees!

Have a very Merry Christmas!! (or at least, a great holiday)

Last dance - or not?

2009-12-23T15:52:00.000Z

December 15/31

I don't often blog about work, but this time it is something that connects my childhood and my nieces', with an issue at work. Yes, it is a slightly less entertaining one than my usual blogs, but it amazes me how little we think of animals, especially those used in 'entertainment'.

The dancing bears of India
Years ago, when I was a child (yes, I did say yeeeeaaaars ago!) we used to hear the dum-dum-dhoomak, dum-dum-dhoomak of the kalandar, and run down to see a sloth bear, tied to a rope (because he was so 'dangerous' of course) stand up on his hind legs and 'dance' to the beat of a clumsily beat-out song.

What I didn't know then was how painful the dancing was for the bear... as WSPA (the World Society for the Protection of Animals, the organisation that I now work for) puts it:

"Each young bear will suffer the piercing of their nose or palate. A rope is passed through the raw wound. Tugging on it remains an effective means of control throughout the bear’s life.

Years of conditioning allows owners to make adult bears ‘dance’ on command."

Ouch!!!

Nearly over, but not quite

Over the last few years, a few animal welfare organisations (WSPA among them) have been trying to phase out the 'industry' - the best approach so far has been to work with the kalandar's community as well as the forest guards, tackling both ends of the problem as it were. The forest guards try to prevent the poaching of bear cubs so that they don't enter the profession in the first place, and the kalandars are offered alternative livelihoods so that they willingly hand over their bears and move on to cruelty-free futures for both, the bear and the man that used to make him 'dance'.

This week, newspaper reports suggested that Raju had been the last dancing bear in India and that by rescuing him, Wildlife SOS had effectively ended the practice. Well, we wish it could be true! But sadly, as WSPA's member society, Wildlife Trade of India has said, the truth is that there are definitely still bears out there that need rescuing - as many as 50, if not more, of them.

Meanwhile, the legacy of cruelty against animals used for 'entertainment' continues ... my niece quite cheerfully recites a poem in Hindi, that ends with:

"Naach bhaaloo naach!" (or Dance, bear! Dance!!)

Hopefully, the end to this cruel, cruel practice is very truly near... but meanwhile, take a look at this quite descriptive timeline of how WSPA has been trying to work towards a slow but sustainable phase out of the profession.

Weather the weather, whatever the weather!

2009-12-22T09:32:00.002Z

December 14/31

I might be the only one in London (or even the whole of UK) to be thinking this way, but I do think the weather gods have been smiling down on me for the past week; making up, perhaps for the manic time I have had before then.

I had hopped a little jig when I heard we could expect snow in Copenhagen the Sunday I was going to be there, but then all the fire from rallyists' speeches on Saturday seems to have kept the snow at bay there. For one brief gray minute, teeny-tiny flakes dared to twirl down as we stood listening to this concert in the middle of the city (look closely and you can see a few flakes in the top half of the picture, but not one on the ground!) but they didn't even make it to the road before they melted away as if embarrassed to be there. "Oh, sorry... it's global warming you want evidence of!!"

Dammit!! I was looking forward to that, I thought, and begged the weather gods to try again... in London perhaps?

White Wednesday
My wishes do get granted - and this Wednesday (the 16th of December) is evidence of it.

It started with a few timid flakes again, but this time they had brought enough reinforcements to make it a real party! I was at an off-site meeting in central London that day and it is a real credit to the sparkling conversation being kept up by my colleagues that I managed to sit still and stay indoors all day, resolutely ignoring the beautiful big snowflakes that came tumbling down in search of one particular "nose and eyelashes" that sadly, didn't quite make the appointment until much, much later that day.

I did get to go to the Winter Wonderland right after the meeting, though, but by then the snow had given up on me and moved on to Wales.

Making up in magical Manchester
Our friends Ivneet and Pavleen are here from Kuwait this week (Pavleen graduated from the University of Manchester on Friday... and got a degree in 'Managment' [sic] but that's a whole other story) so we went up to meet them there and spend the weekend together.

Finally, I was able to give my 'friends in high places' a (semi) fixed address for two whole days, so they knew where to send the snowballs... even as the train chugged out of London, the snow started to fall.

I felt like a child, watching the white fields roll past, cottony soft under a blanket of snow. I kept exclaiming as we passed village after village of postcard prettiness, with church spires rising above snow-covered slated roofs. I gasped in wonder at the sight of huge field horses covered in tweed blankets, puffing clouds of steamy breath as they stamped their hooves.

And then finally we were in Manchester, jumping into a cab for the short distance - it's normally a ten minute walk to Ivneet and Pavleen's home - made treacherous by slippery ice settling over the snow on the pavements.

Foolishly, we stayed indoors for most of that evening, but we did have a lovely time catching up with stories and laughing over silly jokes together till nearly 4 am. But while we were busy getting drunker and sillier and gigglier... the folks up there had been busy!

By the next morning Manchester was a miracle... it was as if the city (much like its girls on a Friday night) had pulled on a sparkly top, teamed it with a snow-spangled scarf, thrown on some silver-blonde highlights and glitter eyeshadow and everything pretty in the vanity case!!

I've truly never seen it look this special - not on a Sunday morning, at any rate! The best thing about the snow is that it covers up all the greasy food wrappers, the grime, the (mostly empty beer cans) litter and err... the binge drinkers' sick that usually dots the streets following the big knees-ups on Friday and Saturday nights.

Today it looked like a land where charming fairytales come to life, where people smile and children shriek with laughter as they glide down parking ramps on bin bags-turned-sleds, and just when you think it couldn't get more fairytale-ish, along comes a Magic Bus... No, really!!

Anyone coming along for a magic ride?

Could it be a conspiracy?

2009-12-21T23:03:00.001Z

December 13/31

I cannot understand it - I thought I had stopped blogging because I had stopped noticing things about daily life, or that I hadn't been busy enough to have things to blog about, and that it was 'simply' a matter of being determined enough, to look better, notice more, do a little more and yes, write with a bit more discipline...

Little did I know!
It seems suspiciously like a conspiracy against my blogging, but I honestly cannot remember when I have been this busy earlier in this year. It is almost as if - by deciding to blog daily - I invited trouble.

In the last ten days I have waded through annual appraisal forms, drowned in planning templates and annual reports, travelled unexpectedly twice (and resisted another unplanned trip!), dealt with a real tricky situation at work, hammered out three 'releases' with one good news story and two bad news stories to respond to all in one week and that was only in the day time!! As for the evenings? Well, what can I say except that I have had more evenings out - that turned into nights out, if I am to be perfectly honest - than I thought I had energy for!

Ahh well, I guess I could say: I've been too busy living to be blogging about it!!
(PS - Does that work??)

I was there

2009-12-12T23:15:00.001Z

December 12/31

What can I say today, except that I was there.

As the voice of millions of people rose - as one - to demand Justice. Now!

As the Global Day of Action became what Tcktcktck called 'the most diverse movement in history'.

As hundreds of thousands joined a rally that proved that democracy was alive and well, and wanted a halt to climate change.

As grandparents marched bravely on with walking sticks, as parents pushed baby buggies, as youngsters danced madly on, wanting politicians to understand that each generation wanted the same thing - change the system, change the politics, change the economy if needed, but for their sake, stop climate change now.

I would have liked to post a picture or a video of today's rally here, but I was too moved, too awe-struck, too speechlessified to actually record any images, so I shall shamelessly steal from my friend Daniel's blog about his own daughter doing him proud someday by joining the next generation of activists against climate change: after today's rally, this video brought tears to my eyes.

And what a time it was..

2009-12-11T21:40:00.001Z

December 11/31

I know, I know... I said I would not blog about my work, I said I would not blog about work in Copenhagen, I said I would try and pretend I wasn't here for the COP 15 circus... but what can I do, I have met enough of my ex-colleagues to feel intensely nostalgic for times gone by, so I shall indulge myself here... and now!

Beginnings and continuations
I met my ex-boss, my 'first boss at Greenpeace' and now a friend, Ananth, for a short while today - and even though I only met him for thirty odd seconds, and even though we only had time for a quick 'what are you doing here' type conversation, there was plenty to make me feel nostalgic...

First, he has been fasting as part of the Climate Justice movement - and when, on his prompting, I looked up the Climate Justice website, too much fell into place ka-ching, ka-ching... they start with the exact quote from Gandhi that I heard all too often while on my initiation trip to Bhopal - "The golden rule is to act fearlessly upon what one believes to be right." And they go on to list their 'long term hunger strikers' and who do I see but Diane Wilson, my favourite, most inspiring 'unreasonable woman'. She is joining the hunger strike too, just like Ananth is.

Secondly, the speed with which Ananth absorbs WSPA's 'main reason to be here at COP 15'... when I tell him we are here to see if there is room to link climate change to animals at both ends - cause: emissions from the livestock industry; and effect: animals caught in climate change caused natural disasters - and he nods with speedily gracious, but no less thoughtful for the speed or the grace, 'Ah yes.. of course! That makes sense.' I am reminded of the many conversations we had while I worked at Greenpeace, (to which he hired me!) when he would as readily accept a 'professional opinion' as he would challenge one... which made him one hell of a man to work with/for, but an inspiring one nonetheless!

Soul sisters!
The other reason I have been intensely nostalgic, is seeing one soul sister and talking about another with her... I met Natalia, mad passionate verbose passionate talented linguist passionate professional (did I mention passionate?) who, despite being in a serious serious conversation with someone deathly important (from the looks on both their faces) had the wits to say to him, "Look, I see someone I simply have to go and hug, can I please come back to what you are saying?" and come over and envelope me in a hug that somehow, magically, makes up for all the months we haven't seen each other in.

When we finally catch up over lunch, where would conversation go but to our darling warrior princess Zeina, mad, equally passionate woman whom we both adore to bits! (I missed you, woman! Come see me in London soon!)

It's all about the output
And then of course, there was the amount of Greenpeace material at hand that (insanely) made me (intensely) nostalgic about the sheer amount of output that I was once used to... reports, fact sheets, press releases, quotes, web stories, blogs, feeds, twitter even!!! This might sound empty and silly and false, even, but honestly, I do miss that high pressure output...

Now, I set myself targets for daily updates to my blog, to keep myself in the habit. Need I say more?

Neighbours? Neighbours!

2009-12-11T01:39:00.000Z

December 10/31

WARNING: This might be my longest post in a while, but read on to the end, and you will be left with really strong feelings by the end... I hope.

At 11:30 tonight, we exited a fantastic restaurant in Copenhagen called the BioMio - organic, welfare friendly food + great wine & cocktails too!! But happy as that had made us, it is the experience that followed that has makes me want to blog even before I drift off to sleep at half past midnight...

Toe-tally destroyed
Let me start by building up the suffering first: my feet, stockinged and high heel shod, had walked nearly ten kilometres through the day. From trekking between bus stops to traipsing around the various pavilions at the COP15, with a backpack on my back, on to heading over to the Danish WSPA office to meet the fabulous people there and tell them a bit about what we from HQ actually do, and what we are here for... And then walking down to a pub about one and a half miles down, in the rain... And then walking another two miles or so to the restaurant where we finally collapsed in a wine- and rain-soaked puddle of giggles and great food! By the time - about five hours later, much to the credit of the patient BioMio staff - we were finally ready to leave, my feet were on strike, refusing to walk the mile or so to the station, refusing to hold me up for a forty minute bus ride and flat out refusing to walk the 500 metres from the bus stop to the ridiculously tiny place we are calling home in Copenhagen. Nope, it was just not happening!!

Tax-eeeeee, please!
With feet (and the next few days' work!) at stake, I decided I was going to 'indulge myself' and take a cab back 'home' - even if it meant I pay for it myself. (WSPA being a charity, there's not much taxi-ing back and forth on supporters' money, I can tell you that!)

After much wheezing, pleading, arguing and standing still in the middle of the pavement, Jennifer, Nicky and I finally reached consensus (i.e. they agreed with me) and we hailed the first passing cab. As we collapsed into the delightfully warm, plush interiors (funny how posh a cab feels even if it is just an ordinary salon car!) Nicky, sitting up front next to the driver insisted 'Meter please, meter!' and he said, "Oh, good you remembered me (sic) I had nearly forgotten!"

And where might you be from?
Inevitably, the conversation with the taxi driver turned to the COP 15 and how many people had descended on 'his' city... and of course, what taxi driver worth his license would pass up an opportunity like that to make a few political comments? So he started in with how the 'developed countries are trying, yet again, to take advantage of us developing countries'.. which of course, led me to peer into the rear view mirror (from where I could make eye contact with him) and ask sweetly, "If I am not wrong, you are from my country?"

"Where would that be?" he asked.

"No, no where are you from?" I laughed back... having fallen into such conversational traps a bit too often in Europe.

"Me, I am from Pakistan...." he said, looking me straight in the eye in the mirror. (I am guessing he's fallen into the same traps a few times!)

"Oh well, nearly the same then," I said, with deliberately encouraging warmth, "I am from India!"

"Ahhh... we are neighbours then!" he said, switching instantly to a Hindi/Urdu/Punjabi conversation that we could both follow.

Life - abridged version
In the ten minute ride that followed, we had discovered the following about each other:

I lived in London, worked for a charity that worked on animal welfare (including in Pakistan), was married (without children) and loved what I had seen on my first trip to Copenhagen.

He had lived in Copenhagen for twenty two years, was in fact a third generation immigrant descended from a skilled labourer brought over as Denmark 'progressed into the 20th century', was married with three children (two girls and a boy) and loved it in Copenhagen himself.

Right here, please!
Somewhere in the middle of his life story (or was it mine?) Nicky interrupted our dialogue to point him to where we needed to stop, and asked if she could have a receipt for the (gasp!) 94 kroner flashing on the meter.

"If you don't mind," he said (to her, and therefore in English this time), "can I please ask you a little favour?"

"Yes, sure" said Nicky, sitting in front as she was, and as she later told us, she thought, "Okay, here comes the ask for the big tip, since we have said we are here for the big old conference!"

"Please can I ask you one little thing?"

"Yes, yes, sure!" (a trifle impatiently - nearly midnight after all!)

"Please allow me not to take any money from you. It is my honour ... (and then he continued in 'our' language) It gives me great honour to bring you three khatoon home safe in my city, and I beg you to accept it as a brother's tohfa."

Nicky, holding out the money in one hand and grasping his receipt in the other, wavered speechlessly ... Jennifer and she just looked at me for hints at what to do next, since I was the one who had been chattering away in what they thought was 'his' language all the while!

"Please! It is privilege enough to be driven home in safety by our brother... please accept our payment only for what you are spending as your work," I said, with as much grace (hopefully!) as he had demonstrated.

"No no, please. You know how it should be in our culture. I cannot accept money for bringing you home safe. Not when you are here for the first time, that too!"

"Are you really sure?" I asked, not wanting to risk offending after all this talk of brotherhood, that too between an Indian and a Pakistani!

"Jee haan. 150% sure!" he said, with typical subcontinental exaggeration. (That, I do understand!) "It would be showing me some respect!" (In English, for Nicky and Jennifer's benefit, I suspect!)

"Well, if you call it a matter of respect, I won't push it any more... but you really shouldn't give us a receipt in that case!" I said.

"Oh, that matters nothing to me," he said, rather proudly! "I drive my own car, I am my own boss, so the receipt is just a piece of paper"and got out of the car to hoist Nicky's suitcase out of the boot, signalling an end to all conversation.

"Thank you, thank you so very much" is all we could say as we stood on that freezing cold, yet suddenly warm Copenhagen street, as he bowed graciously to each of us and turned towards his car.

With a confused mix of Asian and European courtesy, I stood in his path and put out my hand... "Khuda haafiz, bhai" (damn, why couldn't I remember that the appropriate Urdu term for 'much-respected brother' was 'bhai-jaan' instead!?)

"God keep you all safe, sisters. Haafiz khuda aapko, Bhaabi-jaan" he said, (making me not his sister, but even more respected, his brother's wife!) and left us to sigh over this magical, twelve minute encounter with a complete stranger in Copenhagen...

Coping at Copenhagen

2009-12-09T20:37:00.002Z

December 9/31

I am now in Copenhagen and yes, I am here for the COP 15 talks that everyone is talking about already, so I won't do much more of it. Not here at any rate - though I suspect I will not be able to maintain that resolve much longer...

Home away from home??
Since hotels in Copenhagen are really full (and really expensive too!) given the 'demand outstrips supply' situation, my colleagues and I decided to try a home-stay instead. And yes, I am impressed at how enterprising the young Danes are in this regard... there are several websites on which they list their apartments as being available for COP 15 participants. Imagine the plan...

"Hey Mum! Long time since we saw each other... say, I was wondering, shall I come over a bit early for Christmas this year? I was thinking I could have my old room - and enjoy your marvellous cooking, of course! - from say... the 7th to the 18th? Yes, I know that's not really Christmas... but we could drink mulled wine any time of the year and it would feel like Christmas won't it?" [Yeah, especially if you're getting three months' rent in two weeks, it would!! And a posh Christmas at that - I just hope your Mum's getting a slightly nicer jumper this year.]

Errr...
Nice to stay in a home away from home indeed, but I have to say - this is most unusual. A shower in the kitchen? (Of course it wasn't visible in the picture, but you can see how the view outside the kitchen is)

No no, not an open one! Honestly, what were you thinking!?? Even if it IS in the kitchen, even if it IS made of (slightly) translucent fibre glass, even if it DOES mean no one can put the kettle on while you are in the shower... it is still a shower cubicle!

As for neighbours able to see you as you step out of the cubicle and into the kitchen, two things:

1. It is Denmark - they are apparently completely unfazed by nudity of all sorts, shapes and sizes.

2. It is Denmark - which means you need a hot shower, which means the difference in temperatures outside and inside means that you end up with super steamed up windows. So even if you did have expats around [who wouldn't know about (1) above] you would still be safe.

I really should leave you with that amusing, chilly thought, since I now have to go in search of food - and maybe, drink! - but yes, I will just add this much...

No way I'm sharing this with a boy, and if that sounds too much like summer camp, I'm sorry but I still won't. So Dirk is just going to have to find a hotel, a guest house, a friend's house or another college kid's 'charming studio flat with two bright rooms'.

It's another sunshiney day!

2009-12-08T23:03:00.007Z

December 8/31

And call it a mad, mad coincidence, but on this sunny day there is another girl with crutches on the train to work!!! It is NOT the same girl - this one is much younger, and a whole different race at that! But what made her even more different from my 'moment in the sun' of last week was the fact that this girl was completely oblivious to the sunshine.

Maybe she was just in more pain, poor girl! But she didn't seem to notice the brilliant sunshine that lit up this Tuesday morning in an otherwise bleak week.

So this blog is NOT about her... what it IS about, is the sun itself. And what a beautiful, strong-willed, persistent sun it was today!

Beautiful as it lit up the puddles from last night's drizzle, gave the soggy fallen leaves (that just look muddy most mornings) a decidedly magical hue as they lay there quietly turning to mulch.

Strong-willed enough to win what must have been a protracted battle with the moon.

Half past nine in the morning, and the stubborn sun sparkled away brightly, refusing to let the moon slide under the covers and go back in hiding at the end of it's shift.

"I'll chase you past the horizon - you know I will!" it seemed to laugh, pinning the moon to a blue, blue sky.

I barely had time to whip out my phone and take this quick picture of the moon (I know, I know, you can't really see it - what can I say, it is a phone camera and I didn't even have time to focus properly. I had to catch that train on the left!) But if you look closely - as in, whip out the magnifying glass - you can see a shiny glimmer hanging slightly to the left of the first tree... I even outlined it to make it easier. Still can't see it? Aahh, forget it. I will try and take another picture of it tomorrow, if the sun manages to win again!

For now, I'm just grateful it smiled down on me for a while, and made it a day worth smiling out at.

Monday morning blues... cliched but true!

2009-12-07T22:30:00.001Z

December 7/31

Monday mornings are about as blue as they can get these days. It's not that the weekend itself is over, that I can live with... And I don't really mind going back to work - honestly, I do enjoy my work!

What gets me down is the early morning start - especially when even the sun doesn't deign to put in an appearance before 8.00am (slacker!) it really makes it harder to crawl out from under the covers when you fling open the curtain only to see pitch dark outside.

What gets me even MORE down is how early the start is... for the past ever so long (I really can't remember when it first started!) my husband has had to leave home at 6.30 on Monday mornings, to go off to whichever other city his projects are taking him. This time it is Belfast. Before that it was Manchester. Both times, he could not (CAN not) be expected to return before Thursday evening.

So Monday mornings are bluer than others because I wake up to his alarm clock at something past insane o'clock; because I then fight to catch one more hour's sleep as he tiptoes around the house trying to get ready; because the trundling of his suitcase wheels mean it is time for me to wake up enough to kiss him goodbye for another nearly-whole week; and because, if I do go resolutely back to sleep again, it only means I fall into that heavy, bottomless kind of drool-on-the-pillow kind of sleep from which you wake up feeling fuzzy and disoriented... wishing I had just stayed up and got my own day started earlier.

And by the time the workday ends with a yawn and a sigh, I really do wish I had done just that - maybe it would have meant I could have finished my work at a decent hour and come home early. Or maybe it would just have meant I would have had more solitary hours to kill in an empty home... I don't know which is worse, frankly!!

Sigh... Mondays... but nearly over by now! And tomorrow is another day.

Sundays are Skype-days!

2009-12-06T18:03:00.003Z

December 6/31

The weekends are meant to catch up with friends and family - so while last weekend was spent trekking over to Chelmsford to see new baby Naina, and braving the rain in central London with Gautam, this weekend has been about welcoming Thangamma (and her suitcase!) But the one constant for me each weekend is catching up with my sister, my niece and nephew on Skype (or at least, as constant as you can expect the schedule of a family with two kids to be!)

And what digital natives those two are!! Thea has always taken to communications technology quite instinctively - whether it was learning the buttons of a cordless phone before she could read, or typing us little notes on Dhruv's iPhone and taking pictures of Shawn with it. So I really shouldn't be surprised to see how comfortable Shawn is with all this... but I am!

Click and view?
When a baby hears a 'click' (or any other sound, for that matter) you would expect him to track it, turning towards the source of the sound... wouldn't you? But Shawn is smart enough (or maybe all babies this generation are!) to know that the click of a mouse may sound from one end of the computer table - it's a desktop Nanna uses - but the result will be on the screen... and so, instead of looking at the mouse, he knows to look right at the screen!!!

Not surprising then, that he readily adapts to the idea that Maasi (or mother's sister, as I am to him) 'talks' to him through the screen and that he is expected to talk or play right back. And no, he doesn't expect Miley Cyrus to do the same when she's on TV - even though Thea will sing along and even exclaim at Hannah Montana... go figure!!

Peekaboo, thousands of miles apart
Thanks to Shawn's comfort with the computer, I can live in London and still play peek a boo with my nephew in Pune. He leans ahead, looks into the screen as I cover my eyes and waits for me to swish them off my face with a 'Coooo-kie' - and then giggles gratifyingly!

Play with me?
Ok, so he is smart enough to respond to peek a boo, but does he initiate the play himself? Yep! He is that smart!! When he finally tired of the game I was playing, he decided it was time to move on.. and so this - in the picture - is Shawn showing Maasi his new butterfly toy (you can't see it, but that is only because Maasi is not very good with taking the video snapshot quick enough).

How's that for 'keeping in touch' with a ten month old - I used to worry he wouldn't have the same connection with me as his big sister did (she saw me at least four times a year for lengthy visits as she grew up, while he only sees me about once a year - which means he has only seen me once in his 'whole life'!!!) but thanks to video webcam and a 2009 model baby, that doesn't seem to be a problem!

A Case of Anticipation!

2009-12-05T11:54:00.002Z

December 5/31

Today, I'm full of anticipation - a friend to welcome back, and from home at that! Thangamma is expected later today, coming back to London for her convocation ceremony; but far more importantly, she is bringing me goodies from home!!!

Coffee, for one - good, strong South Indian filter coffee, even more special because her family owns the estate where it's grown. No need to worry about Fairtrade certification when it's an ethically run business that you can be sure of!

Authentic black cardamom - the likes of which you cannot find in Central or South West London, not for love or money... and I'd be happy to pay either, for the real stuff!! (I mean, what's a hug or three in exchange for the taste of a genuine 'khada masala'??)

Bags of Bhelpuri - mmmmm, can't quite describe the taste explosion from this addictive mix of puffed rice and sharp spice and everything nice!! Now this you CAN get in London but it's just so much more thrilling to receive a Haldiram's brand packet, complete with three chutneys, to which you only need to add some green chillies, a few red onions and let the party begin!!

And most important of all, she will bring me news! Of all our common friends, of all the latest big & little things that are deliciously discussable but somehow don't quite make it to email or facebook or blogs even. And no, I won't be spilling the beans here... Compulsive I might well be, but discretion is best when it comes to such chatter, isn't it?

So for the next few hours - till she shows up, jetlag and all, I am a chronic case of anticipation ... Eyes and ears and arms open wide!! Welcome back, Tangalina! :-)

It simply has to be shared!

2009-12-04T23:38:00.008Z

December 4/31

It has been a while since I blogged about the expat feeling. Also, it has been a day or two of dwelling on memories - thanks to the Bhopal connection - and missing 'home'. Call it a coincidence or inevitable (given my frame of mind) but I have also been listening to much more Indian music over the last couple of days, and feeling intensely alone because I don't have more Indian friends around to share the beauty of these songs... and the ones I do have around don't seem to share the same tastes in music (always a risk in any culture, I suppose!)

Even if the music itself speaks a universal language, if you don't understand the depth of the lyrics, you aren't really 'getting it' , are you? And no, translations don't really do justice to poetry - not when you attempt to translate a song you've just sung, at any rate! Or if you keep up a spoken translation as the person listens to the song.. they can only concentrate on one part of it, and not react to the song as a whole.

But, again, blogging to the rescue!! I can talk about it here and feel like I have 'shared' the feelings... so, here are two of the songs that I have recently been tripping on:

Rehna Tu from Delhi 6: Have a listen - - you just need to press the PLAY button on this widget:

Rehna Tu.mp3

The lyrics themselves are charming enough, but the build up towards that last minute and a half of instrumental music at the end is sheer magic. I couldn't get enough of that sound, and kept playing the last bit over and over again. As I paid attention, I realised I had no idea what instrument it was - and even with the vast orchestra usually commanded by A.R. Rahman, I knew this one was something special. So I Googled it - and discovered it was something new!! Apparently, that instrument is the continuum and Rahman is one of the first few people to use it. I like it - I like it VERY much!

Iktara from Wake up Sid: Again, click to play so you can listen as you read.

Iktara.mp3

This one is about the lyrics as much as the music - Javed Akhtar at his best! But how do you translate "जो बरसे सपने बूँद बूँद - आंखों को मूँद मूँद" for it to convey the same ... feeling (I don't even have a word for the feeling, leave alone being able to translate it!) A very rough literal translation would be: the dreams that fall drop by drop, with eyes shut tightly.

But the original, like the best poetry, lets you interpret it in so many ways - are your dreams now tears, sliding down from eyes closed against the pain? Or are you tilting your face up, welcoming the dreams that rain down on you? Listen to it either way, and see how different it feels!

As always, do remember to tell me what you thought - so my feeling of 'sharing' it seems more real!

Remembering Bhopal - for more reasons than one

2009-12-03T20:57:00.008Z

December 3/31
On the 3rd of December, what could I possibly blog about but Bhopal? So to add a bit of perspective to my flippant 'Aaj Pata Hai Kya Hua' series... pachees saal pehle, aaj pata hai kya hua? (Do you know what happened, 25 years ago today?)

Hopefully, sometime soon, our connection with the 3rd of December will be about celebrating a victory: of good, of life, of the power of RIGHT, of justice that (one hopes) may be delayed but is no less inevitable for it.

But until then, I'm afraid, the 3rd of December can only be an ugly scar, no... a gaping, bloody wound on the face of humanity as we know it.

And Bhopal - An unbearably tragic, yet unceasingly inspiring icon of how people still believe. They lose thousands of their family members; they watch generations poisoned after generations; they see their very basic rights snatched away; they see their elected representatives mock their suffering with fistfuls of contaminated soil and mouthfuls of poisoned water... And still they believe in Justice for Bhopal.

Because I am an optimist...
I will assume that:
(a) most people already know the story of Bhopal - because they have been telling it over and over for 25 years now;
(b) That those who do not, will take the trouble to inform themselves (start by watching a 16 minute Youtube video here); and
(c) that the Bhopalis themselves (those of them that I am in touch with still) would appreciate why, for me, Bhopal is about more than their campaign for justice.

A surfeit of memories
Bhopal, for me, is personal. It is a collage of the most intense memories:
* Of people I still admire (you know who you are!) and certainly will, for life (yes, my pun is intentional... I will admire them as long as I live, and I admire them for the way they live their lives.)

* Of friendships I made there that have stood the test, not just of changes in jobs, but also of time itself.

* Of learning, in double time, the fine art of combining fierce optimism, fiery passion, steely determination and pragmatic political and media savvy in order to turn out what can be called Campaigning Communications. (even if they don't think of the skill as such)

If I am good at what I do today, it is because I learnt a lot in Bhopal... and I never, ever forget that. Or the fine people who taught me what I know, and those that inspired me to keep doing what I can. Even if some of them don't ever read this blog, they do know who they are.

Woh Bhopal ki naari hain,
Phool nahin, chingaari hain!
They are the women of Bhopal - not flowers, but flames!

It's better with chocolate!

2009-12-02T19:11:00.006Z

Aaj pata hai kya hua - 2/31

Bad weather +
Bad experience on the way to work +
Busy day +
Being wound up by colleagues +
More bad weather +
Empty home = One foul mood.

How magical is chocolate, then, that it can erase all of the above and make things better within moments?

But first - I simply must describe the worst part of the day ... just to get it off my chest, and so you recognise the miracle of chocolate in all its glory!

And a very good morning to you too!!
Waking up to rain is depressing enough. Hearing it patter down persistently as my husband wheels his suitcase out at 6.50am only makes it worse. But by the time I had drained my cup of coffee and pulled on a jumper, a scarf, a coat, a hat, my shoes and all, I felt things were reasonably ok, time to step out to another day at work.

Eight minutes later, I was back. Peeling off the shoes, the hat, the coat, the scarf, the jumper and even the trousers... Swearing and cursing, I flung the now-wet (and smelly!) clothes onto the bathroom floor to deal with later, and pulled on fresh clothes, new skirt, jumper, scarf, coat, hat...

What happened? A charming young boy, driving up in his jaunty little red car and seeing me standing at the traffic lights, gallantly decided to swerve out of his way just so he could get the largest amount of puddle water possible rise up and embrace me. Maybe I just hadn't got the right colour combination on. Maybe he saved me from death-by-trouser - since I could only find a skirt to jump into instead. Or maybe - sad, sad man! - this was the only way he could get a laugh out of life?

Time for chocolate
Luckily for me, the day is now over. The house is still empty, the wet clothes are still on the bathroom floor, my head is still buzzing from work, the rain is still falling... but now there is chocolate.

One melting mouthful of the dark brown stuff - oh, and it has to be dark for the magic to really work! - and I was singing (and swinging) along to the radio... and when the talking replaced the singing on the radio, I decided to change channels. And while I was flipping from one radio channel to another, guess what song I chanced upon?

I swear I'm not making this up, ask anyone tuned in to Absolute fm this evening... they really just played 'Chocolate on my Tongue'. I thought I wasn't hearing right, but I pointed my Shazam-enabled iPhone at it (and boy, that's a whole other kind of black magic trick right there!!!!) and it told me I was listening to the Woods Brothers play 'Chocolate on my Tongue.' (and I couldn't have made it up because, to be honest, I never heard of them before - or since!)

I'm telling you, it really IS a special kind of magic!!! Go get some of it yourself - NOW!! And tell me things didn't get better right after?

December Determination!

2009-12-01T19:37:00.005Z

or Aaj Pata Hai Kya Hua part 1/31

There was a time I blogged fairly often, and often tossed Hindi phrases into my text, confident that mostly everyone who knew me well enough to read my blog was also bilingual... needless to say, both parts of that sentence no longer hold true. Since I seem to have more 'un-Indian' friends than desi ones, it is worth explaining what 'Aaj Pata Hai Kya Hua' means: "Do you know what happened today?"

Why part 1/31?
Because December brings with it the shocking realisation that the year is nearly gone, and kind of triggers a stock-taking self-assessment mood... well, I've just realised that in 2009, my blogging habit joined all my other good intentions sitting pretty by the wayside. Three posts in the whole year? Seriously??

So, I've decided to be unfashionably early with my resolutions, and instead of making them on the 1st of Jan, I'll start with one now: I will, for every single day of December, blog something just so I can remember what the habit feels like. And I don't mean just the typing up of my thoughts at the end of the day - I mean the thinking itself!

Is it just me, or do bloggers see a different world?
I looked at things differently when I was a more active blogger...

I noticed the weather more, and felt poetic about it.

I paid more attention to conversations, even those I overheard on trains.

I reacted more intensely to my own experiences, even if it was just nostalgia I felt. (Did I really say 'Just nostalgia'? Man, I have changed!!!!)

I found more things to laugh at - even when I was the punchline myself.

So with renewed determination, for all of December, I shall bring to my long-lost audience, a series of 'Aaj Pata Hai Kya Hua' moments. (If there is anyone still reading, do leave me a comment, it will make me feel like I am not trudging forth alone!)

This is today's:
It is December in London, so of course it is freezing cold. When I arrived at the station to catch the train in to work, I was drawn to the very end of the platform, where the sun lit up the puffs of people exhaling into the wintry air. I stood there and lifted my face to the sun, revelling in it for the thirty seconds before the train came rumbling in and stopped right in front of me.

With just those thirty seconds of sunshine, I felt unreasonably uplifted as I climbed into the train, even though I did feel I was the only one to have noticed the brilliant light.

Until I saw this lady.

She was sat by herself, on one of the side-facing seats in the train. She had two bags beside her, both of which looked heavy enough to fuss over. She didn't have a book or a paper, didn't have earphones plugged in, didn't have a smart phone on which to read email, didn't even make eye contact with anyone around her. What she did have was this pair of supports - not crutches, just 'temporary supports' of the kind you get when you're recovering from an accident - resting against her as she sat there with a peaceful, if vacant look on her face.

Vacant, that is, till the sun shone in on her for the long stretch from Clapham Junction to Queenstown Road. And that's when I saw that I wasn't alone in recognizing the brilliance of the light... she may have been in pain, she might have been alone, but for that one minute, she was lit up from the outside and the inside, as she beamed right back at the sun with a 1000w smile.

As yet another station building obscured the sunshine, she turned her face (and visibly, her thoughts) back into the journey. Before the moment was entirely lost though, we noticed each other noticing the other. We made brief eye contact, and shared a brief smile in recognition of that moment.

A smile that said, "I know ... you felt it too, didn't you?"

The Monsoon it isn't...

2009-05-13T22:00:00.003+01:00

But I've enjoyed the association nonetheless.

Imagine the bewilderment on Londoners' normally stoic (read uninterested/uninvolved/uncaring) faces when I flung my arms wide and turned a WIDE grin up to the leaden grey sky. Ok, so it was just a drizzle, only 'pissing down' as they say here quite unprettily, not quite the dramatic उमड़ -घुमर आयो रे मेघा ! (I'm sorry, I just can't translate umar-ghumar aayo re megha!) of my childhood songs, but it took just a little mental adjustment to make me think I was back home and celebrating the monsoon!

12 degrees and cloudy weather might make Londoners groan, but as far as I knew while growing up, it meant hopping around and getting in the way as my grandmother brought the laundry in. Funny how we always seemed to have laundry hanging off the wires outside! She must have done a lot of washing...

While grey clouds here don't get more of a response than the odd "Grim out there, hey?" they were eagerly awaited 'back home'. The first signs of overcast skies meant that it was time for my sister and me to push each other, both trying to get a better view out the window, watching for the first rumbling clouds to come tumbling over the horizon. It was time to start making pleading faces at Mummy, begging to be let out the door when the rain started.

What they call 'torrential showers' here (pfffft!!!) would be scoffed at as being nothing more important than the advance party - the minor drizzle that wouldn't even justify the opening of an umbrella in Mumbai. No, we'd be waiting for the real show to begin... the flash of lightning, then us counting 1... 2... 3... till the clap of thunder announced how close the storm was to us. (Time to step up the pleading face routine...Mummeeeeeee, pleeeeeease!)And while the London papers remind you not to forget your mac, and Londoners obediently button up "against the elements" (pish tosh... what elements!?!) the real rain would mean - IF Mummy had finally given us the nod - us stripping down to what we called 'petticoats' (pinafore shapes in the softest muslin imaginable!) and flapping out in oversized rubber slippers that went THWACK! THWACK! as we hopped up and down in the rain, giggling deliriously as we 'danced' ungracefully in the rain.

And the rain itself ... while London rain has slender, nearly elegant drops that gracefully glide down, oh so gently! ever so politely dripping onto those macs and wellies, the rain in our Vasant Enclave garden would take great delight in splotching rudely down in big, fat drops randomly swung into our faces by the wind, then scampering away just as we thought we'd got a handful to slurp.

Sigh... I miss the monsoon. The April-showers-arriving-in-May-this-year are a poor cousin indeed, but you've got to take what you're given, right? So as I walked through the park on my way home, I decided a good storm is what you make of it.

I didn't giggle and squeak, I didn't hop around on one chappalled foot, I didn't even strip down to the bare minimum... but I did fling my well-macked arms wide, turn my un-stoic face up to the un-Indian shower and hum (not too loudly, I am in London after all!) my old favourite 'umar ghumar aayo re megha'

For now, that'll have to do.

(And since I have always been too busy enjoying the rain to take any pictures of it, for now this'll have to do. If any of my friends have fancy monsoon shots, send them on and I'll happily illustrate this so my un-Indian friends can see what I mean!)

Holi-day Horror Recalled

2009-03-11T07:47:00.005Z

Not a single splash of colour, not a single child threatening to hurl a gubbaara, not a single pichkaari pointed at me, not a single high-pitched squeal of laughter as a well-flung handful of gulaal finds its mark.

Yes, I am missing Holi.

But NOT, as it happens, missing the deadly bhaang that was consumed one year - and Brikesh, you know you don't miss it either! Now I'm not complaining, but I am telling the tale... Brikesh brought along a little polybag filled with deceptively safe looking green leafy gunk and promised us a 'good high' that Holi. With the entire family, led enthusiastically by my father in law (yes, Indian fathers in law and all that, but of course we drink together! Even - or rather, especially - the 'traditional stuff' on a 'traditional festival') and my mother, who had travelled from Pune to Delhi to be with us that year on Holi waiting and watching, Brikesh tipped the green stuff into a huge bucket of milk while we bustled about fetching him almond paste, cardamom powder, heaps of sugar and all the other masala that goes into a good thandaai. Just as he was about to stir it all in, though, I reminded him that I was allergic to milk and wouldn't be able to drink the milky stuff. The entire family protested at this, and someone came up with the ingenious idea that we should do a watered-down version - just water and all the spices including the bhaang - for me. Sounded like a great idea... although as it turns out, it proved to be the kind of machiavellian thing that a 'typical wicked mother in law' would have done to laugh at/shame the innocent young daughter in law. But as everyone who knows the family will agree, neither one of us fits those roles too easily.

Brikesh was... shall we say... too generous? in the portion he kept aside for me, and I ended up with a really potent drink. Nearly half of the entire bhaang was sloshed into my one mammoth glass of fake thandai. Remember, the rest had gone into a small bucket!

Halfway through the glass it kicked in. I have never, ever, felt anything like it. I came completely unhinged, feeling far too aware of every minor sensory stimulus.

I could feel the air on my arms, hear the wings of an insect flying past me, see each pore on my niece's gorgeous face (and she was only about three years old, so no chance of oversized pores on her skin!) and something convinced me that I could hear the thoughts of people before they'd said them - and of course, not all of those were pleasant thoughts.

Around the time that I started to panic at this, I had the good sense to stop drinking ... but as the legend about bhaang goes, the one mood you're in when it kicks in, is the one you stay trapped in till it wears off. So while some people keep laughing, others dance tirelessly, or cook mountains of food in vain. Me? I freaked out. Over and over and over again.

'Is there an antidote to this?'
'Is it true it sometimes causes permanent madness?'
'Will I be stuck in this feeling forever? Am I going mad?'
'What if we all get hit by this - who's in charge?'
'Is there a doctor close by? Should we be ringing emergency?'
'Ohmygod - did the baby drink some too?'

Until, inevitably, I came to... 'Why should I go lie down? Do you want me never to wake up?'

Needless to add, that's not an experience I want to repeat. Of course, the fact that I need to leave for work in a few minutes, and will probably have no mention of Holi made in the parts of London that I live in, travel through or work in, will help keep me off it this year.

But for all the Holi-fanatics out there who might (of course!) read my blog before they actually start the play... I hope you do have a great time but if I were you I'd keep it to the colour and the food and the mischief and the drinking. Substance abuse is not for everyone!

And if you simply must... do go easy on the portions for those allergic to milk! Maybe the milk tones it down in some way.

Ah well - HAPPY HOLI, all!!

So Contrary, me!

2009-02-13T22:51:00.004Z

When Facebook tells me I can 'import a blog to my notes' ... I actually think, hang on! I've just spent so much effort writing a note for Facebook, surely it works the other way round too?

Well, apparently not - at least, not automatically! So, since I have put in all this effort into creating a post about '25 Random Things about ME', I decided I might as well force it to go the other way around, and pull that information on to my blog! So here you are, 25 (or since I cheated a bit, 26) Random Things about Me:

1. I am what my friend Elaine once called a 'sociopath' - because I am pathologically social: I feel genuinely uneasy if I have an unusually solitary day.The most accurate metaphors for extrovert-ism that I have ever heard says: Every person starts the day with a matchbox, containing the same number of matches. For every interaction they have with someone else, an extrovert gets one match from them, while an introvert gives one match away to them. By the end of the day, if you've had several 'social interactions' your box is either brimming (like mine would) or totally depleted. I thrive on social contact (Perhaps that explains why I spend so much time on Facebook!) plus I've stayed in touch with most of my friends long enough to be proud of it.

2. I'm married to a man I met in school - by 2010, we'll have been together for 20 years, and only been married for half of those! Although we often drive each other completely crazy, I think we are still good together.

3. I love taking pictures (doesn't everybody I know!) and apart from my special enjoyment of baby portraits, I love taking pictures of odd signs I see. (Examples here and below.)

4. I remember the oddest anecdotes/tales, as well as the people who tell them to me. About five years after I first heard the extrovert metaphor in #1, I can still remember who told me this: Rohan DSouza.

5. I am a fussy coffee drinker - I simply do not drink instant coffee. My coffee snobbery is largely thanks to Daniel Mittler, who once walked (and made me walk!) an extra kilometer out of our way in Hong Kong, on an especially hot and busy day, just so he could get a cup of 'real coffee' from a deli he had seen earlier. When I teased Daniel about his snobbishness, he asked if I would ever accept 'instantly soluble granules' of tea, and if not, then why on earth would I be willing to accept similarly synthetic reproductions for coffee? "If you like coffee enough to drink it, respect it enough to only drink the real stuff." said Daniel... and yes, he converted me totally. I then started carrying around a 'coffee kit' - an immersion rod to heat up water (since roadside stalls in rural India only serve coffee/tea from boiling cauldrons of bubbling milk+water combinations, and I am allergic to milk), a stainless steel 'coffee filter' in traditional South Indian filter coffee style, a deep spoon and a packet of my favourite roast ground coffee. Now that I live in the UK, it takes less preparation to get a cup of fresh brewed coffee, so I am now picky about only drinking Fair Trade. (Must be difficult somehow!)

6. I honestly thought I would grow up to be an actress - not the glamorous, super star Bollywood type actress, but a serious, dignified theatre actress. (Somewhere buried deep inside me is the hope that I could still become a 'character actress' at the age of 55!!) Yes, I admit I can be a Drama Queen sometimes, but I do mean it in a 'meaningful acting' way. I've trained with the National School of Drama in India, and also taught Drama to children of all ages - the absolute best experience I've had was running a Drama workshop with kids aged 6, and the most... err... 'challenging' one was a workshop with teenage boys - run while I was only 20 myself.

7. My favourite colour seems to change at least once a decade - it used to be red, then orange, then red again... for now, it's purple.

8. My least favourite feature is my eyebrows - while the rest of me (both external and internal) is fairly low maintenance, it takes regular sessions of aggressive threading to tame my bushy brows. I hate the effort, and the in between times too.

9. I collect owls - little figurines and statues of them, ornaments, bookmarks, wall displays, even a salt n pepper set! Apart from the ones I've picked up while I travel, my thoughtful friends have brought me back owls from their travels too! So now I have owls from every continent except Antarctica. (Any volunteers to remedy that for me?)

10. I enjoy almost all kinds of weather - especially if it is dramatic in some way! - but it was only after moving to Europe that I realised the true worth of a sunny day. Jan Bakuwel told me once, "There's no such thing as bad weather - only inappropriate clothing." I think that's a great outlook to have!

11. When living in the Netherlands, I fell off a rope swing from a tree (Thanks for reminding me to include this, Joss!) in front of an audience of about 200 colleagues. I nearly died that time, and the more horror stories I hear about NHS and medical care in the UK, the more convinced I am that I would have died if that accident had happened while I was living here. As luck would have it, not only did I receive excellent medical attention, I was also in the enviable position of reading 'almost obituaries' about myself as I recovered and colleagues, friends and family all took time to reach out to me and tell me what I meant to them. That was indeed life-changing in some ways...

12. Every time I see an ambulance with lights flashing, I take a minute to pray for the patient. Something tells me this little action I've repeated for years was paid back the one time I was in an ambulance myself.

13. The one completely sinful un-ecological habit I can't possibly be forgiven for, nor can I bring myself to give up, is my love for a long hot shower. I keep reminding myself of the need to save water, but I keep pleading with/promising myself, "Just one minute more!".

14. I learnt how to play 'piano' (on a synthesizer) when I was a kid. And I actually trained myself to play with my eyes closed, then with the fingers of just one hand (limited repertoire, as you can imagine) because I wanted to be sure I could continue playing even if I lost my eyesight/fingers of one hand. Needless to add, I simply stopped playing sometime somewhere as I thought I 'grew up'.

15. I love to cook for people. I did toy with the idea of becoming a cook (sorry, a CHEF!!) but then realised, I wouldn't find it half as rewarding to cook for money as I do when I cook for fun or for friends!

16. I have a really loud laugh but at least I do laugh often, and choose not to be embarrassed by it.

17. 'Namrata' means polite/gracious; My family name before I got married was 'Singh' which means Lion (or in my case, Lioness?) and my family name after marriage is actually a titular reference to feudal landlords! So, while it was funny to be a 'Polite Lioness', I think it's ironic to be a 'Gracious Landlord' :)

18. I was brought up almost single handedly by my mother (My father died when I was three years old) so my idea of women being independent and self reliant and completely capable of running their lives themselves is fairly deep-rooted. (As any psychologist will confirm, it was almost inevitable that I should grow up thinking that women run the world!)

19. One of the most special people in my life has been my maternal grandmother, and my favourite memory of her is a snapshot I took as she sat, draped in a white sari, on a chocolate brown bean bag, knitting something in white wool, her snow white hair backlit by the sun... In that picture she seems to have got the halo she so richly deserved for looking after brats like my sister and myself!

20. I have three adorable nieces, one 'brand new' nephew I'm yet to see, an utterly delightful God-girl (I became godmother only because of visa officials, but that's too long a story for one note!) and at least five other children I absolutely love. We don't have children of our own yet, despite my husband and me both being crazy about kids, but that's probably because we're resisting the idea of growing up ourselves. (Self-indulgent idiots!)

21. I am genuinely ambidextrous, though I write primarily with my left hand. In psychological tests to ascertain if one is a left-brain thinker or a right-brain thinker, my results are about 55-45%.

22. is my favourite number, largely because I'm childish about wanting my birthday (22nd Aug) celebrated - always have been, still am, and probably will be at 65. (And I'm extremely pleased to share my birthday with Zeina - someone I admire so much, that I hope the shared birthday means we're alike in some ways!!)

23. I'm currently working on two books. But I'm terribly worried that I might actually be the kind of person who's perpetually 'working on a book' but never actually gets around to finishing one! Also, I cannot go to sleep without reading at least three pages of some book - so at least I finish those I am reading!

24. I only learnt to value the friendship of women in my late twenties. Now I can't imagine a life without my girl friends!

25. I simply love telling stories. I used to come home from school every single day, gasping "Aaj pata hai kya hua?" (You know what happened today!?) and can tell what I think is a funny story about my day almost every day. You know what happened today? I was sitting through a formal presentation at work, trying to nibble discreetly at some chocolate that had been passed around... I took one teeny-weeny bite halfway through the chocolate, and had the creme centre squirt me right in the face, dribbling down my chin and plopping on to my shirt. I then sat there with my face buried in a paper napkin, shoulders shaking with hastily stifled laughter. I did manage to wipe it all off, giggles included, and sit up straightfaced again, with a sniff.

26. I'll sometimes break a 'soft rule' (like the one that says I should write 25 notes) just to see who cares!

Another example of my roaming camera phone:

Remembering Bhopal

2008-12-02T18:24:00.008Z

While December is a month of festivity in most parts of the world, the beginning of the month evokes a troubled memory and a renewed call to action for many, including myself, who have been witness to the long-standing campaign for justice in Bhopal, India.

On the night of 2nd – 3rd December 1984, tons of the highly poisonous gas methyl isocyanate leaked out of the Union Carbide factory (now owned by Dow Chemicals) in Bhopal, in what has subsequently earned the dubious honour of being called ‘the world’s worst industrial disaster’. Half a million people were exposed to the gas, but even more have suffered, as the toxic chemicals from this exposure have actually got passed on from parents to children, creating new generations of victims.

It’s a tragic story, but an inspiring one too – the people of Bhopal have kept up their struggle for justice for 24 years, undaunted by the sheer size of their corporate criminal, unfazed by successive apathetic governments. The campaign has forged links with survivors’ groups of other corporate crimes, confronted Dow at international fora, challenged them in court with class action litigation, and taken the fight to the doorstep of the Indian government. The campaign has also moved with the times – growing from candlelit vigils and anguished marches in Bhopal, to hunger strikes at prime central government offices, from sit-ins at Dow’s offices around the world, to die-ins creating perfect photo-opps for international media, from banners on the streets to online banners supporting a sturdy web presence.

I had the privilege of being 'trained in Bhopal' ... as the very first project I worked on for Greenpeace, Bhopal was my introduction to activism, to environmental justice and the power of campaigning, to deeply passionate campaigners who really do believe the world can be saved one child at a time. It was a mind-altering experience like no drug could have been, and I still sigh over that adrenalin high.

The Bhopalis are an inspiration for anyone interested in social justice, and I simply urge my blog audience to... Remember Bhopal.

Even if you do nothing else, think of the people of Bhopal today and send a little positive energy their way on the 24th anniversary of the disaster.

If you would like to do more, I can vouch for the Bhopal Medical Appeal – having visited the Sambhavna Trust Clinic personally and witnessed the good work that they are doing, I can – in good conscience – assure you that your donations will indeed reach those that need the aid, and the funds will be used to benefit the community, not just a few. You can read more about them at the Bhopal campaign website.

In solidarity with the Bhopalis, celebrate the spirit of resilience, of pursuing justice relentlessly.

How long can it go on?

2008-11-28T13:12:00.003Z

What's happening in Mumbai right now is all too public, but I can't help wondering what would happen if we were to collectively decide to just turn away in disgust?

Instead of cameramen pushing their lenses to zoom in as far as they possibly can, trying to identify detail from smoky rooms, pick out blood stains on opulent marble and plush couches... what if they were simply to pack up and move to ... I don't know.. somewhere else!

Instead of reporters giving us (in breathless, barely-concealed excitement) the latest on how the 'Assault in Mumbai' claims its 50th, 100th, 150th victim, spin conjecture on the identity of these madmen and draw our attention to the 'manic gleam in this militant's eyes' (I am not making this up - these are the very words they used!) what if they were to turn their backs on the situation and say, "Right, we've given these militants more coverage than they deserve, we're heading home now."

Instead of viewers (like me, I admit it) obsessively consuming news on Mumbai everywhere I can find it, seeking a new angle, a new perspective, a new update.. what if we were to just stop picking up these newspapers, let ratings on these news shows fall, hit counters on these websites grind to a halt and maybe just get on with living normal lives.

Do you think the militants would actually look up from their scripts then, and realise that they'd lost their audience? Since so much of the 'terror' depends on the terrorised, would it not pull the wind from their sails to realise that actually, no one is keeping track with nail-biting tension of how long they've held these poor hostages, how many they've injured, how many floors they've been able to capture, how many bullets have been shot, how many grenades lobbed... surely the competition would end soon then?

I won't even go into how embarrassed I am by the kind of coverage some channels and papers are putting out. That's just media playing their self-appointed role, feeding their audiences what they believe the audience wants. And everytime one of us watches this coverage, we're feeding the data they justify themselves with.

My point is far more simplistic, perhaps even naive: If we were to agree that the terrorists are grandstanding, that their story is not worth following and leave the auditorium, how long till the show is declared a failure, and the characters 'exit... right'?

I am, of course, aware that there are familes out there desperate for news of their relatives, desperately scanning the news for some hint that their loved ones are no longer in danger.

I can afford to indulge myself with thinking these indignant, philosophical, wafting thoughts simply because I am removed from it by several degrees of separation. These are just the thoughts in my head - my heart is still out there with the people in Mumbai, still sitting in the theatre in horrified silence, waiting to see the inevitable victory of Good over Evil (for that's how the world works, right?) waiting to see the hostages walk out with brave smiles celebrating their survival, waiting to see 'The End' roll up on screen. Maybe I just won't watch till someone tells me that's happened.

A Rainbow on the Thames!

2008-10-19T17:16:00.009+01:00

There are a few definite advantages to living where I do, even though it means passing through the 'stench of failing money' every time I head home from the City.

I turn up my disrespectable-and-proud-of-it nose at the once-rich bankers (they're a lot less pushy now, with the credit crunch on, but I still don't like the self-important way they occupy space on the tube) and remind myself it's all worth the fabulous terrace, the chance to grow a little garden, and the great view I have of the Thames in all its glory.

That view got a lot better this weekend; after years of sighing over the Greenpeace Rainbow Warrior, I got to see it sail right past my balcony! The Warrior is in the UK as part of the Quit Coal tour and as my luck has it, it's going to be stationed at the West India docks!! (Ten minutes' stroll away from home!)

They had a moment of drama entering the docks - read the Captain's personal blog here - but that just meant we had a longer time to gaze at the RW. Years of Greenpeace training meant I was compelled to do something to welcome the Warrior in, even if all I managed was a large (white) bedsheet with the words
'W E L C O M E, W A R R I O R'
plastered on with (black) duct tape. [The black and white is an internal joke directed at my ex-colleagues... no yellow and green, sorry! And errr, no... No logo either, in either shade of green! ;-) ]

Be that as it may, judging from the whoop of excitement and the waving of arms from the deck, I think the crew did get the message that they were very, very welcome to this little part of the horizon I get to call my view!
And yes, even though I'm going to miss Diwali celebrations this year, I think of this weekend view as fair recompense.

If wishes were horses...

2008-09-16T15:22:00.003+01:00

I've always believed that 'whatever happens, happens for the best' even though it might not seem that way when it first happens. The most-recent shockwave going through 'the City' is just another point in case. It seems like just yesterday that I stood outside the Lehman Brothers' office building in Canary Wharf, with a classmate of Dhruv's. Being a fresh MBA graduate, this friend was looking for work at the time, particularly in the financial sector.
He sighed as we looked up at that imposing facade. "What wouldn't I give, to get a job in here!" he exclaimed, "I feel like going in there and telling them - please, give me a job. Any job! I swear I'll fit right in! - Honestly, I wish I worked here!"
Well, if wishes were horses... a certain someone would be plodding into the sunset with a cardboard carton on the saddle behind him. Instead, he's probably wondering which new car he's going to buy himself soon! Not that I mean to wax philosophical about other people's misfortune, but I can't help being reminded of a particularly apt story. So! Here is a story about olive trees that seems appropriate to share right now.

Once upon a time (all good stories start way back then, don't they?) there was a hermit who lived on a rocky mountain top. He thought he should grow an olive tree, so that he could eat the fruit and make some oil to light his prayer lamp. He plants the seed and prays to God for the sapling to emerge soon. Sure enough, it does! He then prays that the sapling grows big and strong. It does that too! But sadly, even though he keeps praying for fruit, for health, for life... the tree refuses to oblige. In fact, it slowly starts to wither away. Then one day, as he's walking around his mountain (as hermits tend to do sometimes! Must get boring sitting and meditating in caves all day, no?) he notices an olive tree growing outside another cave. He walks over to it, gazing at it in wonder, caressing the leaves, admiring the fruit. He then turns to the hermit who owns this cave (don't ask me.. must've been like a Hermit Retreat or something!) and expresses his admiration.
"Oh! This ol' thing?" Hermit two says modestly, smiling dismissively at his own effort (as really successful gardeners do) "This isn't my effort at all! I just prayed, and God did the rest."
"Really!!!" exclaims Hermit one, "That didn't work for me at all! I planted a seed too, then I prayed for sunshine to make the tree flower. I prayed for rain to make the tree thrive. I prayed that the soil would support it. I prayed that the fruit would come soon. But nothing happened! How did your prayers get answered while mine just never did? What were you asking for?"
"I just prayed for a healthy olive tree," said Hermit two wisely, "I prayed to God and said, 'You are the one that made this olive tree, you know best what the tree needs when. Give it your care, give it your blessings, let it thrive as an olive tree should.' And God did!"

Oh, and just before I leave you with that wonderfully profound thought, here's another one I love: Be careful what you wish for, it just might come true. I'll tell you the story around that one too, but next time. For now, I must cook dinner. No matter how hard I pray and how much I leave things to God, I doubt that the family will feed itself.

Salad Dressing!

2008-06-20T10:05:00.003+01:00

Choosing herbal products for my bathroom cabinet has had unexpected (if aromatic!) results... I always was quite fond of cooking but I can't say I catered for these food associations. (Catered for, even!! I can't seem to stop, can I?)

Let's see - first on the agenda, a thorough rub down with some fabulous Argan seed paste, bought at the equally fabulous Targanine cooperative's shop in Essaouira, Morocco while I peacefully recovered from my accident and holidayed there last year. From Berber backyard to bottle, from shop-shelf to my bathroom cabinet, only three women have touched it, I was told. And I am one of them. The lovely lady who brown bagged it for me assured me that it would slough off my dry skin and give me 'masha-Allah' skin "Just like Shammi Kapoor" (I kid you not, those were her exact words. I hope she meant Shammi Kapoor as he was in the sixties, though, not in his sixties!) I can't say if it's working or not - I have only worked my way through the top two inches of an eight inch deep tub - but it does have a deliciously nutty smell.
PS - the note on the tub says, "Argan oil has a vibrantly toasty, nutlike flavor with fruity overtones and a pleasing soupcon of bitterness. Its assertive flavor makes it a lovely finishing touch for cheeses, soups, grain dishes and braised meats." And yet it's sold as a cosmetic product too! Hmmm....

All that sloughing off done, I head to the shower - where I sigh over my blissfully pure lemongrass soap, a fabulous present brought all the way from 'Fab'India. I hold the bar of soap up to the light and revel in the golden handful of pure fragrance I have here. One deep inhalation of these bubbles can kick you out of any morning-after-an-evening-before stupor, if you know what I mean! Add the top notes of turmeric to this gorgeous bouquet and I am ready for anything the day might bring my way. But just one more thing; crisp and fresh as I now feel, I decide I need to top it up with a nicely lathered head of ginger.

That's right - my shampoo is a tangy, scathingly sharp extract of ginger juice and reetha berries. (Don't ask me what the English equivalent of reetha berries is, I haven't the foggiest idea.) I have to say though, the guys at the Khadi Cooperative in India could learn a lesson or two from Morocco - the labelling on my shampoo bottle just does not do it justice. The shampoo is luscious - as ginger as ginger gets! I'm often tempted to stick my tongue out as the suds run down my face, but then again, I remind myself... it does have soap in it.

Oooh and then, to make sure the spicy effect lasts all day, I have a lovely rosemary and sage deodorant, a yummy sandalwood and turmeric cream to guard me from the sun, and to dress up those eyes, a little pine-nut kohl!!

Now all I need is my mint green dress, my cherry red hat and my coconut fibre shoes. Now that's what I call a salad dressing!

Itchy Green Thumbs!

2008-05-28T12:42:00.003+01:00

I'm simply itching to start planting a terrace garden in our new London home, but I have no idea where to begin (and of course, the stormy weather does nothing to encourage me!)

I looked up the Camden Garden Centre (thanks for that tip, Jo!) but fine as it sounds, I have no intention of lugging pots and plants up and down the many dysfunctional escalators that torture the Underground between us.

I posted a desperate 'Wanted: Gardening stuff' to my local Freecycle group, but the moderator hasn't yet deemed it fit to be circulated. (Could it be they don't appreciate my asking folks to email me tips on where to go??)

I then did a multimap search for Garden centres near our home (I do enjoy the 'find businesses near you' service on these map sites... but I'm sorry to say there are more hairdressers than window dressing plants, more nurseries of the baby, NOT plant, kind, and more curry houses than greenhouses marked on the maps around East London. Tsk tsk!)

I have found a promising link or two though... Growing Concerns is not tooooo far away, nor is Sam's Salvage. I just might be able to bring those potted petunias back with me on the DLR, especially since London seems full of nice gentlemen who graciously offer to carry things up and down stairs for you, especially if you're struggling with a suitcase of elephantine proportions and look as though your heart or legs or lungs (or all of the above) might give out on you any moment. (I know this for a fact - I had at least five different nice gentlemen smilingly lug said suitcase for me between Gatwick and the East India DLR station, and only one of them is married to me.)

But I'm even more excited about Sam's Salvage because of the highly evocative route I must follow to get there. I need to leave Newport Avenue (where I live) by the second exit, then follow:
Saffron Avenue for 0.1 miles
Coriander Avenue for 0.1 miles
Oregano Drive for 0.1 miles
Rosemary Drive for 0.1 miles
back onto Coriander Avenue for another 0.1 miles
Nutmeg Lane for 0.2 miles
East India Dock Road (how boring!!) for 1.0 miles
Salmon Lane (back to the theme!) for 0.3 miles
Brenton Street for 0.1 miles (ok, we're losing the theme again, but we're nearly there now!)
and we arrive at the destination - Sam's Salvage on Salmon Lane!! If only they'd rename it to Salmon Street, what fantastic alliteration they'd have! And I promise, I did not make up any of this.

Now who could resist a fragrant route like that to a garden centre? Next sunny day we have, that's where you'll find me! Oh, and if any of my readers feel like giving me a gift, I'll sign for delivered plants (not cut flowers, growing plants!) with immense gratitude. :D

Dis-respectable... and proud of it!

2008-05-04T15:15:00.007+01:00

It all started with my wondering if I should try attending Glastonbury this year. I mean, I have the time, if that's the one thing I do have these days! (Ok, so it actually began with Nayana - I would've linked to her blog here, but she's currently 'unlinkable' she says - and me striking deals on what we would do together if we had the money a few months hence... but that's a whole other story!)

Then I read that "In July 2007 organiser Michael Eavis stated that 40% of tickets for the upcoming festival will be sold via telephone in order to attract more teenagers to the event. Eavis was quoted as saying that the sale of tickets mainly on-line resulted in 2007's festival-goers being "Too middle aged and respectable"

I didn't get this at first - I mean, wouldn't you find more teenagers online than you'd find 'middle aged and respectable' folk? Since I had another conversation going on at the same time, with a New Media campaigner who's doing great stuff over at my old office, I thought I'd ask him what the logic was. It didn't take a moment's thought for him to say, "well most teenagers don't have credit cards so they don't shop online much." (Well, of course!! Why didn't I think of it!?)

And then he added, "dunno if that's considered respectable though... that's new!"

Many exclamations over our respective respectability (or lack thereof) later, I realised how very dis-respectable my current lifestyle is (and yeah, it is kinda cool, once I thought about it!)

- I have no credit card, mainly because... (and you'll soon see how all these signs of 'dis-respectability' link to each other)
- I have no bank account. ("Where does your money go then?" Avijit, aforesaid New Media guy, asked)
- I have no money.... because ("Remember my student dependent status?" I was able to counter.)
- I have no job! (at this point, Avijit, who admitted he was a 'plastic carrying hippie' rather enviously said, "dammit! Are you sure you're married and not just living in some hippie commune?" And I was able to say...)
- I am married (very much so! Picture uploaded as evidence.) but I still do share living quarters with two bachelor boys.
- I have lived in a commune and continue to plan 'family reunions' with my 'communists' at least once a year.
- I am planning to move to London and live in a posh flat, but (and this is significant!) I will be moving my worldly goods (remnants of an earlier, wordlier past of mine - no new acquisitions, I promise!) from Manchester to London in recycled cardboard grocery cartons instead of the posh 10 quid 'Removal Boxes' the flatmate brought in!
One look at this picture will make the difference clear - that professional, well-organised plastic box with a blue lid? Not mine! That Walkers' crisps box? Mine! Those stackable, reinforced cardboard cartons with convenient handgrips on either side? Not mine!

I did, however, graciously accept one professional 'hanging garment carrier' - it's absolutely fabulous! A carton that has a rack on which to HANG clothes on hangers...just close the cardboard flaps and you're ready for the road!!!!(Presumably it's meant for people who step out of ball gowns at one end of the road trip, and into a business suit at the other, but I must admit it was kinda nice not to fold up my red overcoat and my orange silk jacket! The uber-careful, professionally hung business suits rubbing pompous, padded-hangered and dust-proof-casinged shoulders with my overcoat are obviously the husband's, not mine. But surely you didn't need me to spell that out?)
And now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pack some booze in the most eco-friendly way I know. No point adding to its carbon footprint, what say?

When you're bored, eavesdrop!

2008-04-21T15:14:00.003+01:00

I've done so many train trips back and forth between London and Manchester, they're beginning to seem like one endless journey. I do enjoy the train ride - usually!! - but five times in a week? Surely that's too many?

I've had some interesting co-passengers though: there was the caftan-ed Afro singer who just beamed and shook a maracus at anyone who frowned at his loud singing; the young, Italian-sounding, young man heading off to a 10 pm 'job interview' at a Manchester casino (what other job would you interview for at that time!); the two students headed for Stoke-on-Trent who spent their entire trip either worrying about whether they were going to reach their hotel in time for dinner, or informing each other that they 'really hate so-and-so' from their class - it was a long list of hateables, so I'm guessing they aren't the most popular boys in class.

But the real drama came from the two young performers, a boy and a girl, who sat across me on one early morning ride from Manchester to London.

They were clearly going to London to audition for parts in a musical - and I couldn't help but overhear some very funny stories about auditions, a few bars of the songs they intended to sing for their audition that day, a couple of 'stage disasters' they'd survived... and even the obligatory wardrobe malfunction story that every stage artist worth their greasepaint simply must have.
One particular story that had them both in splits, will stay with me till I actually see the ad on television. Here's how it sounds - excuse the halfway-through beginning, I wasn't dropping eaves all the time!

She: So he minces into the audition room - really minces out, you know? - waves a wrist and says, 'Hiyeeeeeeee'. [she's waving her wrist too, of course, after having imitated the mincing as well as being seated in a train would allow!]
He: Noo!! Really?
She: Yeah! And then he sees these guys sitting in the room, all dressed in business suits, carrying briefcases, with folded newspapers and punching their Blackberries. [collapses in hysterical giggles at this point.] And then the guy looks down at the call sheet and says, "Uhmm, I think you're a bit early. We're auditioning for the businessman here right now, not the camp cucumber."
He: [by now snorting with laughter too] Ohmigod!!! Was he really there for another part?
She: I have no idea! He just immediately went like [at this point, she dropped her shoulders into a 'serious' slouch, lowered her chin and deepened her voice] 'Oh yes. That's right. I'm here for the businessman audition.' and swaggered over and sat down. Turns out, they were auditioning for a commercial that'll show a businessman being attacked by a camp cucumber. I have no idea what his agent must've told him! Must've just got all mixed up!!
He: Did he get the part? Any of the parts?
She: Nooooo!!! [more hysterical giggles, before redoing the mincing] Not even the cucumber - not after he'd minced in like that. Can you believe he did that!

Now if they'd just get the production on that one done quickly, I'd like to see what the camp cucumber looks like and figure out why on earth he attacks a businessman?! Wonder what product that could advertise... could it possibly be an anti-GM ad, showing what can happen if 'Frankenfoods' are allowed? Naaah, I bet it's something far more ordinary - like insurance! (After all, you never do know what'll happen next!)

Parenting in a police state?

2008-03-16T21:43:00.005Z

Ok, so I'm not a parent yet, but the latest bright idea from the good folks at Scotland Yard makes my hair stand on end - and not just because it's an outrage against civil liberties. Here's what I am talking about:

Primary school children should be eligible for the DNA database (read: Collect samples of their DNA and store it in a 'Got a criminal? Look here first!' register!) if they exhibit behaviour indicating they may become criminals in later life, according to Gary Pugh, director of forensic sciences at Scotland Yard and the new DNA spokesman for the Association of Chief Police Officers (ACPO)

Right. Let's just round up those hooligans now then, shall we? Except... what is 'behaviour indicating they may become criminals in later life'? Since so much of the law comes down to interpretation, it'd be interesting to see what the average constable would consider an indication that a toddler (they're talking 'younger the better', but do mention 'five years old' as a benchmark) could turn into a criminal on the loose.

Would there be room for such a thing as 'normal deviancy' - you know, the kind of 'crimes' all kids perpetrate? Or does ringing a doorbell and running off in giggles indicate a 'potential criminal mind'? Or cheating at hopscotch? How about an unending sulk - there's a friend I haven't spoken to in twenty five years because he didn't let me join a game of badminton! And ohmigod - maybe, deeeeeeep down, I'm a potential arsonist, since the first thing I did when I learnt the power of magnifying glasses, was set a scrap of paper on fire!

Ok, fine! If I must confess, I am also the one who squashed my brinjal with my bowl, making sure my plate was 'empty'. And yes, I'm the one who flung sopping wet bits of cotton onto the ceiling (where it STICKS! Try it, it's great fun!!) and startled my grandmother when it dried and came sailing down. I'm the one who stole two rupees off my mother's dressing table so that I could buy the sticky tamarind from the hawker who stood outside our school every afternoon.

According to Gary Pugh, "A well-established pattern of offending involves relatively trivial offences escalating to more serious crimes." (sic) I suppose I should be grateful I grew up in a society that allowed children certain liberties, and the room to grow out of these 'tendencies'. But then again, perhaps it is because I was in such a society that I outgrew them.

Just in case I've indicated a certain flippancy in my reaction to this outrageous suggestion -- and also to give civil liberty groups their share of the news space -- Chris Davis, of the National Primary Headteachers' Association is quoted in the same Guardian article as saying, 'It is condemning them at a very young age to something they have not yet done. They may have the potential to do something, but we all have the potential to do things. To label children at that stage and put them on a register is going too far.'

But then, what do you expect from a society that uses 'technology originally designed to scare away vermin; the ‘Mosquito’ is a device that emits a very high frequency buzzing sound which cannot be heard by people over the age of 25.'

I am not kidding! Check out the BUZZ OFF campaign, championed by Liberty amongst other civil rights groups.

Roti Rhapsody

2008-03-06T15:31:00.007Z

Standing over the hob, making myself a roti, I sigh.
For times gone by;
For rotis that fluff with a self-righteous puff, knowing their moment is now.
For women like me, generations before me, who'd dismiss my frozen rotis (and how!)

I'd dismiss them too - still do! - there's something all wrong about a frozen roti.
It may last, it may cook, it may puff, it may fill. But still.

Nostalgia does a fine job of editing out the tedium, the boredom, the sheer regularity of it all, I have to admit.

When you come home from work - you 9-to-6-or-whenever-the-work-ends girl - having taken that looooong ride through manic Bombay/Delhi/Bangalore/Pune traffic, and have to deal with the timeless conundrum, 'What 's for dinner tonight?', you wouldn't exactly curse the technology that lets you open a packet, toss a frozen roti onto the hob (no lighting the gas even!) and microwave a bowl of last night's aaloo and daal. Three minutes later, that question is answered, and you're that much closer to bedtime/bathtime/me-time/us-time... whatever it takes to bliss out your day.

But when you're sitting at home by yourself, when the most challenging question you deal with all day is 'What do I do till/for lunch?' then you kind of miss it all.

Miss the smell of freshly ground aata as you open the aluminum box that always, always sits on the lowest shelf. (I even miss the inevitable crik of my back as I lifted the aata out each time.)
Miss the satisfaction of kneading the dough 'just right'. Too hard, and you might have to make parathas. Too soft and your rotis won't be round.
Miss the feeling of your fingers in the cool dough, your wrists, your forearms, your shoulders even! flexing as you work that dough, baby! Work it till it responds, smooth and nimble. Pull at it, pat it till it goes thwack against the paraanth (man! My kingdom for a paraanth, right now!).
Miss the efficient way you light the gas, pull out the tawa and the rolling pin in one smooth motion.
Miss the jingling of your bangles as you roll the rotis. The rhythm that tells the household, 'Food in five!'
Miss the professional way you test the tawa, one palm held over it, divining whether it is ready to receive the roti yet.
Miss the elaborate yet time-tested way of baking each roti just right - side one baked on a low flame, flipped when it changes colour, side two on a high flame, and both hands brought in for the spectacular finale: Roti plucked off the tawa with tongs in one hand, next roti put on the now-empty tawa with the other (saving time and precious LPG), tawa lifted off the flame and roti-in-tongs lowered onto the naked, blue flame. Nice and puffy, creamy white with a few brown freckles, the roti gets lowered into the waiting, cloth-lined box, while the second roti cooks gently, and you start rolling the third.

If that isn't poetry - and poetry you can eat at that! - I wonder what is, anymore.

Call me a nostalgic fool, but looking out my Manchester window, with nothing but a soul-less construction site to look at , no aromas wafting around this rain-drizzled neighbourhood (can't get the carpeted hallway to smell, can we!) no children playing pakdan-pakdai (where are all the kids, anyway? I hardly see any in Manchester!) till their mothers yell for the hundredth time to 'come home NOW!', no friends trooping in just because "you made bhindi today", no stories to entertain me as I eat... I do miss it all.

Back in time for a quake - and snow!

2008-03-03T10:38:00.005Z

It's a bit hard to restart a blog, but it's even harder to pick up the threads of a life I stopped living eleven months ago! So I figured (okay, okay, I was pushed to it!!) I'd start with the easy stuff and the rest, inshallah, shall follow.

Eleven months ago, I had a job. I had a home. I had my health. I had the complacence that comes from knowing (or thinking!) that 'it's all under control'. Then, one by one, each of these were taken away.

First my health - that's right, I fell. I had a head injury. I had vision/memory problems. Enough already!

Then, what do you know! My job went too!!! I thought it was just a matter of time before I went back to work, at a job I loved so much I gladly allowed it to define who I was. But between a well-meaning Aarbodienst (thanks, Katja!) a perceptive and kind colleague (thanks, Cherryl!) and Dutch labour laws (no thanks, guys!) I find I'm floating free, from the first of Feb. (You did notice that alliteration, I hope?)

So, with no reason to keep my home in Amsterdam running, I shut it down, gave it up to the 'last visitor' you see in the picture, and moved. From Amsterdam, to Manchester, to Casablanca, to New Delhi, to Pune and back to Manchester again. That's right, these are all places I've called home in the last ten months!

Dizzy as I get with all this moving, I have to admit it'll happen again - and soon. I'm only here in Manchester till my husband's MBA is done. After that, who knows where his (our?) fate will take us.

But yes, to go back to the quake and snow - I can't complain at the welcome I'm being given in England! The night I arrived, the island trembled, the biggest quake they've had in 24 years. (And yes, I've heard that joke already - about acquiring a reputation for 'landings'.)

I might have made it in time for the quake, but I did land at Heathrow one day too late to witness the spectacular Greenpeace 'Climate Emergency' reminder. I felt a little less guilty about flying in, since it was an intercontinental flight, and I did fly - sorry, I mean that in the 'dash' sense! - across half of London to catch the last train to Manchester.

And today, as if to prove the point about Climate Change, there's been a flurry of snow in Manchester. That's right! Snow - in March!!! It didn't last long enough for me to get my camera, or snow hard enough to make a snowman. In fact, it barely lasted the length of time I gaped out the window, and is gone by the time I'm writing this. But yes, it did snow enough to start my compulsive chatter again.

Here I am then - chattering away again, now that I have no excuses not to blog. I have all the time I need, I have a neat new laptop, and I have a reliable internet connection. Now, where's that audience of mine gone? Have I lost it already?

Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world...

2007-10-12T15:54:00.000+01:00

It's Casablanca I'm in - honest to God! There's a long story behind my finding myself in Casablanca, but simply put, it goes thus:

The folks at my office realised that I couldn't be trusted to look after myself alone, given the 'shallow' state I am in. (If you managed to miss the international breaking news updates about my health [where have you been!] you can either just nod along, or click here if you really must read the whole story.) So I was ordered to 'put your hands where we can see them - no, not on the keyboard!' and leave the building peacefully. Since my most willing baby-sitter continues to be my husband Dhruv (willing as my mom was, her visa expired!), I now have to follow him wherever he may go.

Not too bad a deal, I'd say, if he keeps going to exotic places like Morocco! He is here doing a three month internship, so here I am, playing house in two languages - neither of which I have used before! I have to learn phrases like 'avez-vous lavé la salle?' and 'nadef hazaa' and words like 'nettoyage' and 'qaleelan' to get through the day.

But evenings and weekends are full of fun and laughter, as Dhruv and I get to spend more time together than we have spent in the last one year! Of course, it also helps that we have great friends here. Nisheet (who has been a friend for the past 15 years or more!) lives here with his lovely wife Mitu and their even lovelier baby Neil.

So if you see me having heaps of fun in the pictures to come... you know whom to blame! The pool party you see in the 'video' (I know, I know, it's only a 'fake video' but it beats uploading all the pictures one by one; Gobless software like Photo Story.) is at Nisheet and Mitu's home, where we joined his mother, Pankaj, Tanya and Tess, one Sunny Sunny Sunday - Happy times, indeed!

Falling, funny side up!

2007-09-11T11:03:00.000+01:00

Laugh, and everyone laughs... at least at you if not quite with you.

Thankfully the accident I had this June (described in two parts, below) did nothing to wound my sense of humour, so I did manage to laugh even at the utterly predictable jokes I heard. Since I will definitely forget them (and yes, sharing a laugh is good - even if it IS at my own expense!) I decided to blog about it. Punchlines for posterity and all that. If you come up with any original jokes, please post them as comments so that they may be recorded for posterity too!

The context first: Following the ridiculous accident, I was left with no peripheral vision, but I had double vision on the sides, top and bottom of my field of vision. I had no depth perception when I looked down, and a short term memory problem as well. All these problems persist, but I am getting increasingly better as time passes by. The jokes, however, continue...

But first, did you know how very specialised the Dutch Healthcare system is? I fell from a tree in a forest, and probably hit my head on a rock, which is why I passed out. Therefore, who else would my case be entrusted to, if not Dr. Petra (petra = rock!) who heard about my accident and sent me straight on to the neurologist Dr. Bosboom (bos = Forest, boom = tree! I swear, I am NOT making this up, those are the Dutch words for forest and tree!!!!!)

Having double vision has led to all the predictable ones 'How many fingers?' and 'Where am I standing now?' and 'Which is the REAL me?' etc. But I have had some sit-com humour too:

I stood at a table, fixing myself a cup of coffee while Brian stood next to me and asked, "How are you doing now? Are your eyes getting better?"
"Oh yes! I'm seeing so much more clearly now!" I replied cheerfully.
"Errrr .. then you do know that's the saucer you're heaping sugar onto, right? The cup is a wee bit to the left."

My colleague Mike, who has repeated the 'how many fingers' joke each time we've met, did have a flash of sympathy for my condition, "Thank God I don't have your double vision!" (His wife and he just had twins!!!)

At one point, I had Vinuta, Divya, Ashish, Priya and Sanju ALL leaving bags at my apartment as they went to attend meetings outside A'dam. I might not have got psyched earlier - but can you imagine waking up to the sight of nearly a dozen bags in your living room?? Not pretty, I assure you!

As my double vision got better (limited to the side only) Akshayye suggested a good line to greet visitors with, "I saw two of you coming - where's the other one gone now?"

Another good piece of advice came from Stefan, "If you're seeing two of everything, make sure you only look at nice things."

Oh, and of course I have exploited the situation - but not as much as I could've. I turned down an invitation to play poker, even though I could've claimed I had a pair of Aces in each hand I was dealt, and twice the winnings I did have at the end of the game! I did, however, manage to get away with questions like, "Is it just me, or are there far too many people at this meeting?" and even better, "Hey, don't crowd the bar, ok? Can't you see there are four people already here?"

Speaking of bars - I have been reminded, often enough, of how lucky I am to see double "for FREE! Do you know how many gin-and-tonics I have to drink to get that perspective?" And I can exploit my lack of depth perception, to righteously exclaim, "Heyyyyyy, last time I looked, there sure was a lot more whisky in my glass!"

Oh, and with my short-term memory loss, I can honestly say "I can't remember when I last had so much fun!" or even, "Ooooh, why does my head hurt so much? I don't remember having anything to drink last night?!"

I am sure the lack of memory has resulted in several other hilarious situations, but I can't remember any of them. Honest. I do, however, remember turning up for one meeting a full 24 hours too early. And then wondering where everyone else was!

The only genuinely original clever line I came up with was in conversation with a certain German friend (I bet he remembers it, so no need to name names here!). Since I see double when I look down, he insisted, "You should look up to me then - as you should anyway - so that you only see the real me."

With great pleasure, I was able to point out, "Ahh well, I can look at you any way you want - since I have no depth perception, I won't see how shallow you are anyway!"

Hung in there? Good!!

2007-09-09T10:00:00.000+01:00

I'm told I'm a rotten blogger - I promise to post Part two of my accident story (Click here if you haven't read Part One, or this one will make no sense!) then I forget about it for months... what kind of blogger is that! Ahhh well, what can I say! My life is full of twists and turns (plus I tend to forget these days, but that's a whole other part of the story.)

So, where was I? Oh yes, I fell. And didn't turn around. That freaked them out a bit, I'd say, all those who'd been teasing me not minutes before!

Sure, there was the first aid that had been mentioned so reassuringly. And with so many colleagues around, there were bound to be a few who'd trained in first aid, except that first aid training doesn't really prepare you for something this bad. I mean, once you've gone through the routine:

Pulse? Check!

Breathing? Check!

Not choking on tongue? Check!

Right, now listen, it could be a neck injury, so whatever you do, DON'T MOVE HER!

Then there really isn't much more in that basic training booklet we've all read. So they called for the paramedics.

I can't help but see the funny side of that phone call, even though I wasn't quite 'there' to giggle at it, in a manner of speaking.

Colleague on phone, "Could you send us an ambulance please? Quickly!"

112 operator, "Certainly. Could you start by giving us the address?"

"Errrrr.... we're ... in a forest."

"Hmmm, I see. Could you be a bit more specific?"

So my colleague (no names, I'm respectful of others' privacy, if not my own!) ran to find the guys from the Forest Team, so that they could direct the paramedics.

Except, as soon as he reached the team, and breathlessly exclaimed, "There's been an accident..." they were off, running in the direction he'd just come from!

"Hey! Hang on! You need to tell the emergency service where to send the ambulance!!" he must've shouted at their retreating backs.

Of course, it worked out ok in the end, because the ambulance did arrive on the scene in good time. But first, the almost - a - helicopter tale: given the fact that we were on an island, and it 'looked bad, real bad' for the girl who took the plunge, the paramedics decided an airlifted ambulance service was called for.

But the weather gods thought not.

The helicopter pilot waited for clearance to take off, but the strong winds were just not cooperating. In the end, someone (not being discreet now, I really don't know who makes these decisions) apparently did the maths:

Wait for clear weather for take off 1 + flight time to Texel + transfer of patient to chopper + wait for take off 2 + flight time back to mainland = probably too long.

On the other hand: Driving time for ambulance van from Texel + transfer of patient + drive to ferry + drive off the ferry at Alkmaar, rush straight to hospital = probably much faster.

Naturally, the 'other hand' won. So I didn't get to fly in that helicopter after all - I'm not complaining, but you have to admit, it would have been a wayyyy more cool story to tell.

I must add, it sure helped to have a large team of colleagues around, since this meant there were enough able-bodied volunteers to help carry the stretcher I was forcibly strapped down on to. Oh and in all honesty, I have to admit that once I recovered consciousness, bleary as I was, I did NOT like being restrained, and did NOT appreciate how necessary it was to lie still. But a quick shot of a sedative put rest to that whole protest, I'm told! I lay quite calmly, even as they stepped up and down, over the hills and far away - ooooh, and they carefully passed my stretcher over a fence!!! It must have been some sedative, if I didn't protest vociferously at that.

So I was rushed to the hospital, in an ambulance, on the ferry. I will skip all the medical details since it could get gory - let's just say that every consultation I have had since then, with any doctor (and I have seen lots!) who has seen my reports, starts with the words, "This was quite a major accident you had, huh! I hope you know how serious it was!" And right after they finish telling me they cannot help me because there isn't much more medical intervention possible, they inevitably close by saying, "But you are really lucky, to even be alive! You do know this could have been much, much worse?"

Yeah, yeah, I know! Could have been worse. But let's not go there - for now, let me end with a little anecdote that tickles me each time I think back to it.

I was barely conscious through day one after the accident - but at night, I woke up at 3 am in the hospital bed, with a nurse asking me if I wanted to use the toilet. I thought about it, and it seemed like a pretty good idea. So I got up and followed her obediently. On the way, in the corridor, I asked her the stereotypical amnesiac question, "Where am I?"

So she replied, "In a hospital, Medisch Centre at Alkmaar."

My response? "Oh? A hospital? Who am I visiting?"

PS: This might be as good a time as any to say my Thank You's. So, if you are one of the people who visited me, either at the hospital or when I was sent back home, or if you sent me flowers, or a card, or even left a comment here wishing me well - thank you so much. It's helped - a LOT!!!

Hang in there!

2007-07-21T17:53:00.000+01:00

For those who missed the million updates from my friends and family, here are the bare facts of what really happened on the 11th of June, 2007.

I was in the Netherlands.
On a staff retreat.
In a forest.
On an island. (Click that if you'd rather take a virtual tour of the place than read about my accident... I would!)

There we were, helping a group of forest conservationists in Texel. We hacked at weeds, dug at rocky ground, drilled to create a log stairway, hammered in stakes to avoid dynamiting a hill, wheeled away barrows full of refuse... and yes, after sweating it out for hours, we took a tea break.

During that tea break, I discovered that...
There was a hill.
That had a tree.
That had a rope.
That had some knots.
That people could swing on. (Taller people than me, of course, but let's not rush into this.)

I wondered (aloud, dash it!) at how one could swing on something as high!! Technical expertise was instantly forthcoming, "This is where your hands go, this is where your feet go, this is how you jump up, this is how you swing out, this is how much fun it could, would, should be!!"

Strategic consultancy came next, "You know, if you did want to try this, it would be best to clutch the rope, drag it up the hill, jump as the rope swings out and lift your feet onto the lower knot. There! As simple as that!"

Then, before I knew it, there was a whole support team out, "It's easier if you let this tall colleague bring you the rope. Easier if you stand on that colleague's knees to raise yourself. And look! This colleague will even give you a live demo! See? That's how simple it is." (The picture isn't of the same rope swing, or even from the same forest, but imagine something similar... just higher off the ground and with no loop to stick a foot into! The demo wasn't nearly as graceful as this image, but still!!)

So I did stand on one's knees, and did take the rope from another, and did imitate the third by going sailing out over the hill! Whooooooooooooooooo-hooooooo, what a ride!

"Now you can do it by yourself!" they exhorted.

But. For the record (and this is important!) I did have the wisdom and the courage to say, "Naaaah! This is beyond me. I just can't do it."

Oh, but then there was the audience - who quickly went from "Go on, you can do it!" to a far more sardonic, "What are you worrying about? It's only a swing - there are children who wouldn't worry as much as you are!" and even, "Go on! Give us something to post on YouTube!" and the reassuring, "Don't worry, we have a first aid kit if something happens."

My last memory is of staring at that knotted rope, letting go of it and saying, "Nope! No way!"

What happened next - reconstructed from the accounts of eye witnesses - is that I was too easily carried away by the audience comments, and not quite so easily carried away by the rope I enthusiastically flung myself on to.

I swung out. I soared over the hill. I lost my grip on the rope. I fell - from between three and seven metres high above the ground. I landed - face down.

And then, to the utter fright of all those around me, I didn't turn around. I didn't cry out. I didn't so much as say "Ooops!"

What followed next was first aid, emergency paramedics, a stretcher carried over hilly ground, an ambulance, a helicopter that couldn't take off because of bad weather, a massive ferry that was held back till the grand arrival... but... all that must wait.

I'm sorry, I'm still allowed only a limited amount of time on the computer. So I do have to go, but I promise to bring you Part Two of the story soon! [Posted here - click to read the next bit!]

PS - If you HAVE read this far, do leave me a comment... it's the only amusement I have these days, and the only way I can tell that there's someone out there.

Whuffffff!

2007-06-22T11:02:00.000+01:00

The author of this blog has been rendered temporarily offline thanks to an unfortunate incident involving a rope swing, a hillside and a concussion. She has been advised to remain offline for a period between 4 and 6 weeks.

Personal messages may be left here as comments for her to view/have read out to her, as and when her sight permits. If there is a message that can be posted, do send it on to her at:

Van der Hoopstraat 97 - 1
1051 VD Amsterdam

She is deeply appreciative of the sympathy, kindness and good wishes being passed on to her via her husband, her family and those of her colleagues visiting her frequently.

She promises to be back, and to provide her blog visitors with an in-depth report of her experiences, soon.

Yes, I went to Barbados…

2007-05-05T15:37:00.000+01:00

There was a certain cruelty, or poetic injustice if you will, to my being in Barbados this April. Which is why I’m nearly apologetic about it. But … I’ve been asked to blog about it, so blog I shall. (I’m good that way!)

I'm not particularly contemplative, but when I was sitting on a beach this fine, with the sun seeming to rise especially for me, and the sea bringing pool after pool of golden silk and leaving it at my feet with each wave... I couldn't help but think deep thoughts about my place in this utterly magical, mystical universe.

No, I don’t know how to swim – and yet, I had my first snorkelling experience in the Caribbean Sea! I have touched a bright pink coral reef with bare hands, brushed my arm against a school of tiny silvery purple fish as they swooshed past me, thrashed in a moment’s panic as a jellyfish stung me and watched in amazement as a sting ray flapped along the sandy bottom of a turquoise blue ocean.

Yes, I’ve never watched live cricket (and when there’d be a match on TV I used to follow it closely… but only to pick the best moment to ask my husband if I could borrow his credit card. I can thank Team India for a few internet transactions!) So that should tell you how passionate I am about cricket… and yet, I got to watch the World Cup Final – live, in the Media Box, so perfectly positioned that I could watch Malinga’s expressions change as he hurled each ball out. Oh, and yes, I did watch the legendary Glen McGrath play in his last match ever. (Sorry, boys!) Though he's not exactly popular in the West Indies, he got a standing ovation as he was named the Player of the Tournament and became the leading wicket taker in the history of the Cup!!! (Of course I didn't know all that then!)

And... ummm, no! I wouldn’t exactly call myself a reggae fan either. I wouldn’t have recognised Buju Banton if he’d been sitting next to me in a train. Worse, I’d have registered nothing even if he’d introduced himself to me! But – sorry, again! – I got to witness him perform live at a concert simply named ‘Reggae on the Hill.’ It was one massive party, and if you’re a smoker, you’re going to hate me more for this. Apart from the plastic glasses of rum-and-coke being gladly handed out to ‘new friend, not stranger!’ the party was decidedly marked by the thick joints being passed around equally freely. (As you might have guessed by now, I don’t smoke either.)

So, if you hate me right now and are wondering if there is ANY justice in the world whatsoever… I did get an awful tan, my hair got all frizzy in the harsh tropical sun, and I’m allergic to shell fish. So even the highly sustainable, small-boat-hand-net-caught shrimp and prawns were off limits. Totally.

I hope you feel a little better? I certainly do... after Barbados!

Crowning Glory

2007-03-28T14:41:00.000+01:00

You shall, hereafter, address me by my Right Ridiculous title, if you please!

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:
Her Royal Highness Namrata the Essential of Praze-an-Beeble
Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Boredom. Beyond. Belief.

2007-03-24T22:56:00.000Z

White ceiling above. White bedsheet below. White behind my eyelids.

The colour of peace, did you say? The colour of tooth-gnashing, blood-curdling emptiness, I say.

I measure out my day in coffee spoons - too bored to acknowledge an allusion, or even quote it correctly. One to wake me up, two to make me feel human, three to fill that pre-noon hollow, four to give my hands something to do, five to ... oh who cares.

I count the number of raisins in my muesli. (Hangonaminute, I'm eating muesli at 3pm? Where did lunch go?)

I plug in to the internet - again. But what in the whole World Wide Web would hold the attention of someone as glazed over as me? Social currency, that's what the internet was invented for, not this blinding deluge of banneradstravelsitesfulllengthpornmakemoneynowsavethisorthatorthesemany...

I stumble. I digg. I scrap. I skype. Is there anyone out there? But it's the weekend. My contacts' taglines joyfully exclaim 'sweating it out in Bris-vegas' 'on holiday until 26th March' and even the energetic 'ice-hockey rules'.

Meanwhile, still, that white behind my eyelids.

I lie diagonally across the bed. Head on his side, feet on mine. Take childish pleasure in using his pillow, shedding stray hairs on it. Sure to irritate him at midnight. Then I remember he won't be home till midnight. Pointless. So I pick each strand up, one by one. Twist them together into a tiny, frizzy, crackling speck. More life in this little fuzz ball than in the locks hanging listlessly from my scalp.

I open a suitcase (nope, no clanging-Godrej-cupboard for me here) hoping to find something that will cheer me up just by putting it on, a cloak of cheerfulness. After shuffling through clumsy heaps, I find I've settled on - A black sweater. Navy blue slacks. A maroon full sleeve tee shirt plain. No political slogans, no funky caricatures, no smart-ass attitude. Not even complementary colours.

I shower endlessly, feeling idly guilty about the water gurgling uselessly down the drain.

I step out. Run a half-hearted towel across myself. Step, un-lotioned, un-perfumed, into my unmatched clothes.

I stand at the foot of my bed, wondering if I should lie down again. Damp head. Damn bed.

I pull Tuesday's dinner out of the fridge, dig a spoon into it, then dangle the spoon six inches high till thwack! it reluctantly slops onto my plate. Nuke it. Eat it standing, barefoot and damp haired in the kitchen.

I stare out of the window. In the distance, a girl shrieks with Saturday night laughter. I turn off the lights. Close the window tight.

Shadows on the white ceiling above. Creases on the white bedsheet below. And still, that white behind my eyelids.

I've caught a Rahman

2007-02-26T13:49:00.000Z

Perhaps that flu I wrote about earlier is still affecting my vocabulary, but really... this week I've caught a bad case of the Rahman song 'Tere Bina' from Guru. You know that feeling, don't you? Of a song that gets into your system almost exactly like a virus?

First, you're exposed to it in passing - hear a bar or two in a club, or perhaps you watch the movie (like I did) and are too engrossed in the experience to really absorb the beauty of the song.

Then, someone somewhere passes on the infection - by asking you, "Have you noticed the rhythm?" And if it is someone close, you're twice as vulnerable to it. In my case, it was my husband, so it was almost inevitable that I would catch this one! He played it for me one weekend and asked me how I liked the song. Three repetitions later, I was singing along.

The song, like a professional virus, sat dormant in my system for a day or two... then it started surfacing quite like an occasional sneeze.

This morning, getting ready for work, I didn't even notice that I was humming "Dum dara dum dara" over and over again.

When the tram driver asked me if I had a ticket, I had to clap my hand over my mouth before a burst of "Bin tere kya jeena" emerged.

At lunch, I found myself staring at my bowl of split-pea and carrot soup and thinking "beswaadi, beswaadi" (Ok, so it was pretty tasteless, but still!!)

And now I'm going to have to work it out of my system somehow! Here are my choices... either I could succumb to it and play it over and over and over and over again till it decides to leave me. Or I could fight Rahman with Rahman and go back to some old favourites... sort of an antibiotic treatment.

If you've ever (successfully!) fought off a case of the Rahman yourself, gharelu nuskhe will be much welcomed! Meanwhile, I shall wallow in it (trying out the 'don't fight it' approach).

... after all I do have to leave my husband in Manchester, swallowing back tears as he waves at me from the bus stop. And yes, it is "Chaakri ke maare" as a matter of fact.

Uneasy lies the head that bears the flu

2007-02-09T19:32:00.000Z

What do you get when you mix a Compulsive Chatter and a really crippling case of the flu? A week of uneasy silence, that's what you get. She stews and frets, says, "What?" suddenly to her own shadow, and apologizes profusely to a tea-towel she stamped on by mistake... before lapsing back into silence.

If you leave this stewing mixture in a nicely pre-heated, cheerily decorated health clinic (natuurlijk, in the first world, of course!) you see it acquire a fine glaze of awe ... there are Rembrandt prints on the wall, National Geographic and Time magazines (current issues, at that!) in the waiting room, and a striking, five-feet-and-twenty-inches tall blonde goddess of a doctor to stick one's tongue out at!

If your lungs sound as symphonic through a stethoscope as the aforementioned Compulsive's did, you will be handed a high-tech looking orange diskette with levers and counters, that will measure out one powdery dose of medication at a time and deliver it straight into your lungs, simultaneously keeping count of how many you've taken since you first made its acquaintance. And no, it's not an inhaler! Oh, and that the end of this not-entirely-unpleasant experience (or was it just that these were the first real people I've spoken to in days?) when all you have to do is wave an insurance card and walk out clutching your toy and a packet of balsam-scented tissues ... trust me, it will feel like a grade A corporatised health-care miracle!

If you were to leave this half-baked, half-cured Compulsive in front of a glowing fireplace for a further three days, with a temperature of 102 F and nothing but a copy of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy for company, you would create the most crackling, cackling, time-space-hopping dreams this side of Betelguese. And we haven't even knocked at the Heart of Gold yet!

Then, just when the Compulsive is nearly, but not quite, cured... if you were to sprinkle on Amsterdam's first real snow this winter, you would also get a side helping of raving lunacy, as she decides to entertain herself by playing with toys. Sorry! Correction! ... creates artistic pictures, photographs that would, she believes, qualify as still life art work. Oh, and her first ever animated gif - of a car right below her window, getting sprinkled, then covered with snow, then wiped clean and driven off... and it's tracks obliterated by fresh snow. Height of excitement this week!!

Is the world really ready for a large helping of a compulsive stewed-in-silence, cured-in-dementia, awed-by-insurance and seasoned-with-snowflakes?? I think I'm going to dive under the covers for just a bit longer.

You, meanwhile, could click on the image of the car and see it being animated!

White Christmas

2006-12-26T16:25:00.000Z

My first view of the Swiss Alps, my first view of little Neil, my first attempt on skis, my first White Christmas ... it sure has been a momentous December!

Despite travelling for a full 11 hours (I took the train and spent 3 hours waiting for my connection in Cologne!) to Basel-Mulhouse, I got to see baby Neil (brand new son of Nisheet, an old, old friend) only hours later in the afternoon. He's lovely though, totally worth the travel and the wait. Nisheet and Mitu tried really hard to get Neil to wake up and smile for the camera, but the unusually warm sunshine only made him yawn wider and fall fast asleep.

The evening was spent sipping gluhwein and eating bags of roasted chestnuts in the Christmas market at Basel – not quite as mad as Diwali melas back home, but nearly as colourful, esp this pumpkin giant wheel!

The next day, Nisheet drove us up to Engelburg so that we could spend Christmas Eve admiring the snowy Alps up close. Really, really close!

I got a large handful of snow, but Dhruv and Nisheet got snow by the bootful, the jacketful, and all-over-the-car-full!

Dhruv looks surprisingly calm for a person who's just had the back of his shirt filled with snow! Maybe he was still in shock ;-)

And then it was time for my first encounter with a pair of skis… and for anyone out there who, like me, thought it looked easy, trust me… it isn’t. Especially if you are accustomed to walking around on feet as small as mine, and then suddenly find yourself strapped, bolted and clamped onto appendages as long as you are high! My centre of gravity didn’t just shift – it vanished altogether.

I swayed dangerously as soon as I was on the skis, and long before the thought had formed itself fully I was ‘aaaaaaaaaargh’ing my way down a slope and onto my back. My feet were closer to my elbows than they’d ever been before, while my knees decided to lock themselves into this strange new position they found themselves in. I swear I could have lain there all my life or chewed my way through my blasted skis if someone hadn’t snapped them off for me.

Yes, that's me teetering in the middle. No, I hadn't just braked to a perfect stop. I was still learning how to stand on the skis.

Dhruv, on the other hand, did much much better - either he's instinctively good, or he learnt from my (many!!) mistakes, or ... and this is my theory... men are just designed to deal better with a shifting centre of gravity!

Whatever the reason, the fact is that within minutes, he had learnt how to walk (while I was still ridiculously penguin-waddling) and within the hour, was swooshing past me exuberantly. But yes, he did fall over reassuringly often, so we were able to laugh together. It would have been insufferably annoying if he'd just been perfect at it while I just kept falling over again and again.

Oh, and eventually I did learn how to do it right too - and there's no denying that the wonderful sensation of gliding across the snow, a chill wind nibbling at your nose even as you sweat from the exertion... it can be very addictive indeed! I'm already wondering when I can go again next! I hope I won't need to wait till Christmas!

Deux Bobos in Paris

2006-11-18T21:50:00.000Z

It's Clode and me again - this time in Paris, enjoying Coq au Vin, Salad Nicoise and Mousse au Chocolade (with the mandatory wine, of course!) at 'Un Zebra a Montmartre'.

Having finished a rather complicated day's work, we decided to reward ourselves with one of our 'side events' - my first ever trip to see the beautiful Eiffel Tower! But before that, we behaved like typical 'Bobos' - bourgeiose bohemes - apparently the Parisian term for people who loll about like we did, enjoying a four pm lunch at Montmartre, then window shopping in the colourful district, before heading out to see the famous tower.

All the way there, I told Clode about how much I'd been wanting to see it; how my husband had seen it years ago, but not gone to the top; how I wished I could visit Paris with him someday, and that I really wanted to go up to the top, but if the queues were long, or the weather not right, or the ticket too expensive, or... whatever! Then I would just resign myself to thinking that I'm not meant to be seeing it without him, and I would just come back another time. My gabbing on and on about it had an unusual effect later that evening!

My first view of the tower was exactly what it should have been - sudden, breathtaking, dramatic.
No hurried view from a cab window for me - we emerged from the underground, turned one corner, and there it was! In all it's glory, with the beautiful city laid out around it.

Having clicked a few hundred gasping pictures of it, even as the light began to fade, I agreed to pose as Clode took what she called the 'mandatory' pic of me in front of the tower. :-)

And then, as we walked down towards the tower itself, I realised why they call Paris the city of love - a couple sat on a little park bench by the side of the road that leads up to the Eiffel tower. Oblivious to the tourists passing them by, they sat completely engrossed in each other, holding hands, looking into each others' eyes and talking in low romantic murmurs... unremarkable?

Well, except for the fact that they were both well over 70 years old!

Fabulous, truly fabulous!!!

Heartwarming as it was, my favourite moment of the day was yet to come... when we got to the tower, we found that the weather had held up, the queue was not too long, the tickets were just 11 euro (not the rumoured 100 euro!!!) and even though Clode said she had vertigo, she was willing to give it a try. ("How unsafe can it be, I asked myself," she confessed to me later, "After all, thousands of people do this every day!") So up, up and away we went, through the metal girders that look like lace from a distance, but reveal solid strength when you view them up close.

At the top, Clode said she would wait for me in the covered gallery, while I went up to have my hair 'windswept by Paris' in the open viewing gallery. I stood there, I delighted in the view, I almost laughed out loud as the wind swept my hair up, turned it into something entirely new, then crept up my sleeves, tickled me through my collar and even nipped at my ankles!

And then, just as I was clicking what I thought was my last picture, mindful of the fact that Clode was waiting for me one level below, I heard a small voice call my name... and found that Clode had actually summoned the courage to climb the stairs and join me at the top of the tower... the absolute, open-to-the-elements, barely protected top! For someone who said just half an hour ago that she had vertigo, that was quite a fair amount of courage! She said she couldn't resist joining me after the way I'd gone on and on about it - my enthusiasm had been contagious!

But as she admitted, the view was definitely worth it.

I don't think either one of us is going to forget that view in a hurry!

Awed by Athens

2006-11-06T14:00:00.000Z

It's a beautiful sunny day, my first in Athens. Swinging as I am to repetitive strains of Zorba the Greek (right-click and open that in a new window to hear the song as you read along!) playing in my head, I'm simply amazed when, at the very first train station I step into, the muzak being played is the very same tune! I must look like a lunatic, standing there and smiling at the rails, but it's all I can do to stop from laughing out loud with sheer delight. (Of course, it's probably to cater to tourists exactly like myself that they play such music, but then, that's the more cynical version. Being a Dynosian myself, I'd prefer to believe it was spontaneous magic!)

The magic continued... Later that afternoon, as I wandered around the Monastiraki marketplace, walking past literally hundreds of stalls selling madly colourful 'authentic' Greek art, I turned one sudden corner to discover these ancient ruins.

Standing there silently, witness to God knows how many tourists' trampings (and probably sheltering tramps who live off the tourists!) and surely the subject of a million pictures taken on little digicams like my own.

In the daytime, they looked neglected, almost as though I had stumbled upon something the city had forgotten. There were no signs anywhere to explain what these were, no enthusiastic locals pointing out that it was here that the Theban plays were once staged, or here that Mayoral candidates made their speeches before each round of elections. But at night...

Stunningly lit up, the ruins now seemed as if they were holding their breath, waiting to be restored to their glory so that they may once again play host to powerful actors, who will once again hold audiences in their sway, bringing to life, once again, all the melodrama that once was Greece. Perhaps, if I am very, very good, I might be brought back here in time to witness that moment...

This time, however, a little old lady with a Tina Turner voice is the only melodramatic character I meet in my all too brief visit to Athens. Sunning herself outside her shop, she calls out cheerily to everyone who passes by, addressing them all without discretion as 'my darling, my friend!' and promising them that 'just for you, everything today is more than 50%' (I tried pointing out that she must either say 'less than 50%' or 'more than 50% off' but she just smiled and held my hand and told me I was "bahut sundar, namaste, shukriya". Now who could argue semantics in the face of multilinguistic flattery like that!)

I left her shop with a shukriya of my own, but not before I had been persuaded to buy a cat, a traditional Greek coffee pot and of course, a beautiful 'koukovaiya' - a Greek owl for my collection! Well, I might be several Euro poorer for the flattery, but at least the owl will remind me of that delightful old lady, sitting there near those ruins, waiting... for just one more admirer to discover their charms!

Hopping home – the Swades experience?

2006-10-26T15:17:00.000+01:00

I have such few visitors to my blog (or at least, so few who bother to comment!) that I decided I must fulfill my reader’s request for a blog on my all too brief Swades experience… as always, India did not fail to satisfy all of my senses.

Visually, the passage of time was self-evident.

When we had left, in August, the roadside kumhaars in Noida were putting finishing touches to Ganpati idols, getting ready for Ganesh Chaturthi. When I returned, in October, the delightfully pot-bellied god had made way for the curvaceous, smiling but yet unpainted statues of Goddess Lakshmi. (The picture’s not mine, I just found it on the Tribune site, and it’s exactly what I saw!)

With ‘Discount Sale’ banners strung over each shop, hoardings for jewelry merchants more visible than ever, and a distinct festivity in most sweet shops, Diwali was certainly just around the corner.

My ears knew I was home as well – starting with the ‘Taxi, madam? Madam? Taxi?’ at the airport. When I smiled at the immigration officer simply because he asked me in Hindi if I were on a ‘home visit’, I knew I had indeed, been homesick all along.

I could have done without the blaring of horns, but then it wouldn’t have been the complete experience, now would it?

But the most complete experience was the one for my nose and my tastebuds – spicy home-made food, chaat on the streets, mithaai whenever I wanted it, and regular sessions of Blenders Pride and sprouts with my father in law! Perfect!

Oh, and the warmth… surprisingly warm for October, I have to say… The very first night I was in Delhi, I squirmed at a familiar trickle down my spine… and realized it had been weeks since I perspired without exercising! Back now in cold European lands, I actually sigh for the warmth already… but no, I do enjoy the chilly winds here, as long as I can surround myself with the colourful scarves, spicy snacks and pictures of family that I brought back with me.

A Manchester Diwali

2006-10-24T14:20:00.000+01:00

All the lights and all the lamps
In Manchester did glow
As we had an expat Diwali
Put on a gala show.

Ram was white, so Darcy-like
A blond Sita did simper
A genuine Sri Lankan Raavan
Did make the children whimper.

From Rogan Josh to Poppadums
The buffet tables groaned
All gorged till fit to bust the seams
Of the Indian clothes they'd loaned.

And yes, the room did boom and shake
But no explosions, aye!
Twas dancing that we chose to make
Our modus operandi.

Much bollywood music did play
The Brits just didn't know what to say
Till 3 am the party lasted
I can barely blog I’m so exhausted!

Mussels in Brussels!

2006-09-28T12:13:00.000+01:00

Belgian chocolate, crystal and diamonds I had heard of – but mussels in Brussels is apparently what one should really be feasting on!

I had a fantastic meal at De Groen Ezel (pronounced ‘ay-zol’; my friend Clode confirms it is a rude word, but it doesn’t mean what you think it does – it’s just ‘donkey’!) a warm pub right next to the hotel I stayed in. Even though I decided not to order the mussels and fries myself, I couldn’t resist dipping into Clode’s bucket of mussels – that’s quite a heap of shells we piled up!

Clode is a great dinner companion – apart from being able to decipher the entire menu and order in rapid French, she proved to be an able guide to the equally famous Belgian beers. Apparently, Stella Artois is to Belgian beer what Nescafe is to coffee… if you want a real Belgian beer, you have to try a Trappist one, or the Lindemanns.

I had one of each – a Trappist Chimaya bleue with my meal, and a Lindemann Framboise as dessert!

I ordered a walnut pork cheek cooked in white beer to go with my Chimaya – a combination that made the Belgians sitting at the next table (yup, they do have Poirot-esque moustaches!!) point and stare.

I couldn’t get any of their conversation with Clode, but from the ‘awww fyoooh!’ and the fist-waving, I gathered they were rather impressed that a ‘slight woman like me’ (yeah, in Europe, even I qualify as petite!!!) was able to stomach the potent pork with the Chimaya. Apparently even a Belgian man would think twice about that particular ‘strong’ mix. (Between you and me, if you’ve had as many shots of Blender’s Pride whisky with pork chilly as I have had in Delhi, you wouldn’t blink at the meal I had today!)

They actually burst out laughing when my next beer arrived – and one sip confirmed why. The framboise, or raspberry beer, tasted more like a cherry soda than anything else, and was about as potent. Ahh well, your instincts can’t always lead you to make the right choice!

My filling meal was ample recompense for the long walk I had earlier in the evening, when I arrived in Brussels. The walk from the station leads straight, straight up and the walk described as a 7 minute one in the directions I'd received, took me nearly fifteen minutes... and taxed muscles that I never knew I had!

The street may not look like much in this picture I took on my way back to the station in the morning, but trust me, when you’re looking up that steeeeep hill, with a backpack on your back, it’s no laughing matter… next time around, I’m riding an ezel!

New home in Amsterdam!

2006-09-18T11:17:00.000+01:00

At long last, I have been able to take some pictures of my lovely new apartment in Amsterdam. Take a look!!!
This is the view from my main living room - don't miss my neighbour cleaning his windows in the right corner of the picture! That's what I was doing all weekend - no, not cleaning windows... watching people clean theirs! :-)

This is what the living room looks like - don't miss the fireplace on the right! It actually works.

And that couch opens up into a perfectly comfortable bed ... So don't think twice about coming over to visit.

Here is where I shall cook all my meals - Thea's artwork is already decorating my teeny weeny fridge!

And this, done in my favourite shade of red, is my bedroom. It gets delightfully sunny, and is very very cozy!
And here is the reason for the great light in the bedroom - it opens into the balcony (I'm saving that for the last!) with venetian blinds.
... and this is the view I open my eyes to each morning. Nice, isn't it?
And this (ta-daaaaah!) is my personal little piece of heaven... my balcony!
There are potted plants, a great view of fir trees, and nice neighbours who peep over that railing once a day to say hello. It's a really nice neighbourhood!

Just one thing wrong with this picture... there's only one mug on the table!

Join me for a cup of tea???

Seeking Lebensraum in the Sun

2006-08-25T11:06:00.000+01:00

...and finding it in Manchester too!

Before we left India, friends everywhere kept telling us that the one thing we'd hate about Manchester would be the weather. Well, we've been here three days now, and I can't say I've had a thing to complain about.

Of course, I do think I should add the disclaimer that the weather is notoriously unpredictable - sunny one hour, pouring the next. In fact, even as I was soaking up the sun yesterday, here's the story I read in the day's Manchester Evening News:

"HOLIDAY-MAKERS were evacuated from part of a departure lounge at Manchester Airport after bits of the ceiling collapsed in a freak downpour.
Passengers said they saw the roof leaking when they arrived in the lounge at Terminal 1. Then part of the ceiling fell through near a duty-free shop."

Now that's something to think about next time you want to complain about the overcrowded airports in India... we've certainly never had to deal with such emergencies! Tickled by the teaser? Read the full story here.

But coming back to the sunshine - the temperatures are low, of course, but the sun has been shining faithfully down on us for the days we've been here. Yesterday morning, it was bright enough at 7 am to inspire me out for a brisk morning walk. I'd noticed an entrance to Plattsfield Park right across the road from our B&B, so headed there in search of lebensraum. And as you can see from the pictures, I certainly found it!

The park is delightful - acres and acres of green, with all kinds of birds (my friend Jai would've enjoyed it - they even have a directory listing showing you where and when to look for which birds!)

It surprised me, however, to see how few people there were - is that a sign of the times, where folks would rather hang out in a mall than in a park? or was it just the time of day? Either way, in one hour of walking about this HUGE park, the only people I saw were one woman doing Taichi exercises, a man fishing in the lake, one bicycler who zipped past me, and a young couple playing a racquet game... really, that's it!

Except, of course, for the birds, who seemed to be enjoying the sun a wee bit more than the Indian did. Which makes me wonder if they don't see it that much after all?! Hmmmm, let's see what the rest of the week is like, then!

Where are we off to then?

2006-08-22T16:30:00.000+01:00

"Here you go darling, lets help you with those!"

Not quite what you're used to hearing a cab driver say if you're from New Delhi and lugging heavy bags into a cab at the airport. In Manchester, however, it's a different story altogether. The cab drivers, to begin with, are polite AND helpful. The cabs are adorable too.. good old fashioned hackneys that are unlike anything I've ever seen.

The weather - and yes, everyone warned me this is the part I would HATE - has been amazing! It's bright, sunny, crisp and cool. Perfect for taking in the sights, exploring this new city and deciding on 'new favourites.'

Unfortunately, I'm stuck without a camera... my cellphone camera switch no longer works, so till I fix that, or get a new one, I shall have to content myself with lots of verbose descriptions of everything I see.

Stray readers, don't say I didn't warn you! It is called compulsivechatter for a reason, after all! More coming later, for now I have to go get supper with my husband. A romantic meal for two, I hope, considering he took the trouble to bring me all the way to Manchester for my birthday this year!!

6 am at the airport.

2006-07-04T13:18:00.000+01:00

I wonder why so many people are willing to wake up so early to get from point A to point B. Even though I’m headed home after 2 weeks of traveling, I hate the early morning flight. Hate the waking up at 5. Hate the waiting for the cab. Hate the crowd at the airport (seems like the early morning flights are always the most crowded, and almost every airline has at least four flights in the space of half an hour! That adds up to a LOT of people!).

Perhaps the only thing I like about the early morning flight is the ride to the airport through a city just beginning to stir. Like the surge of affection you feel towards a sleeping child, there’s something about the early morning hours that makes even the coldest, most harsh city seem human. And Bangalore is far from the worst.

Last night’s revelers have headed home ages ago (the 11.30 curfew is still in place after all). The streets, therefore, are calm, readying themselves for the tribulations that will begin in just a couple of hours. A couple of early morning walkers, inevitably wearing caps to protect their heads against the dew, wave their arms in unself-conscious circles, maxing their cardiovascular work-out. The smoky remains of last night’s fires, abandoned during the watchman’s shift change, create a stagey atmosphere. Milkmen cycle along slowly, sleepily, their big aluminum cans not yet glinting in the pre-dawn light. It’s quite lovely at this time.

At the airport, soapy smells dominate. Aggressively after-shaved men, carefully cologned women and complaining, clean children line up – first at the entrance to the airport, then at the check-in counters, then at the security check points, then at the boarding gates and finally at the aircraft itself. It’ll be a minor miracle if that mint-fresh look is preserved by the time they disembark to start yet another day at the other end.

In the meantime, to make matters worse, our flight has been delayed by 40 minutes… and the sharp, strong, sweet coffee I had to wake myself up this morning has left me too wired to relax as the others are doing. So, while most men pace, most women read and most children sleepily seek crumbs of their breakfast lingering in their mouths...

me, I blog.

Desperate housewives... or how many implements do you need to make a cup of tea?

2006-06-25T18:37:00.000+01:00

Here's how it starts.

She wanted a cup of tea. So she put the electric kettle - Exhibit A - on, and waited for it to heat.

But of course, nothing happened.

So she took - Exhibit B - a long-handled spoon, and went to flick the switchgear that trips each time there's an overload in the kitchen.

She comes back. Looks at the kettle again. Nothing yet!

Then, out of her little bag comes - Exhibit C - a little immersion rod. She plugs that in, already looking forward to the aroma of the Jasmine tea.

BANG. sizzle. phsssssst.

Ok, ladies and gentlemen, we have - Exhibit D - an immersion rod in two parts. Cable now divorced from the business end of the immersion rod.

So she goes back to the good ol' fashioned - Exhibit E - gas stove. Pours the water in, and waits for it to heat.

Meanwhile, her flatmate - ummm, Exhibit F?? - decides to show her how it's really done.
Plugs in the kettle (convinced it's a mistake SHE was making!) and waits with a decidedly superior stance, while she sips her tea already.

Exhibit G... think he might have forgotten something????

Snicker, snicker!!!! Oh, and btw, the kettle didn't work even after he had put the switch on.

PS - If this really was an episode of Desperate Housewives, I bet a 22 year old , really hot Mexican electrician would be displaying butt cleavage in her kitchen right now... and a calming cup of tea would be the last thing on her mind!

Ahhh well, the lives we lead!

Cup of coffee, anyone?

2006-06-24T14:21:00.000+01:00

My blog title should warn you what to find in here - yes, I'm a compulsive chatter, and can think of nothing more exciting than to settle down with a cup of coffee, a friend or a phone, and chat for endless hours about everything under the sun.

So why am I doing so on a blog? Well, even compulsives' friends sometimes get a day or two off, y'know! So, even though I do have a group of friends [real ones, not just strangers popping in to comment on my blogs ;-) ] I still find myself by myself quite frequently.

Like today, the day I've actually set up this blog. I started my day with a bit of work (my work is very interesting, but more about that another day!) until Stefan, the German guy who also inhabits the Commune I live in (also very interesting, but ... yeah! another day, another blog) mentioned he was leaving for a lunch date. And since the other three lovely ladies who share my Commune had independent weekend plans as well, I would've found myself all by myself in this big, empty apartment.

So of course, I decided it was time to indulge myself with a bit of retail therapy, and asked him if he'd drop me off at one of the many malls that have sprung up in Bangalore. (That's where I live, for half of every month... the other half is virtually another life!)

That's how I came to be wandering around Bangalore's MG Road by myself, after having found Bangalore Central a bit too much for me. I nearly bought a pair of trousers... was thrilled to be fitting in an 'M' sized ANYTHING again, but had no one with me, so wasn't quite sure if it was obvious that this was the first M I'd worn in years! ;-)

I bought myself a book so I could eat lunch. And this is something anyone planning to eat alone will understand at once. Then I went to a little restaurant called Lake View. I'd been told that the Roast Lamb there is fantastic. But it isn't. It was too salty, they served a really small portion, and the sauce was something I'd never tasted before... for good reason. Oh, and don't be fooled by the promise of 'Garlic bread and salad' on the menu - it's actually accompanied by heavily buttered bread that has garlic paste spread on it!!!!!! and a bowl of chopped onions, tomatoes and cucumber. That's it. Really!

So anyway, since Bangalore Central had bored me, and the trousers didn't work out and neither did the lunch, I decided this wasn't doing anyone any good, and chose to come back home again.

Now that we have a high speed internet connection, I decided I would log on to see if I could find any of my friends online. You guessed it, no one around! And that's when I decided, dammitall, I'll just start my own blog. It'll be a bit like talking to myself, of course, but what the hell - isn't that what all blogs are really about?

First you talk to yourself, then you hope someone's listening. Then, because your 'listeners' are basically by themselves too, they'll write something back, and what do you know! You've got a conversation going!!!

So if you've been reading this... this is the point in the conversation where the compulsive chatter says, "Oh dear! Look at me, going on about myself... enough about me! Let's talk about you now!"