Simply Speaking

Paalam Manila

2012-01-31T17:42:00.000-08:00

It seems like yesterday that I clambered into a white airport cab, waiting for my husband to join me after loading our suitcases into the back. He spoke to the driver in rapid Tagalog. The language sounded so different from any of the other Asian languages I had heard. Tagalog was a lot more sing-song and somehow a lot happier.

We drove down from the Ninoy Aquino International Airport and I looked at the vehicles that were jostling for space on the roads, much like Bangalore. I kept waiting for a spire or a turret or a stereotypically South-East Asian looking building to appear. I kept waiting to feel as if I was in a foreign land. And all the while, it just felt like we were driving through Delhi or Mumbai.

The familiarity did not matter though. It certainly was not love at first sight as far as Manila and me were concerned. And in retrospect, this was certainly more my fault, than the city’s. Having left my job, my family, my friends and even my favourite take-away places behind to join my soul mate, I was caught up in between moments of bliss and heavy unshed tears. I started to judge the city a lot more harshly than any of the Indian cities that I’ve lived in.

‘Where are the lending libraries that are so common back home?’

‘Why are books so expensive?’

‘How come the museums are not that popular?’

‘Why are the malls the go-to places for all things recreational in the city?’

‘Where are the Filipino Angkor Wats and Borobodurs?’

‘Why is it so hard for an Indian journalist to get a job here?’

Bitter refrains that had one happy outcome. S and me started travelling with a vengeance.

Snorkelling in Palawan, parasailing in Boracay, spelunking in Sagada, hiking up Mount Pulag, diving with Whalesharks in Donsol, swimming in Subic, beachcombing in Bolinao, reef-spotting in Apo Island and soaking up La Union. The Philippines was so much more than just its capital city.

But then no matter how much I tried to dismiss Manila as just another big city, I somehow started to fall in love with the city.

Maybe it was the fact that three years is the longest that I have stayed in any city at a stretch since I graduated from college. Or maybe it was the vigour with which Christmas decorations started to appear around town from September 1^st, the first day of the ‘ber’ months. Or maybe it was the fact that despite Manila shedding its Filipino-ness to embrace the role of a fast-growing cosmopolitan city dyed in the colours of its western counterparts the people were still quintessentially South Asian and seemed a lot like family. And it was also due in no small measure to a man in a top-hat and his walking tour that is more of a theatrical performance about the city that he passionately loves.

And so it is probably appropriate that the rain is pouring down as I pen down this paalam note or farewell note to the city that I unknowingly fell in love with. As the date to our departure moves closer and closer, I feel dry fingers creep across my heart and give it a tight squeeze. A feeling I never thought I would have when I thought of Manila.

But there it is the clenching of the chest and the sudden lump in the throat. I will miss the happy smiles and the all embracing spirit of the place . I will miss seeing the richest of the rich roll down their car’s tinted windows to pass on alms to the beggars under the flyovers. I will miss the enthusiasm with which the city and its people alike dress up in themes. The eager to chat cab drivers, the disciplined shoppers, the friendly strangers, the city and its many moods… I will miss you all.

I came as an unemployed young foreigner clutching on to her brand-new husband’s arm trying to make sense of this alien yet familiar land. Three years later, I leave as a travel writer, with a published book to my name and a baby who was born here in my arms, still holding my husband’s hands. And when I board that flight to a new destination, I will know that it is not just my daughter who will always have a little bit of Manila in her.

Quintessentially Filipino- The Jeepney

Just Read: The Blaft Anthology of Tamil Pulp Fiction (Volume I)

2011-12-06T02:19:00.000-08:00

The Blaft Anthology of Tamil Pulp Fiction by Pritham K. Chakravarthy
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Of crime fighting damsels, revengeful Goddesses and much more, published by Blaft Publications

A sari clad south Indian beauty brandishing a pistol looks seductively out at the reader from the cover of The Blaft Anthology of Tamil Pulp fiction. And while the cover is not what you would typically expect from a collection of English short stories, the buxom gun toting woman sure sets the tone for what lies ahead.

Compiled by Pritham. K. Chakravarthy, the anthology comprises of seventeen stories, including one excerpt from a serialized novel, all translated from Tamil. What sets this anthology apart from others in its genre is that the stories in this volume come exclusively from publications categorized as ‘Pulp fiction’. ‘The book is an attempt to claim the status of literature’ for such writing, as the translator’s note makes clear right at the beginning. With pieces selected from popular writers like Ramanichandran to crazily prolific writers like Indra Soundar Rajan and Rajesh Kumar to old favourites like Tamilvannan amongst others, the collection has a selection that is not only diverse but also intriguing.

Suspense in the detective stories, grittiness in the narrative about the brothels of North India, rebirth and romance are just some of the flavours that the reader can look forward to in this collection. Rajesh Kumar’s Idhaya 2020 and Silicon Hearts have distinct shades of Asimov’s science fiction tales. Me by Vidya Subramaniam is a strongly feminist piece of short fiction penned in 1987. Dim Lights, Blazing Hearts by Ramanichandran is a roller coaster tale of romance reminiscent of the Mills and Boons of the eighties and nineties. However the highlights of the collection are by far the detective stories with their twists and turns, the voluptuous women detectives and their charming male partners, the exotic locations, the action and general spiciness of it all. From Hurricane Vaij, to Sweetheart Please Die, and Tokyo Rose, the detective and crime stories outshine almost all of the other stories in the book. The only stories that seem a little too regressive despite being written in 2005 and 2007 are A Murder and A Few Mysteries and Revenge by Prajanand V.K.

Though the stories were originally penned in the Tamil spoken by the masses, Chakravarthy’s translation seems to have done them justice. There are rarely instances where the reader is at a loss to understand the context and characters that in some stories are Tamilian to the core. However the detailed endnotes will help any reader from a non-Tamilian background to get over any stumbling blocks they might face in enjoying the stories.

Priced at Rs. 395 and brought out by the independent publishing house Blaft publications, The Blaft Anthology of Tamil Pulp Fiction (Volume I) is available in all leading bookstores as well as from online bookstores. For the intriguing stories and the reproduction of the often wacky cover art of the original publications, this book is a must-read for anyone who loves short fiction of a different kind.

This review was first published here - http://www.theindependentreviewer.com/ta...

View all my reviews

Just read: Brain Rules for Baby

2011-11-27T04:58:00.000-08:00

Brain Rules for Baby: How to Raise a Smart and Happy Child from Zero to Five by John Medina
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A fast, entertaining and informative read about those subtle upbringing tactics that make all the difference. Don't let the fact that John Medina is a Developmental Molecular Biologist fool you. He has a warm, chatty style interspersed with anecdotes and material based on proven research.

And while it wouldn't have been my first choice to pick up, I'm truly glad that I was gifted this book.

It's a must read book not only for parents to-be and parents but also for anyone interested in that unavoidable social contract - that between parents and their offspring.

View all my reviews

To Travel is to live

2011-11-21T04:33:00.000-08:00

This short post is dedicated to all my fellow travellers out there.

I heard this quote on an Amazing Race episode and I believe it's one we should at least have printed on a t-shirt, if not tattooed on our hearts.

"To move, to breathe, to fly, to float, To gain all while you give, To roam the roads of lands remote: To travel is to live."

Hans Christian Anderson, in 'The Fairy Tale of My Life'

Truer words were never spoken.

Buen Viaje!

Eat. Travel. Live

2011-11-11T03:37:00.000-08:00

And write.

Well, at least in my case.

It was in the hoary old year of 2006 that I set up this blog to make sure that I did not forget how to write as I pieced together headlines and one and a half minute snappy scripts for a then upcoming news channel.

It was just a space for a wannabe reporter to vent her frustrations on being trapped as an invisible cog in a great big news machine. In my wildest dreams, I hadn't imagined that 5 years later I would be using the same space to talk about my first book about a wannabe reporter and life as an invisible cog in a great big news machine.

But before the book happened and after I moved to Manila to be with my soulmate, I realized that blogs are not always about venting. Blogs are also spaces to share your thoughts on that which touched your heart and made you sigh. A space to reach out to others who might be going through the same thing as you. A place you can simply talk.

This was also around the time that I managed to indulge in one of my first loves - Travelling.
Armed with a point and shoot, one hand securely in my S's hand and matching our footsteps we set off spelunking and beach-bumming.
Clambering through ruins and swimming with whale sharks.
Exploring and experiencing new cultures as we never had before.
I had seen so much and longed to share it with fellow backpackers and so in 2009, I created 'The wishing chair blogspot,' titled 'Footloose and Fancyfree'
It chronicled the episodes of our wanderlust and was my way of creating tiny windows into cultures for armchair travellers.

As I found myself in some of the most exotic destinations in South East Asia, I also realized that no travel experience is complete without sampling the local cuisine. As never before tasted flavours exploded across my tongue, I discovered that some of my best memories of a place was sometimes the food that I ate there. From someone who cooked only scrambled eggs, I started experimenting with recipes. First from my home state of Kerala and later on even crossing boundaries and borders.
'Missus of Spices' was born in 2010, from my desire to share some of my favourite recipes with fellow foodies.

It's been a fun ride and I've met some awesome travel and food enthusiasts along the way. And wait, this is not goodbye!
It's just a we've moved announcement.
Now that I have a new blog dedicated solely to 'Coming Up On The Show...' and other columns, it seems to make more sense to have all my other thoughts in one space.
In this space, where I've been simply speaking about pretty much everything for more than 5 years now, rather than scattered across three different blogs.
All the content from my travel and food blog are now available here and organized under either a Footloose and Fancy free or a Missus of Spices tag. Your comments on the original posts have been imported as well.
So welcome old friends and new!
I look forward to your thoughts on my posts on Destinations, Cuisines and Life as I always have.

So till next time here's to yummy in your tummy, unexplored locales and interesting experiences.
Cheers!

A few things I hate about Google chat

2011-09-23T07:40:00.000-07:00

Yes, you read it right. I did mean Google chat or G-chat or G-Talk as it is known and not any of those other Google products like Google Plus or Buzz or Wave. Speaking of which, whatever happened to Wave anyway?

Oh and before I start let me just say that I do find it a little ironic that I am using yet another Google product to vent my frustration on something from the same stable. And while I know that my blog is much too puny for Google to censor and keep me from airing my opinion, I also want to say that I have no issues with the product. My problem is with certain users of the product.

Now, because I live in the Philippines away from my family and publishers and editors, I try and make it a point to sign into the chat service when I am online and working, so that I don’t contribute to other people’s ISD bills and of course, my own. And I try and make it clear that I am busy, with this little red thing that I can switch to, to indicate that yes, I am ‘busy.’ And these days more than others, the chat status is on red, thanks to the two manuscripts that I have to send in pretty soon.

(Note to people who are wondering why I am so busy these days check out this post on my book ‘Coming Up On The Show’ that hit the Landmark bestselling list within months of its release and now to my amazement, there is noise being made for a sequel J So that’s why.)

So anyway back to Google chat and here's why these days I am forced to fall back on the invisible option. Let the listing begin

Ignoring the red button – Now I’m sorry if this is generalizing, but in most cultures red is a colour that indicates ‘Stop’ and also ‘Danger’. This is also a worthwhile piece of information to have when you are in a vehicle of any sort. Traffic lights use the same principle. So why is it that you fail to comprehend that red in a G-talk status also means the same thing? Of course there are exceptions to this – You are allowed to ignore this if you are medically certified as colour blind, or if you are related to me by birth or marriage or if you are a genuinely close friend or you owe me money or if you are a First Feather client or you are looking to connect for a business opportunity or for some urgent information. Note – Said information should be the kind that you cannot google and find yourself. So if you are just pinging me because you can or because you want to, guess what, ever heard of a convenient little service called email?
Being a LinkedIn Connection does not make you a friend or even an acquaintance – So for some reason, in the past few months the people I add on LinkedIn have also been showing up on my chat list. This is fine. It just means they have immediate access to my email id. And again, I’m assuming that people who I know via LinkedIn are professionals. But experience has proved me wrong. I have had four different people randomly pop up just to say ‘Hi and what’s up’ when my status was on red. If you have done this, refer to point 1. Oh and on a related note, let’s go to point three.
The ‘Hai Dears and Hello Sweethearts’ – Especially from LinkedIn Connections. Once and for all, I am not your dear, or sweetheart, or a random woman sitting online to make ridiculous and random small talk with you. Oh and I apologize for thinking that you had a professional enough profile and accepting your connection request. For clearly, you just think that LinkedIn is a clutter free version of Orkut and all you wanted to do was ‘Make Fraandship’. Cease and Desist, now please!
SMS language on g-talk- This is not Twitter. There is no character limit. I am not sitting with a gun to your temple asking you to type that message out now, dammit. Then why go for the ‘B4’ and the ‘C U’. Is there memo that was passed around instructing us to ration our use of the English Alphabet? Send it to me please. And if not, come on now. ‘Teachers Day’ is not the only time you should be remembering your English teachers!

Oh and if you read this and you think that this post is addressed to you personally, then the day is not far when the answer to this question is …

EVERYONE.

Rant over. Peace out.

P.S -

If the rant offended you and you are now hurt and want to block me from your chat list, please go ahead. I assure you that I will not be sitting and weeping my weekend away.

And now really Peace Out.

Destinations are over-rated

2011-08-31T02:00:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's been a long while. And I have now become accustomed to apologizing for my absence. And for those readers who did not notice my comeback here or here, the reason why I was away - was the launch of my debut novel, 'Coming Up On The Show... The travails of a news trainee.' The readers have received it well and it secured a spot on the Landmark Bestsellers list as well. So anyway, that's why the travel blog has been languishing.

Plus the rains lashing the Philippines have not exactly been conducive to travel either. Many a weekend plan was disposed off after the rain gods played spoil sport time and time again. This last weekend though, me and the husband decided to go on that elusive road trip, come rain or shine. Yes, we had Typhoon Mina hanging over our heads and most parts of the country had a Signal 1, 2 or 3 hoisted over it. But sometimes even drives in the rain can be totally worth it as this trip proved.

We were off to La Union - around 4 - 5 hours away from Manila by road. It is a surfers destination and as both of us had never been on a board before, we knew that this weekend would be all about seeing and absorbing.

Like this woman here who has decided that the soft sand is where she would be rather than slamming her rib-cage into a hard board as she attempted to ride the waves

This man gave us some nail-biting moments. As the waves rose up and down and he struggled to keep his balance, we kept wondering, 'Will he? Won't he?'

And then there were the pros. You can see from his confident stride that he's the kind who is defeated by no wave!

And finally after three rain-drenched days at the beach, where we overdosed on languid swimming in the resort pool and the best of hospitality, it was time to drive home. The six-hour drive back was full of sights like these. Through a rain-spattered windshield we saw people braving the rains to get on with their lives.

And noticed that rain does not stop the faithful either as they pile into trikes and jeepneys to head in the direction of church spires and pulpits on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

And then of course there are the sights like these. A smiling ladybug trundling down a country road as it always has for years.

If the journey is this good, it makes you think that destinations are over-rated. What say?

Freedom

2011-08-24T02:53:00.000-07:00

Its been a little more than a week since India celebrated its Independence day, yet the tri-colour badges, the miniature flags and the colour co-ordinated outfits are far from tucked away. Normally, by this time we are all done with our jingoism and sudden patriotism and the outfits and accessories are safely kept away, only to be brought out the next January, for Republic Day. But with India effectively being divided into Teams of different kinds –it looks like that’s not going to happen anytime soon.

I’m not here to comment on Team Anna or their ways of protest or the Government and their ways of response. Enough has been said on the blogosphere and otherwise about how it’s either a particular team’s way or No way. Every day there’s a new blog and a new column about how we’re in the middle of the second freedom struggle and then there is someone who angrily rubbishes the claim. No, I don’t intend to voice and debate the same opinions that have been doing the rounds these past few days when I have nothing new or groundbreaking to add.

I’m just here to loudly wonder what freedom means to us today as Indians in general and to me as an Indian Woman in particular.

To me as an Indian who was born into a free country, freedom is the ability to believe in whatever I want to. It is the right to have an opinion and not be considered unpatriotic or undemocratic or corrupt just because I don’t wave the Indian flag from my rooftop. It is also the right to say, write, blog, tweet my opinions without being harassed by trolls who apparently believe that their freedom is somehow greater than mine. So by this definition, I’m certainly not free.

As a writer who writes for newspapers, children’s magazines, self-help books, travel magazines, short story anthologies and who has written a novel on the broadcast industry, freedom to me is not being labelled. Freedom is the right to write whatever I want to write about without having literary snobs look down upon me as they or slot me into a particular category. Am I free? I don’t think so.

As someone who rejected the sciences in favour of the Arts, I want the freedom for my fellow lovers of the arts to be able to pursue it to their hearts content, without being judged and thought of as inferior. Are Arts students free? You tell me. I graduated a long time ago.

As an Indian woman, I want for my fellow women back home the freedom I enjoy here in Manila, miles away from my homeland. I want them to be free from the fears of having to choose ‘appropriately covered’ outfits while having to walk down streets after a particular time. Not everyone would want to walk around at all times of the day dressed in the first thing that they find in their wardrobe. But I wish they were as free as their male counterparts who don’t have to worry about what would keep them safe from eyes that undress them no matter what they wear and probing arms and fingers that surreptitiously invade their personal space despite their age or looks and only because they are female. Yes, we dress a certain way to be safe and take our precautions to stay safe. But that’s like wearing a bulletproof vest in a war zone. Is that the new definition of freedom?

As an Indian daughter, I wish others the same freedom that I had while choosing who I wanted to live with. I wish my sisters, like I used to refer to them in the Indian pledge, the freedom to throw off the shackles of societal disapproval. I wish them the freedom to decide when and why a relationship begins and why it should end. And I wish them the freedom from being chained to draining forces when they should be soaring high without being ridiculously targeted for the erosion of values and culture and family honour. Please do we still need to pretend that we are characters in a ‘K’ serial? We need to break free. Now.

And so while I was born into a free country, I wonder if we really are.

But I am thankful for the freedom that I do enjoy. And I am grateful for all those before us who struggled and strived to make sure we were born free.

And to all those who want to take away my freedom from me- here’s George Michael putting my words into thoughts –

I'll hold on to my freedom

May not be what you want from me

Just the way it's got to be

Lose the face now

I've got to live.

Binding threads

2011-08-12T02:40:00.000-07:00

It’s that time of the year when roadside Romeos go into hiding or stay at home away from the deceptive smiles of the women they whistle and leer at through out the year. Yes, it’s that time when a simple little thread tied onto his wrist can effectively end his career as resident comment-passer at the girls of the neighbourhood.

It’s also that time of the year when brothers and sisters forget their every day squabbles and hug and make up and generally make a lot of card companies and chocolate manufacturers very happy.

Don’t get me wrong! I have nothing against the festival. But as an only child and a Malayalee, it’s not like I have a lot of warm memories of tying Rakhis and getting gifts in return. Yes, I had the odd Rakhi Bhaiyya when I was a child in Muscat. He needed someone to tie the Rakhis his sisters sent across and I was not really averse to gifts on days other than my birthday and Christmas.

And I have also resorted to the ‘But you are like my brother’ line, presenting bewildered college suitors with the cheapest coloured threads and ending the overt unwanted attention forever. Something about mothers and sisters that makes even the most indecent of Indian men, well decent.

So there I was living away as I sometimes fondly and otherwise sneeringly witnessed the thread tying ritual when something happened a couple of years ago. There in the post along with my husband’s annual Rakshabandhan card from his sister and his very ornate Rakhi was another one. Very similar to his but bracelet like in style and very pretty.

Did my sister-in-law send two Rakhis to my husband every year? I wouldn’t know as this was the first year of our marriage.

And then the call came explaining that the second one was for me. It was a Lumba Rakhi and tied by sisters-in-law to their elder brother’s wife. Though traditionally a Rajasthani custom, my sister-in-law explained that it made sense for her to appropriate the tradition, as I was as much a part of her life as her brother was and what we had was a special relationship too.

The clown and shyer-away-from-emotion-and-compliments-in me reacted by saying, ‘Ooo Lumba Rakhi sounds like something an Oompa Loompa would wear.’ Dumb line I know.

But for the first time I really understood how even a simple thread could actually bring you closer to someone else. I wore it with pride and then hung it in my study as the threads that held it together frayed.

It’s still hanging there winking at me as I write this post, safe and secure in the knowledge that it’s there to stay till it falls apart and then whatever's left will be transferred to a precious memories chest.

And as for my sister-in-law, tomorrow is Rakshabandhan and we still have those Rakhis that she gave us in advance in December of last year. And while we have been too lazy as we always are to send her gifts, I just want her to know that she is loved, much loved and that there is nothing that we wouldn’t give to see her happy.

S and S love you S. J

Buddha Boy had the right idea!

2011-08-05T02:46:00.000-07:00

Oh yes, he did. I know it’s an old story and some of you might have forgotten about the Nepali boy who ran away and sat in a hollow tree for months on end to meditate. Of course, he had to run away multiple times after that for people just kept turning up and staring at him and trying to out-meditate him and trying to poke him and mimic him and adore him. The poor guy had to find one tree and then another and then a bunker and now I believe he’s wandering around in the forest somewhere looking for a place where people will just for the love of holy men, cows or spaghetti leave him alone.

I was watching an old documentary on him the other night and I found myself empathizing with him and understanding why he slapped the villagers who got too close for his comfort. I’m not saying that I want to run away and sit in the bark of a tree for some peace and quiet. But I would like it if people stopped trying to get so annoyingly close and connected.

I mean consider this. I think of myself as very accessible. Most people who I am friends with have my mobile number. If not that, then my email id.

And in case you are too lazy to go the information section on my Facebook and find my email id, you can send me a message via Facebook.

Not on my friends list? Then feel free to send me a message via 140 characters or less on my twitter.

Want to get connected professionally? No problem, add me via LinkedIn.

You’ve read my book and want to get in touch? There’s a contact form on my website.

And I promise you that I have something of a neurosis as far as replying to mails and messages are concerned. I am mostly the first to reply to a group mail. And I will almost always reply to you within 24 hours.

Now with all the above options listed above, I think we can safely agree that I am not an anti-social by any definition of the word, nor am I about to pull a Buddha boy on society just yet. But there are enough people who will push me into doing just that.

The other day I receive a connection request on LinkedIn. A happy place where I add contacts without intense scrutiny as there are no pictures over there of me looking like a giant grapefruit that has sprouted hands and legs or baby pictures that I’ve been tagged in by my family or posters of handbags and shoes that don’t look like me but weirdly enough bear my name. I accept this connection request from a woman who I believe is interested in writing, who immediately sends me an email asking me what I do.

Call me an egotist, but I believe that she could have at least read my profile before sending a request. But attention spans are limited these days and I gulp down my indignation and reply to her message. (See I told you I reply to emails!)

Pat comes the response, ‘Are you on Facebook?’

Please note I do not know this person or have ever heard of her.

Yet another day on twitter, a follower (that sounds so celeb-like when we all know that it’s just normal twitter-speak) who I occasionally exchange the random book tweet with sends me a friend request on FB. Now if your twitter handle is @Iamwriter and your name is Raj Malhotra (Both made up names. My apologies to anyone who gets offended if you own either of these or both. The latter is also a nod to SRK in Yash Raj movies. :P) how am I supposed to know that you are the same person?

I politely decline only to get a tweet from the person announcing that it is him that I have declined. My ‘twitter buddy!’

To these people I want to say that contrary to public perception, the person that handles all my social networking sites is ME. The Facebook me is the same as the Twitter me, except that Twitter me rants more as I have no family waiting to ‘like’ my every word there. The LinkedIn me is also the same as the person who replies to the mails that come in via the contact form, ’cos I am not a big-shot-writer whose books make enough money to outsource replying.

There is only one me and you are already in touch with me. What is this intense need to connect with me on every social network?

Which also brings me to Google Plus? Am I the only one who is gasping for air as I get randomly added to circle after circle? The term Chakravyuha comes to mind and I know that I’m no Arjun to valiantly cut through the crap.

And so for all my cribbing and whining there will be no deleting of my virtual personas and therefore I guess all I can say is see you around as we stumble around the crowded alleys and streets of social networking, trying to reach out as much as possible across the barriers of our computer and smart phone screens. But please clinginess is just not attractive.

P.S

You think Buddha Boy got bored of it all and bought himself an iPad? He could have with the money his brother and co. collected.

Just a thought.

11 steps to a Kozhikodan mini-feast

2011-08-03T02:45:00.000-07:00

My parents moved a lot when I was a child from Muscat to Kottayam to back to Muscat then Calicut to Hubli to Coimbatore to Vijaywada and so on and so forth. Inheriting the gypsy in me from them, I too continued with the rootless stints by living for two years in Kochi then a couple in Pune then a year in Delhi and then a couple of years in Bangalore after which I moved to Manila.

However rootless the wanderings have made me, I’ve noticed that whenever someone asks me where I am from, I don’t have to think before I answer. Pat comes the answer and it’s always ‘Calicut.’ This fast-growing coastal town in Kerala is not where I was born. Neither of my parents have an ancestral house there and the only schooling I did there was my high school. Yet Calicut is somehow in my bones and that’s probably why I insisted on my first novel being launched in the press club there.

So anyway, now more than a few thousand miles away from Calicut or Kozhikode, it’s to the Malabari delicacies that the region is famous for that my thoughts return to and my taste-buds yearn for. And so today on the blog a short-cut version of making the Kozhikodan Neychoru or Ghee Rice and Chicken curry that is a must on the previous-day celebrations of any wedding in the region.

Now before we start, a disclaimer. These recipes are for the working woman and man who typically don’t have the time and inclination to slave in the kitchen after an already busy day. Or like me you’ve made an internal deadline to finish cooking dinner in the same amount of time ‘The Amazing Race’ plays out on AXN. Yes, I’m weird like that. So these might be different from the elaborate recipes that you are used to, but they work and taste just the same. J

First up:

Chicken Kurma

Ingredients

To cut and keep ready

350 gms chicken, boneless, washed

3 potatoes, peeled and cubed

1 onion + 4 green chillies ground into paste

1 and half teaspoon ginger-garlic paste

2 medium sized tomatoes chopped

Masalas

2 tsp chilli powder

1 teaspoon coriander powder

½ teaspoon turmeric powder

½ teaspoon Garam Masala

To brown and keep aside

1 cup grated coconut with a sprig of curry leaves

Salt to taste

One lemon/1 teaspoon of vinegar

Coriander leaves

Process:

Heat oil and fry the ground onion and chilli paste with the ginger and garlic for 6 minutes or till light brown. Saute occasionally.
Add the Masalas and combine and fry for a minute on high.
Add the chicken, potato, tomato, salt. Combine and sauté for 5 minutes
Add the browned coconut and 2 cups of water. Combine and cook uncovered for 15 minutes.
Adjust the gravy by adding water or leaving on simmer. Once you are satisfied with the consistency, add the juice of the lemon or Vingear a minute before you switch off the heat. Garnish with Coriander leaves.

Neychoru/Ghee Rice

Ingredients:

2 cups of Basmati rice (I also use Thai Jasmine long-grain, when I don’t get Basmati. Just don’t soak it before cooking)

5 tablespoons ghee

1 large onion finely sliced.

Spices

2 small sticks of cinnamon

4 cardamom pods

2 bay leaves

5 pepper corns or ½ teaspoon pepper powder

½ teaspoon minced ginger

½ teaspoon minced garlic

Garnish

½ cup cashewnuts

¼ cup raisin.

Process:

Heat 3 tablespoons of ghee in a cooking vessel. Add half the onion and all ingredients under spices and fry till the onions are translucent
Add washed rice to the ghee and fry on medium heat for 4 minutes while stirring.
Add 3 cups of water and let it come to boil. (An additional half cup if the rice is Basmati)
Once it comes to boil, cover the vessel with a tight-fitting lid and let it cook on a low flame till the rice absorbs all the water.
Simultaneously heat ghee in a frying pan and fry the remaining onions to a golden brown, then add cashews and raisins and fry them as well.
Garnish the cooked rice with the fried onions, cashews and raisins.

And voila- your Kozhikodan mini-feast is done!

The hubby and me also enjoy onion slices soaked in vinegar and pickle along with it. And if you have the time to fry Pappads, go for it! Remember you can work on the rice when the chicken is cooking away and so I guarantee that you can wrap up cooking within an hour and a half maximum! And the time taken will be inversely proportional to the compliments you get. And that’s what every amateur cook dreams of right? ;)

So till next time, here’s to sighs of contentment after a whole lot of yummies in your tummy! J

Poof goes my Fairy Godmother

2011-07-29T04:15:00.000-07:00

She’s a very nice woman. Sprightly for her age and a smile always plastered across her face be it typhoon season or the hottest of summers. She’s never given me cause for panic attacks always turning up on the Monday after our cook- at- home weekends when dishes are piled up Mount Everest-like in the tiny kitchen sink. She’s never called in sick. And has also helped me by being a Filipina who makes Rotis, Chappathis and even Alu Parathas as we live far away from our homeland cringing at the thought of paying 30-45 pesos per Chapathi in restaurants.

She’s never given me the urge to change my careless ways or clear away my trinkets or keep my handbag inside the cupboard before she arrives. She’s the woman who has always left things where they are except for the dust bunnies and the cobwebs. Never judging the clutter that my husband and I are prone to. And silently doing her job even as we sleep after our night shifts oblivious to the fact that she is sweeping and mopping away.

But even genies give but three wishes and even fairy godmothers have other charges who need her. And so after almost three years of keeping my house as spotlessly clean as it can be, she is now off.

I wish we didn’t need someone who had to come in every day and that three days a week was more than enough. But as each day goes by and my toes become increasingly hard to see from beyond my belly that grows just a little more week by week, I am left with no choice.

And so after a month of her trying to work for us five days a week and us keeping our fingers crossed, today she is making her last Parathas for us, as I type this out. I‘m glad that we managed to find someone who will come in from Monday, but it won’t be the same.

I hope that the next house she flits into will be as grateful as we were to have her around and I hope that she’s left enough of her fairy dust around to keep my house clean and beds made for a while yet.

Sigh. Before I collapse into deep depression, I'm off to escape into my imaginary world. Satyabhama Menon and her friends are clamouring for my attention and it's time to figure out just what's going to happen to her in CUOTS Part 2.

Till next time, here's hoping that all of you have a nice night's sleep with clean dishes and floors and beds that are made and clothes folded and ironed. Sigh.

Killing me softly

2011-07-26T02:57:00.000-07:00

With calories and gooey goodness that is!
Yes, I'm back after I have no idea how long. And I decided to make a grand entrance in the tradition of the heroine or debutante that comes in late but dressed to to kill and sashays down the long winding staircase.
What better way to do so than by trying out a 'Death By Chocolate' cake.

A fan of Bangalore's famous Cornerhouse ice-cream shop's DBC dessert, it is one of the things that I miss here in Manila. And so I decided to put out the craving by making my own version of it.

And this is how it all turned out-

To whip up your own head here for a simple and very doable recipe.
In the tin you can see the pre-frosted version, which in itself is quite yummy, but not as moist as your average chocolate cake, which is probably because there is absolutely no milk used in the recipe and only 4 tablespoons of flour!
I also used unsweetened baking chocolate and added 4 tablespoons of powdered sugar as I melted it with butter.
For the frosting - I used my own chocolate frosting recipe that is so much simpler. I'll be putting it up here soon, but I'm going to try this one out too.
And for the mega sweet- tooth people out there like me and my hubby, remember to pair your cake up with either vanilla or chocolate ice-cream :)

Will be back with more soon!
Oh and I wasn't around as I was busy with my first book 'Coming Up On The Show...The travails of a news trainee' that released in May this year. It's already hit the Landmark best-sellers list and has left me feeling giddily happy :) For more updates on the book do head here
And keep watching this space, I plan to get back into my blogging about yummies groove and it's always great to know that like me there are others out there whose stomachs growl for more.
Till next time here's to contented sighs and disguised happy burps! :)

Why I am like a Malayali overseas worker whose children are back home

2011-07-18T05:42:00.000-07:00

You know this blog has really begun to read like a plug for my debut novel, ‘Coming Up On The Show… The travails of a news trainee.’ Yes, I realize that the title has nothing to do with the opening line but bear with me and read on.

So as I was saying, it reads like a plug. But if you are amongst those who could not be on ground when your book hits book-stores, unable to reach out and touch the spine of your book as it sits in the company of others or take a picture of it as it hits a best-sellers list, you’ll know what I mean.

For those of you who don’t get what I’m talking about, think about the overseas parent or the Gulf Malayali who has to work in far lands, watching her precious little one grow up by leaps and bounds only through photographs that someone else clicked. We wouldn’t expect them to not talk about their children every chance they got right? They would be all in your face, flashing photographs of the latest development no matter how minor it is or waxing on and on about how they came first in class in English Dictation.
Yes, you have caught on to my imagery and maybe you are even nodding, with a moved look in your eyes? Then it’s probably time to tell you why I am trying to keep you hooked and what is the latest thing that CUOTS has done.
It’s this.
A friend of mine who went over to pick up the book saw this at Landmark Mumbai and was kind enough to click a picture and send it to me. Thank you so much V! (And by the way, V writes a fun and interesting blog herself. You can check it out here.)
So anyway I got all misty-eyed and emotional at the latest milestone that my first baby, my book has achieved. From the rejection mails from mainstream publishers to getting on to the Landmark Bestsellers list, it’s been quite a journey.
Thank you so much readers for truly embracing Satyabhama Menon and her friends. It’s such a wonderful feeling to know that I’ve managed to reach out and touch a chord with so many of you.
But for those of you who are rolling your eyes already, like you do when your friend on Facebook posts the one hundred and fifty-sixth picture of her seven month old kid, bear with me. And with her. It’s our first baby after all. And whether it be a book, an actual human child, or a company you started, you know that our firsts are always special.
However I do promise to move onto other topics as well, for it’s not like life has stood still and all that has happened is the book. But more on that next time, till then, no guesses on what you can buy if you click on this link here or maybe you could just drop in by your closest book-store.
;)

‘Coming Up On The Show… The travails of a news trainee’ A few Vox Pops

2011-06-06T07:44:00.000-07:00

Vox populi - A Latin phrase that means the voice of the people.

Also a phrase that every TV reporter and news trainee and desk editor and pretty much everyone associated with the TV news industry learns on the first few days of the job.

‘Vox Pops’ as the TV folk refer to them are the 1-minute fillers that every bulletin has with the opinions of the people on the street opining about pretty much everything from the weather, to arrested Sadhus and the importance of throwing shoes or just the latest Bollywood release.

As a brand-new trainee reporter, straight off my desk job, my first assignment was to get Vox Pops on the state of the economy, that being the hot topic in 2007.

Today, with my first book, ‘Coming Up On The Show’ doing very well, (shameless but proud and happy announcement alert), read that as more than 10’000 copies sold in the two months it’s been in stores, I find myself putting together Vox Pops of a different kind.

This is what the readers have had to say about ‘Coming Up On The Show… The travails of a news trainee.’

“I read 'Coming up on the show' in about 4 hours (with breaks) on a flight!:) I don't think I've read another fiction book that has captured an industry so perfectly and so unsensationally and so honestly! :D I was an aspiring reporter who was unsuspectingly put on the desk too, so I could completely relate! Keep it up, Shweta and churn out more such gems :)”

Hamsini Ravi, Research Associate and Former journalist

“I read the book, in a Single Stretch, which is quite strange with me! :)I loved the narration. I could visualize each scene when i was reading. There are many incidents similar to what you have narrated, in IT industry as well I am looking forward to the releasing of next in the series.”

Navneeth Janardhanan, Software Engineer, IT Industry

“Just wanted to let you know I read your book and enjoyed it :) I used to work as a reporter too...Its the same bloody mediocrity everywhere.... There are some points in your book that reflected those angles...”

Sneha Koilada, Freelance Writer, snehakoilada.blogspot.com

“FAB work! Heartfelt..real.. I could almost feel the newsroom! :) and of course the characters.. :)”

Tanu Anand, Senior Member, Knowledge Management Group, Infosys

“I read the book and finished it pretty much in one sitting!! I was great fun for me to read, especially since I knew all the characters in the plot and it was like going through my own story of being a news trainee! I like the natural and easy flow of the book...I think its a nice read! I like your writing style but in my honest opinion I think you could have done with a better editor...The descriptions get way too detailed at times.”

Nimisha Srivastava, Resource Development Co-ordinator with an NGO, Former T.V Journalist

“I actually related to the book! And, of course, enjoyed reading it!

Beginning from how u felt entering the building, what u thought of the place, taking to the people...The book just brought me back to my internship days...Staying in Noida... The kind of people I met at work, u know! What I like about the book is that it's real! I finished half of the book the very night I got it! It is really a good read....

And even though I have no expertise in writing a book yet, you did an awesome job!”

Meghna Menon, Outlook websites

“Done. Now waiting for the one after the break :) Honestly liked it. Made me smile and I cried at one point too. Shhhhh…”

Shubra Chatterji- Audio-Visual Producer, Mumbai

“Just finished the book and must say it was just amazing.... Could feel the anxiety, frustration and happiness of a new joinee. OMG! The summer heat was just terrific.... I was literally sweating reading it. Can’t miss Satya and her friends for too long, so you better hurry with the next”

Priyanka Menon, Literature enthusiast

“The book gathers momentum as you turn pages becoming unputdownable after the first couple of chapters. Great going. Waiting for more.”

Suma Ravindran, Senior Resource Person, Bharatiya Vidya Bhavans Cochin

“The book was a rejuvenating experience which brought back me to the good old trainee days! I worked as a mule for three newspapers as a Journalist trainee so it was easy to grasp things.

A trainee is a trainee whether he works at Noida or Calicut, I understood after finishing C.U.O.T.S”

Rakesh P.S, Sub-Editor, Mathrubhoomi

“The life of a news reporter “ trainee” was new and interesting to me. Coming up in any field in this competitive world is a parade of struggle. Your story reminded me of my first year in medical college. The life of medical student was totally opposite of what we expected while writing our entrance exams. The language and sequence was simple and eye soothing. I was finding it difficult to pursue my reading hobby in my busy schedule. I had started many books but have to admit that yours is the first book I completed in a year. One part that I really enjoyed was the small scene where you described the airport. My father works abroad and since I remember I always went to receive him at the Calicut and Cochin airport. I cannot express the feeling of waiting for someone in that crowd.”

Abdul Wadood, Junior resident at PGIMER, Chandigarh

“Nice start Shweta! Carry on writing! Learned a bit more about the media machinery. As far as the media machinations go, i already knew that! :)”

Ankur Ganguly, Communications Manager at Ujjivan Financial Services

All I want to say is that I’m thrilled and I am grateful. Make that very, very grateful, for not only have you bought my book and read it, but also taken the time out to mail/tweet/write to me about it.

I look forward to reading more of your thoughts on the book and if you still haven't got it yet, just click here ;)

COMING UP ON THE SHOW..The Travails of a News Trainee

2011-04-21T00:01:00.000-07:00

It’s been a long journey from opening that blank word document to furiously typing away to despondently editing to re-reading and re-writing.

Then there was the part where you draft cover letters, query letters, submission letters and ‘I got your email id from this person’ letters.

Then there was the stare at your inbox miserably, refresh, and then some more, log out for a minute and then jump back to check if there is any email stage.

Then there was the rejection after rejection, possible acceptance but no sorry it’s a rejection instead, then the stay hanging there we will/might/may not contact you after a six weeks to a year stage.

And finally after what seemed like a year of literary labour pains, there it was- the letter from Srishti Publishers who were more than happy to bring out the book and then there was the time when you wonder if signing the contract is enough.

You hear the what-if's buzzing round and round your head -

'What-if the publisher changes his mind?'

'What-if the reader doesn't want to read the book?'

'What-if the book wasn't good enough?

There are times when you feel like reaching out and swatting these imaginary anxiety bugs and squashing them and then there are times when you'd rather just lie in a catatonic state letting the anxiety bugs drain you of all energy as you watch the moments tick away, oh, so slowly...

And then there is the day when you hear that your book is now in online book stores, waiting to be pre-ordered.

And the day your friends ping you telling you that they've picked up the book and some telling you that they've raced through the first few chapters.

And then there's the day when you can post a preview for the book for those who would like to get their hands on it. Like this BOOK TRAILER

And then there's the day when you can share the link to the store where they can order their copies of the book.

So here's presenting 'COMING UP ON THE SHOW...The Travails of a News Trainee'

It's for anyone who ever wanted to be a part of the Indian Broadcast News Industry or is interested in what happens behind the scenes

Please do pick it up and feel free to mail me with your bouquets, brickbats or words ;D

I look forward to hearing from you all!

Simply 'Wake.Walk.Wonder'

2011-04-13T23:28:00.000-07:00

And yes, it's a photo trail.

Off to Chennai for my husband's very first travel photography exhibition and I am very proud to invite all of you to be there with us.

Wake. Walk. Wonder. A photo trail is being held at the ITC Chola Sheraton in Chennai on the 17th and 18th of this month and we will be there from noon to five p.m. on both days! Get ready to do some serious armchair travelling and visit Guatemala, China, Cambodia and quite a few destinations more through Sagar's lens.

Would love to meet up with you there if you're in the city. And if you'd like to RSVP don't forget to head here

Female, footloose and fancy free in Cambodia

2011-03-17T00:22:00.000-07:00

The little girl squatted in the darkness with her wares, her eyes on the approach road, waiting for the first Tuk-Tuk filled with tourists to come rattling down. As the one with my mother and me rumbles to a halt, she jumps up and waves a few woven bracelets and a bottle of water in our face saying ‘1 Dollah Lady! Only 1 Dollah lady.’ This phrase would become the persistent soundtrack of our sojourn in Siem Reap, Cambodia. We are here to see the world’s largest religious monument, the 12^th century Angkor Wat and also to imbibe a little bit of the local flavours. Orange light streaking through the deep blue of the dawn sky and we step across an ancient threshold to see the silhouette of the monument begin to light up. Awe and emotion fill our being and my mother and I hold hands, thrilled at this wonderful beginning to our ‘women only’ tour.

It was with a little trepidation and a whole lot of excitement that the trip had been planned. Six days in Cambodia before we headed back to our respective homes in India and the Philippines. Though I had been to Siem Reap before, we were not sure of what to expect in a foreign country as females travelling alone. Cambodia however had a way of putting us at ease almost immediately.

This is a country where women walk, cycle and drive confidently. They work as managers in guesthouses, they run restaurants, they row boats with tourists through mangrove forests and they also come in ones and twos and in droves as travellers. We walked through the stone corridors and climbed up more than hundred feet tall steep staircases, only to run into other women from across the globe enjoying the vistas and clicking photographs. And of course, when you are in a monument that has more than one thousand images of beautiful women, and is now even being touted, controversially of course, as probably having been dedicated to women, it’s hard not to preen about being one. The graceful Apsaras that adorn Angkor Wat from the very top to the bottom make sure of that.

We head next to Bayon, another twelfth century monument that is well known for it’s fifty-one ‘Face towers’, with all four sides of the topmost part of the tower being a huge smiling face. While the faces are supposed to symbolize the bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara, it is said that they are in the likeness of the king who commissioned the monument, King Jayarajavarman VII. It’s his face and his enigmatic smile that scores of historians had seen in the ‘faces’ since the early twentieth century when restoration work started. Yet, modern studies and documents now preserved at the Angkor National Museum in Siem Reap suggest, that some of the faces could have been in the likeness of his Queens as well. It was not for mere cosmetic reasons that these women’s’ memories have been etched in stone. Queen Indradevi and Queen Jayarajadevi were philosophers, theologians, and victorious war leaders who built schools, monasteries, temples, and hospitals. They were in many cases the ideal that the women of the Khmer empire had to live up to. But they were by no means the first.

Ta Prohm, the temple famous as the one where Angelina Jolie fought a manic stone deity as Lara Croft, stands testament to this fact. Ta Prohm is today being preserved in a semi-wild state, to remind travellers of the way the ruins were first seen by non-Khmers in the early nineteenth century. As we pick our way through the ruins, what catches our attention are the massive Silk cotton and Strangler Fig trees that have enveloped the structures in a death hold. Mother Nature is making it clear that she’s the Boss in these parts and we tend to overlook that this temple was dedicated to Prajnaparamita, the goddess of wisdom. Yet the deity was modelled on King Jayavarman VII’s mother, Queen Jayarajacudamani who by many accounts upheld the tradition of being an academician and philosopher like many queens before and after her had been.

With so many ancient women proving themselves as worthy icons, it’s with little surprise that we walked down the red sandstone causeway of Bantey Srei- the 10^th century ‘Citadel of Women’. A temple that was reportedly built as homage to the women of the Khmerian Empire, it is also said by many, that it was women who built it as well. We stop and stare at the intricate engravings on the walls and ceilings of the temple. No photograph does justice to the skill of the craftswomen who worked here.

For a week, we trudge through the Angkor archaeological complex, peering at the bas-reliefs in the company of world travellers and locals, families and monks. As we try and imprint as much of the awe-inspiring wonders of that centuries old empire, there is that one refrain that keeps us from glossing over the shortcomings of the Cambodian society today.

‘1 Dollah lady. You buy one for 1 Dollah lady’

It’s the voice of the young girl and the many children like her who follow you plaintively, hoping that you’ll buy one trinket or maybe two. By some of the ruins, older ones replace the young faces; they are older sisters, some young mothers, some even older. They look a lot like those women that were immortalized in stone, in an era long gone by. Today however, despite making up more than 52 % of the population, Cambodian women are fighting for their political and economical rights. And as we the woman traveller roams footloose and fancy-free across the kingdom of smiles, we wonder how long will it take for the glory days to be restored to not just the temples, but also to the women of Cambodia.

---

Shweta Ganesh Kumar

The mysterious absence of Pink Spotty and me

2011-03-09T00:33:00.000-08:00

Yes, there are actually people who wrote in wondering why Simply Speaking had suddenly become Simply Silent!

Believe you me, I was as flabbergasted as the next person that there were readers who actually looked forward to our occasional spurts of activity.

Well, we've been away as Pink Spotty is still half-way through a rather huge book and I have been busy setting up something that will help a lot of us reach out and set up a creative or business outlet!

Presentingggg *drumrroll* FIRST FEATHER CONSULTANTS

We've been fortunate enough to be featured in Your Story.in, a site affiliated with CNBC's Young Turks twice.

You can read the full article here

You can read this article here

And we've also been getting some love on our blog - THE THINKING CAP where we have an open call for submissions on women of note!

(Interested writers, send us a mail for more details)

We've been giving shout-outs to original entrepreneurs on our Facebook page and you can get there by clicking on that link you see to your right. Yes, that one :)

And if there's twitteratti out there- Head on straight here

So with all that you see why the Deity of procrastination has taken a back seat for now and why I've been channeling the multiple armed and eyed deities of yore!

But Pink Spotty cannot be silent for long, so we will be back with more soon! And till then, we're grateful for your support and wishes!

Cheers all!

In the spirit of Valentines day

2011-02-08T23:57:00.000-08:00

Yes, I've written to my love, but a fictional one.

And it's to one of my many fictional loves. Yes, judge me.

But on my letter, if you please. So why don't you head here and tell me what you think of my outpouring with a comment or two?

Pink Spotty is on vacation

2011-01-27T04:23:00.000-08:00

But the show must go on. So I had to step in and read a book off my trusted lappy. This week's pick is Sacred Ground & Holy Water by Lyn Fuchs. It's a travel book meant to attract men to reading spiritual literature. But actually it's a spicy, witty, book that will make you re-think your feelings towards the all-powerful one in the sky, or wherever you think she/he/it sits.

Read the review here

And Pink Spotty will be back. (To read in your best Arnold Schwarzenegger or as we say it back home Arnold Shivashankaran voice)

Till then, here's to lots of page turning!

On why Apo island is a wondrous place

2011-01-27T00:21:00.000-08:00

Traversing open seas to get there make you feel like the sea explorers of yore.

There’s nothing like the sound of the waves to wash all that city-bred fatigue away

Massive rock formations in the middle of the ocean demonstrate what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object

Rooms with a view in a place where electricity comes for but few hours every evening and no running water make you think about those things that you often take for granted

Stunning coves make you believe that you’re truly on a secret island

Grounded ships that make you feel happy to be marooned

Happy dogs that tell the tales of truly everlasting friendship

Sunsets that show you what those writers meant by sun-kissed waters

And colours that no photo-editing software can improve on

And the people who are just happy to be with themselves and stare at the restless sea

Pink Spotty and Model- a memoir

2011-01-14T01:19:00.001-08:00

Pink spotty wasn’t too impressed when I showed her the pick of the week.

A memoir of a model who started off with a struggle and then had a career-killing incident and then reinstated.

‘Really Shweta? Really?’ Pink Spotty seemed to ask, a disapproving look writ large across her googly eyes that have been threatening to come off any minute now.

You see America’s next top model has always been a guilty pleasure of mine and I do enjoy eating chocolate icecream and butter cookies as I watch women starve themselves for Covergirl contracts. And so when I found the book at a book store sale, I knew it was worth a shot.

After all with a blurb that read ‘There are 6.5 billion people on this planet. 16 of them are supermodels. Each year, hundreds of the most beautiful people in the world come to New York to become models. At age 14, Cheryl Diamond was one of them. Pretty girl, ugly business,’ how could an ANTM junkie resist?

And I managed to get Pink Spotty on board as well.

So here’s presenting this week’s review.

Book: Model- A memoir

Author: Cheryl Diamond

So it was only after I got home and was sorting my loot from the sale, much like a crazed pirate who’s pillaged way more than he could carry that I realize that the author is a blonde model who is at the time of publication (2008), only twenty years old. Now having grown up exposed to blonde jokes and dumb model jokes, I did slap a palm on my face at not having spent the money on another book. But then considering my resolution to not be a book Nazi this year, I decided to read it nevertheless and surprisingly did not regret it.

Cheryl Diamond is witty, sharp and has some of the smartest comebacks I’ve read in a memoir. Written in the first person, the book takes you from her first casting call, to present day where she models for the likes of L’Oreal and Armani. She’s strangely very identifiable when she talks about how she takes her time in making friends as she had to move a lot as a child. She comes across as independent and even when she goes through some very undesirable situations, there’s no pity party here.

The book is very no-holds barred as far as the industry parties and the potential paedophiles and creepy hangers on are concerned. But it’s in no way a cautionary tale or just the run of the mill coming of age one.

A quick read and perfect for that short flight or train journey you have to make.

Now, like I said last time, neither me nor Pink Spotty are getting paid for this, so you don’t have to click on links/like pages unless you too like me enjoy the fine art of procrastination from time to time.

But if you like me and Pink Spotty indulge in harmless judging of extremely good looking people who are vying to be the face of brands and end up with millions of dollars in their pockets – you might want to join this page on FB.

Oh and if you’ve read the book and had a completely different take on it, that’s what the comment section is for!

So that’s it for this week fellow bookworms.

Next time we’ll be back with our thoughts on a book about ghosts, sisters and Chinese food. You can hazard your guesses in the comments section. So till next time, have a fast page-turning week!

Pink Spotty and Noli Me Tangere

2011-01-07T01:13:00.000-08:00

It’s a brand new year and my Pink spotty bookmark and I have decided to pen down a few words on whichever book we get the time to browse through this year. We have decided to be equal opportunity book review bloggers. And if the book we write about piques your interest, remember to scroll down to the end where you’ll find related links. (Neither me or Pink Spotty is getting paid for this, so don’t shun the links thinking that I’m leading you up the web path to spam or ridiculous sales deals)

Oh and there will be no bias based on genre, authors and certainly not publishers.

So without much further ado, I present to you the first in the Pink Spotty book review series… Pink Spotty and Noli Me Tangere.

Book: Noli Me Tangere

Author: Jose Rizal

Translated by Ma. Soledad Lacson- Locsin

The first thing that I was told about Noli Me Tangere is that it’s an 19^th century novel about 19^th century Philippines written by the Father of the Philippines - Jose Rizal and so to remember to plod through it with this context in mind.

And so while I was prepared for pedantic passages with a long forgotten call to revolution as the intent, I was blown away by how quickly the story drew me in. As I read, I could see 19^th century Manila rise in front of me, with details on the society parties and the snide remarks of socialites, the looking down on the indigenous and the forced fear of the clergy laid bare for all to see.

What held my attention was the thread of humour that runs through the novel, even at the climax when things are going terribly wrong for most of the main characters. And then there are the wonderful descriptions like the Caribou that pulls a cart with a philosophical expression on its face. Also impressive is the chapter where the author introduces a third person letter writer whose letter tells us about Padre Damaso’s oratory and the fiesta.

Yes, there are chapters where the dialogue does seem meandering and I must confess to skipping a sentence or two. But keeping in mind that the novel was to exhort the society of the time to stand up and take a good look at what was happening, it makes sense to have those long speeches. And also keeping in mind, that a short attention span was not exactly a problem in those centuries.

The story is appealing on multiple levels. For me as a foreigner living in the Philippines, where even today you can see many of the issues that Rizal wrote about, there is an easy identification with the protagonists.

And as a reader it draws me in, as the basic story is universal in feel.

Two childhood sweethearts who turn out to be star-crossed lovers due to society and family is not exactly the most unheard of story. Even the main protagonist Don Crisostomo Ibarra has a lot of parallels with India’s very own Devdas. Both young men who were educated outside their hometown who’ve returned to a woman who has stayed faithful to the memory of their love over the years. Of course, the reason why they have to separate is completely different. But I don’t see why a reader would be unable to identify with the 19^th century characters of Noli Me Tangere and also identify them as real, breathing characters in our lives today irrespective of where we live.

If you’d like to know more about where the book stands in Modern Day Philippines – Head to the Noli 2011 community on Facebook

And if you’ve read the book yourself – write in with what you felt about it.

Pink Spotty will soon be back with her review of the next book that we’ve started on. This one’s set in New York and about those of us who often have to starve to make a living. But more on that next time!

Have a book-filled time till the next!

Random thoughts inspired by social networking

2010-12-08T07:21:00.000-08:00

Sometimes FB Friend requests make me feel like a celebrity

How else do you explain the random requests from people who insist that they studied with you in one school or the other, while you have absolutely no idea of who they are and are positive that you’ve never seen them in your life.

The rise of the grouchy ones

When Orkut came into our lives, most profiles were filled up with the obvious intent of showing-off and also of glossing over the sad little gaping holes in our personality and so our social persona tended to tilt towards the Mother Teresas of the world. The trend continued into Facebook and would have gone on till Twitter burst into the scene. Today the ruder you are, the more followers latch on. Throw in a few cuss words and launch on an angry tirade and Twitter might just recommend you as the person to be followed for the day. From personal experience, I had the maximum number of new followers when I was on a PMS fueled angry rant.

The age of the Don and Donna Quirkies

Normal is the new abnormal. The weirder the things you do, the more non-traditional your life choices, the more celebrated you become. This is awesome and to illustrate as case study I present to you Marc Johns. And if you have further doubts, check out the most popular videos on YouTube

Me = My best PR

Seriously, do we really need to pay PR people anymore? Do we need PR firms anymore? Type, post, share and retweet to glory. Is it any wonder why former PR persons are re-inventing themselves as Social media Consultants? Or why social media addicts are now self-styled social persona experts?
We’ve all become Nazis of one kind or the other
Just yesterday I read a tweet that said, “If you read either Paulo Coelho or Richard Bach, you cannot be a friend of mine.” I’m guilty of saying pretty much the same about Paulo Coelho, but I happen to like Richard Bach. But that’s not the point. The point is that there are so many authors/ moviemakers/ films/musicians and you name it out there that have suddenly become unfashionable. It’s not cool to admit to liking Blyton. Bollywood is for losers. Never ever say that you like Oprah or Tyra, it’s always Ellen. Remember the in list is,‘Kubrick, Howard Jacobson, Steinbeck and so on.’ If you ever, ever mention that you might have read Chetan Bhagat, you will be deemed a social pariah forever more. Why you may ask? Well because a few adept social networkers tweet so! And it’s not enough that they let the world know that their choices are the best, the issue is that they want everyone else to bow down to their ‘superior’ choices. (Oh and in the spirit of being my own best PR – here’s a post I did for Pratham books on becoming a Book Nazi)
And in conclusion, as there is no way that any of the above thoughts are going to make me delete either my Facebook or my twitter account, I’ll just leave it at that as I wait to hear your thoughts on my thoughts.

More from the Passport

2010-12-08T03:38:00.000-08:00

Dear fellow travellers,

It's been a busy month and I've been dying to tell you about my week in Beijing.

But the old adage of man proposing and higher forces disposing has been holding true. So while you wait, I thought I'll leave you with a piece from Passport, my travel column in the RobinAge

This one's about Fort Kochi in Kerala.

Make sure that those budding travelers at home take a look at it.

So till next time, here's to exploring new lands and lots of adventure.

Post-cards from a walk in Kuala Lumpur

2010-11-04T06:51:00.000-07:00

With less than a day in the capital city of Malaysia, it was hard for Amma and me to figure out what all we could hope to cover in Kuala Lumpur.

We decided to make the most of it and take a long walk down to Merdeka square from our no-frills hotel in downtown KL.

A few steps down we realized that you cannot avoid the twin towers even if you consciously decide to avoid it.

It tends to loom over all junctions...

And even the randomest of alleys.

But if you avert your eyes firmly and let your gaze stray to the other buildings of KL, you can chance on beauties like this one, the old general post office built in 1896.

Or this example of Mughal architecture in Malaysia, the 1897 built Sultan Abdul Samad building, that stands proudly benevolent over Merdaka square.

Or this stately 1920's theatre, charmingly named the Coliseum. I would have been first in the queue to pick up tickets to the movie they were playing, if only I had time. For those of you who are in the city, they're now showing 'Endhiran.'

Tomorrow as we head back home, it's with the belief that even the most unplanned of visits, to the most glitziest of cities can sometimes reveal a soul's that's been veiled from public view for much too long.

Dispatches from Siem Reap - VI

2010-11-03T08:37:00.000-07:00

The last day in Siem Reap is spent in wondering...

We wonder how time sped past so fast.

We wonder whether we can slow down time this last day, so that we can get to see maybe one wonder more.

We wonder whether the elephants will still be ferrying excited travellers around the Angkor complex, the next time we visit.

We wonder whether this artist's work will be displayed with pride and fond memories in a house half-way across the world.

We wonder what the King who declared all the images of Buddha at Preah Khan to be changed to hermits, had been thinking.

We wonder whether this Apsara peeks out from behind the wall that hides her, at nights.

We wonder what this two-storeyed columned building must have been used for in it's hey day

We wonder how long will it take till we see interesting road signs like these again.

We wonder whether the restoration will ever cease to be and become only conservation.

We wonder whether any other ascent up has ever been so fulfilling.

We wonder whether it will be long, much too long, before we feast our eyes on this spectacular and humbling monument again.

A Cambodian food tour

2010-11-02T01:29:00.000-07:00

Head here in a few hours for a look at Lok Lak to Pat Prik Gang and Soup Psut.

These are just some of the yummies that Cambodia has to offer.

Comment/Mail/ Tweet/ or basically let me know in some way about the Khmer recipe you want and I'll blog in this space as soon as I get back to Manila, armed with authentic recipes.

Till then, hope you're all having food that is making your taste buds explode in joy!

Cheers!

Dispatches from Siem Reap - V

2010-11-02T00:42:00.000-07:00

Every traveller yearns to carry a lit bit of their trip back home, where they can look at it and remember those experiences that will stay with them forever.

We do it in the form of photographs that will keep the stone lamppost by the Wat Bo bridge near the Siem Reap river virtually intact forever

By buying little pieces that represent Siem Reap, from it's colourful Bazaar

And then sometimes we do it by picking up the recipes that will help us recreate the flavours that had added to our Khmerian experience.

There's the delectable Pat Prik Gang or Pork in chilli sauce with long beans

The comforting Soup Psut or mushroom soup with minced chicken

The 'makes your tongue explode in a riot of sensations' Lok Lak or Fried beef with red sauce served with a fried egg

The deep fried minced pork with ginger, onions, beans and red bell pepper that got polished off within minutes of getting ordered

The flavourful Fried rice that could give fried rice from around the world a run for it's money

And the pork marinated and then cooked in Khmerian spices

What they say about Siem Reap is true, one visit is not just not enough to take in all the temples and monuments, but also sample all that it has to offer elsewhere as well.

Dispatches from Siem Reap - IV

2010-11-01T08:56:00.000-07:00

Cambodia is not just a land of temples, but it's one of expressions...

Expressions....

And then some more....

No wonder why they have so many dances, expressing their many moods.

There's the shyness of a just-married couple...

There's the 'Daiii' of a Hanuman ready to protect the Apsaras

There's the surprise of an Asura who's been attacked by Hanuman

There's the tight-lipped and alluring smile of the Apsara

The irritation of the farmer's wife at the village toddy seller

The exuberance of a couple in love

The playfulness of a Chinese origin dragon

The slinky seductiveness of a snake

The delicate tip-toedness of a peacock

The self-assuredness of three potential suitors

The valour of a Khmer warrior in the making

The spirit of dancing open-heartedly no matter what the occasion ...

Cambodia is truly the land of expressions, the land where a smile can cut right through the self-constructed tower of Babel that the foreign traveller brings along.

Dispatches from Siem Reap - III

2010-10-31T07:58:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it's not just the architecture of Siem Reap that catches your eyes...

Granted that it will be tough to find a better etched pink sandstone building than Bantey Shrei, the temple said to be built by women...

But it's also tough to tear your eyes away from these two, that rest lightly on their heritage.

There are also those occasions when you trek up the most arduous of jungle paths...

to get a glimpse of that engraving hidden away in a river bed.

You ride on past the most interesting of road signs...

To reach the most isolated of temples...

only to find smiles that engage and intrigue you more than the gods and goddesses etched on the walls.

Sometimes it's 'what's not in the guidebooks', that show you the spirit of a town, something that we hope to see a little more of in the coming days.

Dispatches from Siem Reap - II

2010-10-30T09:17:00.000-07:00

It's been a day of jumping out of bed at 4 am, sitting in a Tuk-Tuk that rattles your bones and wrapping shawls tightly around to shake off the piercing morning chill.

Then on to getting Passes with bleary eyed and wide smiling faces and on through the broad roads, only to see a shadow of the great wall, across the black moat that surrounds the ancient monument.

Stumbling on the ancient causeway, we make our way through darkened entrances where no Agarbati can fully mask the mustiness left behind by creatures of the night.

As one, we move with travellers who've come from across the world, to see that age old spectacle of the rising sun as it lights up the Angkor Wat, one of those monuments that leave even the most arrogant of the human race humbled.

Fingertips tracing ancient scripts and with heads bowed down to deities that are centuries old, we tread softly through corridors that tell us tales of bygone eras. Overwhelmed, we walk a few metres away, trying to comprehend, how the first Non-Khmer who saw it's Gopuras rise through the dense forest must have reacted.

Faces look down on us, following our footsteps, a knowing smile in place as we pick our way through the mazes and the spirit of balanced chaos that abounds at Bayon.

Skilled artisans and benevolent kings as those master builders of yore might have been, at the end, we are forced to accept that it's always Mother Nature who has the final word.

Tomorrow will be a new day, with much more to see...

Dispatches from Siem Reap I

2010-10-29T06:23:00.000-07:00

Landed in the Kingdom of smiles. A quick run through the museum later, me and Amma are calling it a day.

After all, tomorrow we need to be up before the crack of dawn to see it break over the Angkor Wat.

Anticipation and excitement and the hope that it will be as awe-inspiring as last time are creating butterflies flit away on a manic trip within my stomach.

There will be more on what the experience was like in tomorrow's dispatch.

But till then I'll leave you with the two things that we'll arm ourselves with as we wait for that sunrise.

You all know what I'll be dreaming of tonight.

Judgement in 30 seconds

2010-10-28T12:28:00.000-07:00

Or less is what I just went through a few hours ago, at Manila airport.

Me - Waiting by the boarding gate, with a book that shows Krishna and Jesus holding hands, a large brass key dangling from a long metal chain around my neck, my oversized black and pink specs on, electric blue painted nails and a crazy hippy hair band I picked up from India.

She - One of the only other Indian women at the terminal, wearing an electric blue Sari and a round bindi, holding on to a largish brown bag, sheepherding her bespectacled definitely in her twenties daughter to the restrooms, while husband guards luggage, walking past the above described me.

Me- Looks up at the rare appearance of Indian woman in Indian clothes in Manila and widens mouth in smile as show of comradeship in a foreign land.

She - Looks me from hair to toe, Adi muthal Mudi vare literally in Malayalam, purses lips, wrinkles nose, clenches palm, gestures the daughter who slowed down to walk away from the obviously corrupting influence, has the word 'KALANKINI' writ large in her disgusted eyes.

Me- Recoils, considers tripping the woman, settles for turning up mouth in scorn

She- Walks off as fast as she can manage. Probably thinks 'What have our Indian girls come to!'

Me- Resumes book, thinks, ' What would she do if I told her I was off to KL to meet my mother to head for a temple tour in Cambodia after having left home-cooked dinner for my husband in the fridge.'

Life goes on as usual.

Passport!

2010-10-25T06:45:00.000-07:00

Hello fellow travellers,

It's been a while yes, but to know why the travel blog's been languishing head to www.shwetaganeshkumar.com.

Not an excuse, but I've been chained to the desk, putting finishing touches on my first book and travelling has not been an option. Sigh!

But I've managed to try and spread the need to get out there and see the world through a new column in RobinAge

Passport is a travel column for children and here goes some of the articles that have been featured so far.

So if you are intrepid travellers who have children of your own or have nephews and nieces that you would like to nudge in the direction, you know which paper to pick up for them.

On another note, there are quite a lot of travel stories coming your way this November.

For starters watch out for my dispatches from Siem Reap that starts this Friday.

Till then stay safe and remember to dream of a new destination tonight!

The Deity of Procrastination

2010-10-22T09:14:00.001-07:00

And yes, that’s an almost accurate representation of how I picture her. Yes, you smart gamers and Angelina fans out there, I am thrilled that you recognized that to be the Goddess from the Tomb Raider series! I’m just saying, that’s how I imagine her to be. You can see what an ardent devotee I am of this particular deity from the way in which I’ve been rambling on, without reaching any particular point.

Yes, that’s right, I know you’re taking a look at that paragraph and nodding and smiling and agreeing. But my dear readers, of course I’m good at the art of procrastination. It’s second nature to me.

Look at this blog for instance, last updated on the second day of September with the cover art of an anthology that my work is a part of. And since then languishing, for want of attention and due to my love affair with procrastination.

Procrastination that manifests itself in many ways… As a weird out-of-the-blue hunger pang that comes up, just as I see the 'Update Blog' penciled in my weekly planner…

As the overwhelming urge to curl up with a book as I see a deadline hurtling towards me …

As the passé programme on TV becomes a must-watch, as I need to format a book proposal…

And as the need to clean up the house becomes paramount, lo and behold there is a contact on g-chat who I’ve not had the chance to catch up with in ages…

Yes, the deity of procrastination is my goddess of choice. She’s magnificent and benevolent and helps me in avoiding those conversations that I don’t want to have and ignoring those tasks that I rather not do.

She gives me the gift of time to gloss over the rough patches of life that need that layer of make-up.

She makes me believe in time warps that stretch time and contort space and help problems go away or at least, shrink if you don’t pay them any attention.

But then sometimes, she behaves like those other Gods do, not very mindful of the fervent praying and the ritualistic sacrifices and the extreme devotion.

So sometimes she ignores you.

But then isn’t that what the true deity of procrastination would do anyway?

Why would she listen to you, when she has things to procrastinate about?

Oh and before I devote more of my time on that thought, I have a column and a chapter to write.

But suddenly the Goddess urges me to yet again, procrastinate and nudges me gently on the path of true procrastination.

The dish you can’t ignore: Rajma Chawal

2010-10-20T07:28:00.000-07:00

The Internet’s been acting up these past few days and though I’ve steadfastly stuck to my vegetarianism even on the weekend, I’ve not been able to keep up with the online veggie journal. But I’ve been jotting down recipes nevertheless and clicking my pictorial evidence and so when you read this, know that my Internet is working and that this is something that I made sometime last week.

And so the recipe for the day is that dish that a lot of us hate, a lot of us love, but no one can really ignore, that simplest of the simple, the Rajma Chawal or kidney beans curry and rice.

My first taste of Rajma Chawal was during my student days in Pune. I shared a flat with a couple of my batchmates and we had a kitchen, replete with a cooking gas and even a fridge. But there was a small hitch. None of us cooked and as we were all caught up in the craziness of mass communication studies, none of us had the inclination to learn either. While breakfast was skipped and lunch was almost always a Vada Pav and Iced tea at the college canteen, dinner had started to loom on our heads as the ‘eternal problem.’ It was not like we had enough allowance to eat out every day and packed Vada Pav had stopped cutting it anymore. The solution was a ‘Dabbavalah’, a Tiffin-box man who would deliver packed dinners to our doorstep every week-night. We decided on two ‘Dabbas’for three people. The quantity was more than enough and it was easy on our pocket. The menu was mostly Rice, 3 rotis, a dry side dish of some sorts, a fresh salad of onion, tomato and chilli, a mango pickle and the main gravy. This would be either a Dal, or a potato curry or more often than not Rajma.

I loved it in the beginning. The juicy beans in a thick tomato and onion based sauce with a hint of blended Masalas. It was the perfect pick-me-up after a whole day of eating next to nothing. The love-affair went on till it became the only gravy that the Dabbavalah provided for a whole month. I started seeing the kidney shaped beans in my sleep and to me it became the symbol of the struggling student. I swore off it, refusing to eat it for almost five years, even when I worked in the North, the birthplace of the dish.

But then in 2009 I got married to a Rajma enthusiast, someone who enjoyed making the curry that reminded him of warm meals during chilly Delhi afternoons. And so after five years of avoidance, I got re-acquainted with that former friend of mine, while curled up on a sofa in the Philippines and decided that maybe I’d been too harsh in judging it.

The dish has been a regular since then and I’ve stumbled on a recipe that is my favourite version of the curry. Enjoy.

Ingredients

1 cup Rajma (I use the canned kidney beans found in most supermarkets. This is pre-cooked. Otherwise you need to pressure cook it for 1 and ½ hrs)

2 small onions – sliced

1 ½ tsp of Ginger-Garlic paste

3 tomatoes – chopped

1 tsp chilli powder

½ tsp ginger powder

½ tsp Jeera (fennel/cumin) Powder

½ tsp Jeera (cumin seeds)

A pinch of Garam Masala

A handful of coriander leaves

2 tbsp of Oil

Salt

2 glasses of water

Process

Heat oil in a pan

Add onion, ginger-garlic paste and Jeera. Fry for 3 minutes

Add tomatoes. Fry for 4 minutes

Add the rest of the powders. Fry for 2 minutes

Add Rajma and water. Cook for 15 minutes

Sprinkle the Garam masala and garnish with the coriander leaves

And you are done.

I usually serve this with plain rice, a few slices of onion sprinkled with vinegar and salt and some mango pickle. This time we even added a Pappadam or two.

It’s a comfort food as long as you don’t overdo it. ;)

I’d love to hear what you thought of it!

And as usual till the next post, here’s to Yummies in your tummies!

Cheers!

Mallu Soul food – edition I

2010-10-14T01:45:00.000-07:00

The vegetarian drive continues. And last night’s dinner only made our resolve to stick to it stronger. This was because I decided that it was time we headed towards ‘Naadan Malayalee’ cuisine for inspiration. I had picked up Muringayilla/leaves of the drumstick tree (that sounds like something from the distant lands atop the Faraway tree) over the weekend and had just refilled my container of Toor Dal. There was enough of cabbage to whip up a side dish. And so I decided on the simple fare of Muringayilla and parippu (Dal) and Cabbage thoran with rice.

Now Muringayilla and parippu is one of those curries that are made quite often by Malayali grandmothers, fed to school children with rice, telling them that it will do wonders for their memory and make them grow tall and their bones stronger. This is not just an old wives tale. While drumsticks or Muringakaaya are widely known for their nutrients, so are the leaves. But it’s not the health benefits that attract me to the curry but the taste. The leaves have a subtle flavour which when blended with the Dal reminds me of home and simpler times, when the most complicated thing in my life used to be my trigonometry homework. The hint of chilly powder, the slight coarseness of the grated coconut and that unique flavour of cumin, all come together so harmoniously to create an effortless yet distinctive taste. Pour the slightly watery gravy on your rice, take a helping of cabbage thoran, a teaspoon of pickle and a dash of curd. Whether you’re eating alone, sitting on the couch, as the TV blares on or even if you’re sitting with your loved ones, joking and catching up, the flavours will wrap you up in a warm homely embrace.

And so to re-create those simpler days or simply recollect them if you are a Malayalee, here goes the recipe

Muringayilla and Parippu

Ingredients:

One cup Toor dal

One bunch Muringayilla (Leaves to be plucked off the stalks. Some grocers offer pre-plucked packets. And this makes life a whole lot easier)

1 tomato quartered

½ tsp Haldi (turmeric powder)

½ tsp Chilli powder

One cup grated coconut

1 tsp – Jeera (Cumin seeds)

One tomato – chopped

Varavu (seasoning)

1 tsp mustard seeds

3 dried red chillies

1 small onion sliced

Process:

Add three cups of water for the one cup of Dal and pressure cook with Haldi and chilli powder.

This will take around 20-25 minutes.

Once done, add the Muringayilla (which should have been washed and kept aside by this point)

Add half-cup water per one cup of Muringayilla

Also add the quartered tomato.

Mix and let it cook.

Grind/Blend the coconut and Jeera coarsely and keep aside.

When the Dal and Muringayilla start to boil, add the coconut and jeera blend.

Stir and cook on medium heat, till it starts to boil. Switch off.

Seasoning:

In a frying pan, heat some oil. Once it starts smoking sputter mustard seeds.

Add the red chillies and the sliced onion. Saute for a bit. Switch off

Pour over the Muringayilla and Dal and Voila! You’re done! J

I’ll be sharing the cabbage Thoran recipe soon. So keep watching this space for that more.

Till the next post then, as always here’s to yummies in your tummies!

Cheers.

Veggie Journal day 2- Alu-gobi and Parathas

2010-10-13T02:39:00.000-07:00

Yes, you skeptical naysayers. We are mid-week and still very much vegetarian. Though work has been steadily piling up on the side and there’s not been much time to trawl the cyber food archives as much as I would like to.

And so I decided to fall back on one of my many times tested and trusted recipes Alu –Gobi or potato and cauliflower Masala. On a separate note, how come MS word doesn’t accept ‘masala’ as a word yet! Think it’s popular enough to be added to the dictionary, right?

Anyway back to the dish of the day, Alu-gobi is one of those dishes that are a staple in any Punjabi Dhaba, those little, mostly open-air eateries that are scattered along the length and breadth of India’s highways. You could be travelling down NH 47 in Kerala and you would still chance upon a ‘Punjabi’ dhaba, even though you are quite far away from, umm, Punjab. And here on the slightly greasy, one page,text both sides, laminated menu, under the expansive list of ‘Vegeetariyan items’, you are sure to find Alu-gobi, probably nestled between Gobi Manchuriyan and Alu-Mattar. (P.s be sure to stay tuned as I’ll be sharing those recipes soon!)

Anyway Alu-Gobi is a simple dish that goes well as a main dish with Parathas and Rotis and also as a side dish with rice. The recipe I have is one that I picked up a couple of years ago. It’s one of the most common ways to prepare it and also the least time consuming. There are variations where coconut and tamarind are added, but I prefer this version. You are, of course free to experiment! J

So here goes:

Ingredients:

1 cauliflower ( Small, break into florets, soak in a dish of hot water for 4-5 minutes)

3 potatoes, cubed (I always wash them well and leave the skin on. They are supposed to be healthy)

2 onions chopped

1 small onion (sliced)

1 ½ tsp Ginger-Garlic paste

4 cloves

1 inch Cinnamon

A bunch of coriander leaves chopped

Powders:

¾ tsp red chilli

½ tsp Coriander

¾ tsp Black pepper

½ tsp Jeera (cumin) powder

½ tsp Haldi (turmeric) Powder

1 tsp salt (Adjust to your taste later)

1 tbsp Refined Oil

1 ½ tbsp Butter

And then:

Place a heavy bottomed vessel on low heat.
Add the florets, potato cubes, the chopped onions, ginger-garlic paste, salt and all the powders (DO NOT ADD OIL/BUTTER AT THIS POINT)
Barely cover with water, cover and boil for 7 mins on med heat. (Veggies should be tender but still crunchy)
Now pour the oil and butter into a flat pan and wait for it to start smoking.
Add cloves, cinnamon and sliced onion. Saute and fry for 6 mins
Add the previously cooked veggies and switch the pan to a low heat. And fry till very little water remains.
Add the coriander leaves. Stir for a minute. And you are done!

I served this with Parathas (store –bought J), garlic pickle and the ubiquitous tomato and onion fresh salaad.

Remember if you’re serving this with rice make it a little more watery. And you can always add a dash of butter on top as well.

Lemme know how it went!

And so till my next green post, here’s to lots of yummies in your tummies! :D

P.S Don't forget to check in tomorrow for some Malayali recipes!

A green start

2010-10-12T03:39:00.000-07:00

Very green in fact, as you can see from the picture!

Anyway to start from the beginning, the time was coming near to whip up the greens for the day and I was stuck staring at the rather unimaginative vegetables I’d picked up at the grocery over the weekend. After a few minutes of pondering, I decided to go with my favourite, the uzhalkizhangu or the alu or the potato. What’s not to love in the potato, mashed, fried or cut as boiled cubes, they go with practically everything and have a way of soaking up pretty much every flavour. The only catch of having the reliable old Alu is that it’s not very well known for it’s health benefits. (Or is it?) All that you hear about the poor veggie is that it makes you pile on the calories and the kilos. Sigh!

And so a plain Alu curry, yummy as it might be was ruled out. After all, if we were going vegetarian, we might as well get the benefits! That’s why I pulled out a bunch of the greenest of green, the leafiest, that food of the strongest sailors, SPINACH. (Yes, I know you have the Popeye theme song playing in your head now.) While as a child I used to crinkle up my nose at the sight of the leaves, I’ve grown to like them and even enjoy them as a grown-up (Well, as grown-up as I’ve managed to be at least).

Anyway the husband has always loved Alu too and so to to mark the first day of our vegetarianism, I decided to go with Alu Palak or Spinach and Potato curry.

But this was too mundane. We needed a dash of the exotic to make the day memorable and so I decided to pull out that exotic find of ours from the grocery section – Vazhakoombu or the Banana flower. Dishes made from the Vazhakoombu are quite popular in my home state Kerala and also in Asia, in general. I opted to go for a fairly simple side dish with the same, as getting to the succulent edible part of the Vazhakoombu is a process in itself.

Then it was time to bow my head and ask for the blessings of that great all-knowing and all-seeing deity Har Har ‘GOOGLE’ mahadev, to help me in my quest to get the perfect recipes. I was rewarded for my pains with the perfect Alu-palak recipe here and Vazhakoombu thoran here. Do check them out.

The only addition from my side to the Alu-Palak recipe was a diced tomato, thrown in with the potatoes and left to boil. I also added a generous dollop of butter on top, after I switched off the heat, on my husband’s request and it did amp up the taste. It’s a very simple, yet flavourful curry and did not make me miss my daily dose of meat at all! So I vouch for it.

The Vazahakoombu thoran has a tendency to get stringy, but it balances out the flavours. The fried raw rice and Urad dal in it also give you a bouncy crunchiness and really works wonders on the tongue.

While the natural accompaniment to Alu-Palak is Roti, I went with rice, because I’m from the South and I like my starchy foods! You can choose Rotis or even store-bought Parathas. I’m sure they’ll go just as well. Let me know. And if not, let me know then as well!

Till my next post, here’s to yummy greens in your tummies!

Cheers!

Confessions of an unwilling vegetarian

2010-10-11T08:32:00.000-07:00

Well, not exactly entirely unwilling but I’m not all that gung-ho about the idea either. But then again, as the Indian in me is more than ready to bow down to an idea of religious fast, my husband and I are embarking on our green journey starting today.

To put things in context, I am a carnivore, a hard core one. I like to have bacon and sausages for breakfast, chicken fry and Dal for lunch and chicken Biryani for dinner. I enjoy meat in the very many forms, chefs have offered them to us, the human race and I don’t see anything wrong with it. Now this is an ideology that I’ve struggled to stick on to when I turned environmentalist and worked for Greenpeace India. And while my planet is priority number one for me, somehow I could never bring myself to go green in the food sense.

But this time with the change in diet being limited to a few weeks, I am hoping to see it through to the end. The catch however is that I know very few vegetarian recipes. To be clear, my collection of non-vegetarian recipes outweighs the vegetarian ones, about fifteen to one. Yes, sad but true. But then the happy news is that it’s not that bad to go vegetarian if you hail from the sub-continent. After all we do have an overwhelmingly large collection of the best vegetarian dishes. All I need to do is to wade through the excellent recipes that have been kindly placed at my disposal by the Indian food bloggers of yore.

And so today my quest begins to find those simple, vegetarian recipes that will strike a chord with my taste buds. Keep checking back as I don’t belive in hogging and will most certainly be sharing the best recipes with you, with my comments on how they turned out when I tried them.

And so you never know, by the end of my fast, I might just get so hooked that I might have them veggies asking me to go find a chicken for a change! ;)

Till next time then, here’s to wishing that you all sleep with a tummy full of yummies tonight!

---

Picture courtesy

http://www.nofools.in/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/indian-vegetables.jpg

http://www.thespoof.com/news/spoof.cfm?headline=s5i2092

Indian Voices- Volume One

2010-09-02T06:39:00.001-07:00

Indian Voices Vol one featuring authors from around the world will soon be on the shelves. Please watch out for the launch.
I have a story featured in it and would love to have all you fine people pick the book up and share your thoughts. :D

Ironically natural

2010-07-17T00:04:00.000-07:00

So there we were in our new apartment in Taguig. Far away from the sootiness of Ortigas and the congestion of Makati, the husband and me had found a cozy little apartment, just off the shiny metropolis of Fort Bonifacio. A nice little apartment complex, with open spaces and a clubhouse and open corridors with flower pots and smiling neighbours and pet dogs with bells on their necks. We were in love.

Sweat dripping off our brow, we moved cartons into the house and arranged our books in the glass shelves. We revelled in the free cable we could enjoy till our connection got transferred. We couldn’t stop admiring the spaciousness of the wardrobes and the comfiness of the sofas. The water seemed sweeter and the air seemed fresher. We looked out of our bedroom window to see a green hillock, with goats grazing and dog idly ambling by. We had found our dream apartment.

Yes, I know that you know, that all the idyllic description means that we were either dreaming or insane. Well we certainly hadn’t lost it and we were not dreaming but we were certainly in for a rude awakening. Literally.

5:00 am- we were woken up by an alarm we certainly had not set and definitely not expected. It was the loud and insistent crowing of a rooster, intent on waking up the world. Startled as we were, we laughed it off and then waxed poetic about being woken up by a rooster. On and on we went about how it didn’t seem like we were in Manila anymore. It was like we were back in the Kerala of our childhood. Oh, how lucky we were to have escaped the city and yet be part of the city. And more in a similar vein!

9:00 am- The husband leaves for chores. (We work from afternoon to early morning. Just a little context! Randomly thrown, ‘cos I like context when I read other people’s personal blogs. But anyway, I digress) I decide to sleep in and enjoy the peace and quiet and the fact that not all apartments need to have the honks and screeches of traffic as a constant soundtrack in the background. But of course, how could I forget that literary device that many writers swear by and that which the world has a way of throwing in our faces, every now and then. Just for fun, I presume. I’m speaking of course of ‘Irony’. And so as I lay there, wondering what we had done to deserve to be enveloped by the sounds of nature while we were still very much in Manila, I got more than what I bargained for.

It was the rooster again and he was crowing his guts out. I sat up, the beatific smile slowly fading. I checked my alarm to see that it was 9:15. Was the rooster confused? Weren’t roosters supposed to crow only during the early hours of the morning? Well, you know what apparently not.

9:30 am – I decide to abandon plans of sleeping in as the rooster lets out an explosive one.

9:45 am- I can hear it as I brush my teeth.

10:00 am– My maid tells me how wonderful the new apartment is. “It’s just like living in the provinces. You can even hear a rooster crowing.” I give her a tight-lipped smile in return.

The crowing continues in short spurts, every 15 minutes. Yet till around 3 in the afternoon to 4:30, there’s no sound of it. Even roosters need afternoon naps I guess. But sure enough it was up again on the dot at 4:30, crowing away to it’s hearts content.

As I write this, it’s 6:45 in the evening and I’ve just come back to the laptop after peering through the window trying to get a glimpse of the creature that thinks of itself as a non-stop DJ, with just one superhit tune. And guess what? It’s not one rooster on steroids that I saw, not two, but FOUR!!! FOUR roosters were strutting around, pecking randomly at the ground and cocking their head to the side suddenly like they were possessed. And while they indulged themselves while looking supremely pleased with themselves, one of them straightened it’s neck, looking eerily like a classical singer clearing his throat before a performance. And sure enough perform it did. Loud and clear.

I didn’t stay around for the rest of the quartet to go ahead with their solo numbers. But as I shut the blinds and as I type the rest of this blog, I realize that my smile is back. So there are roosters on steroids living behind my building, so what? I still prefer it to the sound of ‘Justin Bieber’ songs that used to drift up from the party hall next to my last building. Add to that the frenzied shrieks of people who enjoy that sort of noise, and I’m thinking I’ve already been conditioned to more than just four roosters who love the sound of their own voice.

(P.S- I'm in Ortigas as I upload this with the hum of traffic in the background and I'm already missing the roosters! )

Why the ‘Fast’ in ‘Fast food ‘is a misnomer? Eye-opening conversations with a pizza place girl

2010-07-14T07:00:00.000-07:00

No, I’m not as lonely as that title might have led you to believe. And I most certainly do not sit around dialing numbers of random delivery places just to hear a human voice. The conversation that led to this blog was one that took place, merely because I suddenly found myself starving in the middle of the afternoon, with a chapter to finish and with no motivation whatsoever to walk myself into the kitchen. So there I sat on my bed, phone in one hand, laptop on my, well, lap and online menus open in front of me.

‘Burger and fries or Pizza?’ my mind pondered. ‘A burger would get over too soon and then what would I do if I needed another snack’, the voice in my head argued. ‘Yes, it makes sense to get a 10 inch pizza! That way, there’s enough for a snack and I can always offer the left-over pieces to my tired husband, when he comes home thereby pretending to be completely unselfish,’ my mind agreed. With a smile, I dialed in.

This was going to be a breeze. Our number was stored in their system and all I had to do was order the pizza and wait for my scrumptiousness to arrive. Or so I thought, as I heard the peeeng-peeng of the call getting connected.

Pizza Place girl (who will be called ‘She’ from now on): Hello! Welcome to Blank-blank Pizza. May I have your number please?

Me: Good afternoon (in high spirits at the prospect of yummy in my tummy) : Oh hello! This 1232134 (Yes, if you really thought that I would type my landline here, I applaud your naïveté. Read that as non-existent intelligence)

She: Thank you Ma’am! May I have your name please? (All chirpy and cheery)

Me: It’s Shweta Ganesh Kumar

She: (Suddenly suspicious) Ma’am, sorry that is not the name in our system

Me: Oh, yes that’s right. The name in the system is Sagar. Sagar Rajgopal

--Long Pause--

She: (Suspicion mounting) Who is that?

Me: (Hunger starting claw it’s way up to the beginnings of frustration) That’s my husband

She: Okay, can you spell the name please?

Me: Yes, it’s ‘S-a-g-a-r R-a-j-g-o-p-a-l’

She: Ma’am again please, slowly.

I oblige. Hunger giving my voice a slight steeliness at this point.

She: Okay, now your name.

Me: Why don’t you just use the name you have and deliver it to the address which also, you have? Please. (The please added as an afterthought, so that she doesn’t make sure that the pizza has a topping of spit)

She: No, we need your name (Steely forced cheeriness at this point)

Me: (Hunger headache making it’s presence felt) S-h-w-e-t-a

She: Annndd then?

Me: (Wondering whether she’s channeling the drive-thru voice from ‘Dude Where’s my car’) And then? And then, the pizza a 10 inch..

She (Cutting in): No, no ma’am. And then your last name?

Me: (Thinking that getting my Manila resident permit was easier than this): Umm it’s G-a-ne-s-h K-u-m-a-r

--Yet again a long pause--

She: So Gnash kmar?

Me: (with a deep breath pressing fingers to temples) Yes!

She: But that is not the same name in the system? (Sounding like she is questioning the purpose of life at the moment, the same wonder in her voice)

Me: okay... (I wonder if the woman on the other side is a life-sucking vampire)

She: So, who is Saygaar Rajgoopale? (The way she pronounces it, even I take a minute to ponder about who exactly that is)

Me: That would be my husband

---And again we come to a long pause---

She : Okay, now your order Ma’am?

Me: (In extreme disbelief?) What? Sorry?

She: Please give me your order Ma’am. (Sounding ultra-efficient)

Me: One ten-inch Hawaiian pizza and a can of Coke (Exhaustion underlining every word)

She: Alright! Delivery in thirty-five minutes. The time is 5:31 pm here, so please synchronize your watch Ma’am. I repeat its 5:31 pm. Thank you Ma’am

She hangs up and I look at my watch. 20 minutes. Add the 35 minutes it would take for the pizza to arrive, I make a mental note to make myself some Biryani, the next time I get a middle-of-the-afternoon- snack craving.

Now, that would be faster food than this any day.

Sigh.

From tip-tippy drizzles to outright downpours

2010-07-06T06:44:00.000-07:00

There’s something about the rains that make us all wax poetic. Yes, even those of us who do not even have the patience to read through the rhymes on Hallmark cards. There’s something in standing by the window with a mug of steaming Chai, watching the heavens open up and douse the planet with some fresh rain. It’s almost as if the planet is being washed clean of the sins it has accumulated since the last downpour.

I’ve always loved the rains. I’ve never quite figured out why. Is it because I have a childhood memory of my mother telling me about the storm that shook Kottayam, on the day I burst out onto this world? Or is it because rains have a way of mirroring the various phases of life that we live through, because the rains in their different avatars seem to have become the soundtrack to many an assorted memory?

There’s the soft drizzle that reminds of you of that first crush you had in school. You walking through the lightly falling raindrops, enveloped in the light mist, school bag strapped on, unmindful of the water-bottle scraping your knees with each step, wide dreamy smile in place. The rain lightly nuzzles the top of your head as you walk on imagining yourself to be a young Aamir Khan or a Sridevi, in your very own Bollywood fantasy, with accompanying rain to boot.

The drizzle intensifies. It’s the first real rains of the season. There’s the sense of intense longing that it brings along with it. You long to stop working. You are longing for a break. You long to cuddle up in bed with a good book, preferably leaning on ‘the one’. If not you long for ‘the one’, and the time to just stop and look at the raindrops, to run out and feel Mother Nature plant wet kisses on you. The longing to be back in school when life was simpler and rains helped you keep it that way. So what if school had re-opened, you could wear your Hawai Chappals for at least a week more! “Miss, my socks got drenched on the walk to school and Amma said that the other pair has not dried yet. Heavy rains Miss!”

And then there are those rains, where it seems like we’ve pushed the Gods over the bend. Water gushes down, threatening to recreate those biblical floods of yore. It’s like the heavens would rather wash the earth clean of those man-made structures that have done nothing but mar the planet’s natural beauty. Rain pounds down on the streets. Water builds up and acquires a life of it’s own as it flows through narrow lanes and closed roads looking for that easy victim to push over. And the torrent takes on the character of the harshness of a mother’s scolding, a loved one’s hurtful words and sometimes becomes the unfairness that life often is. Safe in our houses, we watch as it storms on, remembering those stormy episodes in our life, the exam result that did not come out as expected, that break-up that ended in slamming doors and flying dishes, the friends that passed away …

But just as we think that, we’ve reached our limit and that we can’t take anymore, the rains die away. The last drop bounces off that low-lying leaf. It falls on to the moist ground that greedily soaks it up, well aware that the next rains will take their time in coming. The last puddle dries up and the grey clouds have left the skies. And there we stand, suddenly bereft. The umbrellas and raincoats are packed away. But even though we walk briskly down those suddenly dry streets, confident that nothing’s going to rain on our parade, something inside us can’t wait for the rains to come back.

So for as long as it lasts, here’s to the season of steaming chai, hot pakoras, bittersweet memories, the smell of freshly watered earth and refreshing, rejuvenating rains.

People Watching II - Life in the Supermarket

2010-06-27T10:00:00.000-07:00

It’s been almost four years to my first edition of people watching. Lots of water has flowed under many bridges and quite a lot of paper boats have been launched by many a bored child who was waiting for his internet connection to come back on, on his high-fangled phone. And here I find myself, in a new country, in a supermarket, doing pretty much the same. No prizes for guessing that, yes this post is about people watching. Now, there is no need to be so quick to judge me and think, “Oh you lucky bum who has the time to while away while watching people!” I, for your kind consideration write full time and the subjects of this post are what I hope will be potential characters, in what will be my great-selling and great Indian novel. Oh and there is no need to wait with bated breath for that, but I digress.

So there I was pushing a far from full shopping cart, with my husband who was walking behind me figuring out whether we needed three packets of potato chips or four to watch the Germany Vs England match. I was doing my usual shopping routine, which was basically, scan the shelves, locate item, drop in cart, and mark off mental list. Repeat. The shopping was progressing as mundanely as it could, when suddenly I was caught in a jam. No, there was no catastrophe at pickles, preserves and peanut butter section. But there was literally a jam. A rather rotund elderly lady with a furrowed brow was negotiating her way through the middle of the aisle, with a ‘Don’t mess with me’ expression writ large across her rather, um expansive face. Facing her on her right was a mother who was pushing a cart full of candies, with her son hanging on to the handle. He was around ten and he was being dragged around the store. And I wanted to wonder whether too much candy has a bad effect on children, but I had to concentrate on the left, where a much in love couple, were pushing a cart together and trying to get in as much public display of affection as they dared, while standing in front of cans of corned beef. And then there was me, who was hoping to get done with the shopping and head back home, to cuddle up on the sofa with the book I’d just picked up, as my husband cheered himself hoarse for little men in coloured jerseys inside the little box in our living room. But alas, the powers that be and the rotund lady had other plans. Madam decided that she would drive her cart smack in the middle, whacking the dangling little boy on the shins, the female from the couple on the posterior, until she reached my cart that looked like a third world economy next to her cart that is what I imagine what Santa’s sack would like, pre-delivery of gifts. So there we were, eyes locked, mouths tightening, wondering who would give way first. I turned out to be a weakling, who had been brought up to believe that the years the woman had got on me, sadly gave her the right to pass. And so I meekly pushed my cart to the side and almost sat in it, as the woman majestically sailed by.

Four aisles later, careful not to cross carts with other scary shoppers, I had realized that a supermarket was as good as any place to observe the oddities and random routine behaviour of humans. It was like watching a documentary on marine life, with each type of shopper taking on the role of a fish. There was the pregnant woman with her husband, playing the role of nesting fishes and therefore waddling around the appropriate vegetables and milk sections. They dawdled in front of baby products, dotting in and around aisles, like nervous fishes that don’t particularly want others to notice them. Then there are the children of shoppers who run through aisles jumping out from behind bottles of olive oil, or shampoo, invariably followed by one harassed looking parent, looking like Nemo’s dad out to protect him from the dangers that lie beyond. There are the sharks that are employed by the supermarket armed with sharp brochures on promotions and deals, ready to squeeze the last drop of blood, from you the unsuspecting baby seal. There are the swordfish that use the carts as their weapons of choice, pushing it with force, so that the shoppers on either sides jump to other aisles in self-defence leaving the swordfish with the best of the goodies on the racks. There are the pretty angelfish like shoppers who’ve dropped in to buy a bottle of wine or two as they flit off to a party. There are the shoals of fish, the foreign college students that have drifted in the hope that the sharks won’t attack them as they are in groups and also because they are already so pathetically thin, thanks to the pocket money that runs out as soon it reaches their pockets. And then there are the whales like the rotund elderly lady, scary and majestic and not fish you would mess with even if they are supposed to be nice. Why take a chance?

Then there are the happy grocery shoppers like my husband and me. I like to think of ourselves of the dolphins, the chattering pair that shops for the joy of it, never seeing at as a chore and thinking of it as a time to frolic in the sea of canned, bottled, packaged and frozen goods. But then again we could also be the happy chimps of a thickly populated rain forest. But then that’s fodder for another post.

Of rhymes, lullabies and toothy smiles

2010-06-11T01:08:00.000-07:00

For all of those who are wondering what happened to the random ramblings that this blog is about, no I am not entering that phase of life that is known as “the second childhood.” But you see children’s books publisher Tulika books has been running a blogathon looking for rhymes, chants and those long forgotten playground songs from our childhood, and I found myself rhythmically moving my head and tapping my feet to words from long ago and therefore this post.

My favourite Malayalam rhyme and the easiest to remember has always been the one about the crow and her child.

And this is how it goes:

“Kaake kaake koodevide

Kootinakathoru kunjundo

Kunjinu theeta kodukkaanjal

Kunju kidannu karanyeedum

Kaake kaake nee tharumo

Ninnude kayyile neyappam”

For those who do not understand Malayalam, the singer is asking the crow where her nest is and whether there is a child inside the nest. The singer then tells the crow that if she doesn’t feed the child, it will sit and wail and then inexplicably ends the rhyme by asking for the sweet which the crow is holding in its beak! While I admit it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, my grandmother, mother and aunts will vouch that it was very useful when they were getting my cousins and me to eat. And looking back I think it was definitely a lot more interactive than the ‘hand aeroplane’ that swoops into the toddler’s mouth and bombs it with a round urula of rice.

And then came my all time favourite “Omanathinkal Kidavo.” A royal lullaby composed in the 1800’s by Sri Irayiman Thambi, for a young prince of the Tranvancore royal family, the poem went on to become one of the most sung lullabies in Kerala. It captures motherhood's essence and is all about the mother feeling blessed to have her child and her wonder at her child’s perfection. It’s a long poem and so I’m putting down a few of the most popular lines here.

“Omana thinkal kidavo nalla komala thamara poovo

Poovil niranja madhuvo pari poornendu thante nilavo

Puthen Pavizhakkodiyo cheru thathakal konjum mozhiyo

Chanchdiyadum Mayilo mrudu panjamam padum kuyilo

Thullumilaman kidavo shobha kollunnorannakkodiyo

Easwaran thanna nidhiyo parameswariyenthum kiliyo

Parijathathin thaliro ente bhagyadrumathin bhalamo”

For non-Malayalam speakers here’s a translation done by the government of Kerala

“Is this sweet babe

The bright crescents moon, or the charming flower of the lotus?

The honey in a flower, or the lustre of the full moon?

A pure coral gem, or the pleasant chatter of parrots?

A dancing peacock, or a sweet singing bird?

A bouncing young deer, or a bright shining swan?

A treasure from God, or the pet parrot in the hands of Isvari?

The tender leaf of the kalpa tree, or the fruit of my tree of fortune?”

Set to a lilting melody, it’s the kind of lullaby that makes you think of tight arms holding you in a comfortable embrace, protecting you from anything and everything.

Oh and if it seems familiar, that’s probably because A.R Rahman was also quite inspired by it. He ended up using a portion of it in the Rajnikanth starrer- Muthu’s ‘Kuluvalile’ song. Check out from 1:20 on the timeline. ;)

So what about you guys? Any childhood chants you remember?

Should caste count?

2010-06-07T22:28:00.000-07:00

Should we count on the basis of caste? Or should the idea of a caste-based census be cast out?

Caste has been a dirty word for a while in India now. Even references to it bring back the ghost of the reservation riots and the spectre of the aftermath of the Mandal commission report back to haunt us. So it’s little wonder that the Indian government proposing a caste-based census and setting up a group of ministers to look into implementing it has resulted in a widespread debate across the nation.

The fact is that try as we might, it’s impossible to ignore the reality of caste if you are an Indian. Sure, it’s uncomfortable discussing it and the middle class claims that caste is a non-issue. But the truth is that we peel away those layers of gloss that our society has coated itself with and there it is staring, unblinkingly at you. So now the question is whether we stare right back and talk about it or do we keep our eyes shut and hope that it’s gone by the time we are ready to open our eyes again. The government’s decision to go ahead with the caste-based census has brought out many voices in support of, as well as against the idea.

The last official enumeration of the population on the basis of caste was done in the year 1931. All reservations in the spheres of education, jobs and the like were done on the basis of this data that was culled even before independence. Even the controversial Mandal commission report had to use the numerical data from this 1931dated census in the course of their research. There were murmurs of the 2001 census including caste as one of the criteria, but the administration did not follow through with the idea. Predictably the debate then as it is now, raised pretty much the same concerns, no matter which side you were on.

Read the rest of the article in my guest column at the-nri.com- here

Close encounters of the Massive kind

2010-05-24T05:36:00.000-07:00

When you read of lands that live under the shadows of smoking volcanoes and those that have seas inhabited by massive sea creatures, you might dismiss it as figments of a writer’s fertile imagination. But before you do that, I would suggest making a visit to Legaspi and Donsol in the Philippines. Here, there are sights beyond your comprehension, even after seeing them. Read that as the active volcano Mount Mayon, and the whale sharks that swim in the seas during the months of December to May.

My husband and I had wanted to explore the region for a long time now. We had even made the twelve hour long bus-ride to Donsol for a much awaited encounter with the whale sharks. Yet a Tsunami alert had banned us from the waters and we had returned disappointed. This time, we had caught a last minute flight in from Manila and had our fingers firmly crossed.

We started by hiring an All Terrain Vehicle or an ATV to follow Mount Mayon’s 2006 lava trail. The humongous tires ground pebbles firmly into the volcanic ash and made its way through streams up the trail. Driving through what was once a river and now a grey wasteland we reached a dead end, a 60 feet high wall of volcanic rocks. We clambered up loose sand, holding onto rocks and emerged to see the tops of coconut trees. We were standing on a sea of rocks that extended all the way to the crater. From July to October 2006, Mount Mayon had spewed fiery lava that had burnt all that stood in its path, which was mainly, the coconut farms in the area. It had slowly cooled down till this sea of rocks had been formed, as a memorial of sorts.

Yet, there is no sadder testament to the destruction that Mount Mayon has wreaked than the Cagsawa ruins that stand forlornly in the town. Seeing an ancient church tower that is the sole reminder of an entire town that was engulfed by an 1814 eruption of the volcano is indeed a sobering sight.

However, we had no time to dwell on past misfortunes as we made our way down a winding road to Donsol. This sleepy fishing town has now been dubbed the Whale Shark capital of the world. We quickly registered at the Whale Shark interaction centre for the next day and were herded into the AV room to watch a video on the ‘Butandings’ as the whale sharks are called here. The video talked about how the whale sharks were the biggest fish in the world and that they grew up to forty feet or more and lived up to 150 years. It ensured us that there was no reason for alarm as these gentle giants only fed on plankton. That last part was reassuring to say the least.

To calm my nerves, we decided to head out on the ‘Burning bush’ tour. This is the very imaginative yet apt name given to the firefly river cruise here. We settled down in a canoe to be slowly rowed up Donsol River that is lined on both sides by mangroves. As we looked on, certain trees lit up as if adorned by fairy lights. “Fireflies” our boatman told us in a hushed voice, as we watched entire trees flicker radiantly in the darkness.

The next morning, we were back at the Butanding interaction centre at 6:30 am. Within half an hour, our boat had left the shore. Thrilled on finally getting out there, my husband and I quietened down to listen to our Butanding guide’s instructions. We would be taken around twenty minutes into the ocean. There was a whale shark spotter who would stand in front and instruct the boat on when to halt. By then we had to wear our snorkelling mask and fins, and sit on the edge of the boat. As soon as the guide yelled ‘Go’, we would jump into the water and swim behind him.

As we neared the waters where the Butandings were said to flock, the spotter took his place. My heart was pounding uncontrollably. Suddenly he gestured with his hand and the boat’s motor was abruptly killed. “Ready, Go!” our guide called out. Before we knew it, we were jumping behind our guide into the open sea.

We jumped into the cold green water and swam after the guide. As soon as I reached near him, he held my hand and said with urgency, “Look Ma’am! Look!” I instantly plunged my head into the sea. I could see nothing but murky water, when suddenly out of nowhere a huge head emerged. It was as wide as a double bed and was a dark grey adorned with a pattern of criss-crossing dots in shades of white and blue. It was my first encounter with a Butanding and it was swimming directly towards me. I panicked and jerked my head out of the water. Despite the video and photographs I had seen, nothing had prepared me for the sheer size of what was indisputably the biggest fish in the world. I wrenched my mask off, took in a deep gasp of air and then put it back on, to peer into the water again. To my astonishment the Butanding was still majestically swimming below me, swishing its forty feet long body gracefully as it dove to deeper waters.

We swam back to the boat only to make many more jumps through out the interaction. We ended up seeing nine Butandings in the course of an hour. We were very lucky our guide told us. I agreed with him wholeheartedly. But not just because of the number of whale sharks we saw, but because we had gotten the opportunity to intermingle with these magnificent creatures that taught you a thing or two about perspective. After all, once you’ve encountered a century old massive sea creature, you can no longer have illusions about the grandness of the human race.

New Indian Express, May'10

Dosti beyond borders

2010-05-20T08:21:00.000-07:00

Take a good look at your Desi gangs. Do you ever get the feeling that you are all more Indian when you are out of India than within?

Have you ever had to move cities and join a new school a little late, after the classroom cliques had already been formed? The time when as an outsider and the new boy or girl, you were referred to as the ‘Madrasi’ or the ‘Bong’ depending on where you were from? The times when your state was an integral part of who you are.

And it wasn’t just in school. You grew up, got through college, got employed and on the first day of work found yourself having lunch with your fellow Mallus or fellow Delhiites waxing forth about the wonders of Malabar roast chicken or ice-cream at India gate. And if there weren’t enough people from your home state you would try and get together with persons who belonged to neighboring ones. This meant that the people from Karnataka and Andhra Pradesh would be seen together and the ones from Orissa and Bengal would collectively get nostalgic about their homeland. Sure, there were the occasional cosmopolitan gangs, but mostly there was always that invisible boundary of mother tongue and state running through even the closest-knit groups.

Yet, I have seen this very boundary fade away as soon as these groups migrate to foreign shores.

Read the rest of the article in my guest column at the-nri.com - here

The whole Package

2010-05-11T09:34:00.000-07:00

When you get married, it’s like you are automatically bestowed the title of chief matchmaker to your single friends. Or at least that’s what some of my friends think. So nowadays if I’m not being treated as a shoulder to cry on and vent about the jerk who did not call, I’m also chief fixer upper for some of my single male friends. Most seem to believe that I have an abundance of female friends who are dying to dive into the ‘hot girl that these men can date’ role. Please note- not the hot girlfriend role, for that would mean commitment and we all know that, this blog or any other would not have space enough to devote to this topic. C’mon guys, you know I’m not picking on you when I say that.

Anyway moving on, since I’ve been married, I actually have no problems in fixing people up. I’ve actually relinquished my previous role as ‘Valentine’s day hater’ and I do revel in the corniness and mushiness of it all. But what I do have a problem with is the extensive list that guys present me with.

For example, the other day I’m online chatting with a friend who has obviously chosen to ignore the ‘BUSY’ status that I have on. But in the interests of his happiness I sigh and give him a patient hearing. Twenty minutes later, after I had come to the conclusion that men too whine about being single almost as much as women, I logged off with a list that he had presented to me, in my quest to find the perfect girl to date for him.

She was to be as hot as Angelina Jolie. But considering he knew that he was asking for too much, he would settle for as hot as Beyonce instead. Maybe even a Jennifer Aniston. But that was it, he wouldn’t sink lower than that.

She was to be skinny but not stick thin but not someone who could be called plump either.

Apart from having this ‘middle-path’ body, she was to be someone who loved reading and loved cars and video games. If she owned an X-box, he was willing to propose a definite short-term relationship, a long term-relationship would happen, depending on how often she updated the games in her system.

She needed to like all action movies, specifically the Transformers and also needed to feel that bomb blasts and random explosions were an integral part of the movie going experience.

The list went on and on in a similar vein. My mind was boggling at the prospect. To get a girl according to these criteria, I needed to have a Joliesque friend who was an IIT graduate but partied like a wild thing and worked in a garage for fun and volunteered at the local orphanage in her free time. Now, I have friends who are all of the above, but they are all different people. I even have friends who are a mix of one or two of the mentioned criterion, but all in one person? Now, when we girls have given up expecting the whole package, unless it’s in a trashy Mills and Boon, isn’t it high time you guys did also?

But then on the other hand, now I understand why we still have so many arranged marriages in our country. When all their female friends raise their hands in exasperation and give up on these criterion-loving men, there will still be one woman who will listen patiently and even strive to get that perfect woman for them.

Their Mother.

Filipino Born Total Desi

2010-05-05T22:41:00.000-07:00

So you’ve never been to India and the Hyderabad you’re from is not in Andhra Pradesh, but that doesn’t mean that your heart doesn’t beat for India, right?

The common thread that binds all us NRIs scattered across the world is the fact that we get to answer a question about origin with “Basically I’m from India.” A response that gets reactions like, “Oh what a beautiful country and I’ve always wanted to go there,” or “Isn’t India filled with slums?” Responses that you brush off with a delighted ‘Thank You’ or a bristling “Well, you obviously have no idea of what India is all about”. But what about those who can only respond with, “Ummm. I really wouldn’t know!”

To read more, check out my new column at the-nri.com
(Pic courtesy: www.destination360.com)

A Javanese Sojourn

2010-05-04T00:19:00.000-07:00

“We are Javanese first and everything else after that!” our guide proudly told us as she led us to the Javanese cottage where my husband and I would be staying in Yogyakarta. We were in Indonesia for a week and were all set to explore this region in Central Java. Stepping into the house with a black oxide floor and a thatched roof, replete with wooden beds covered by mosquito nets, Java did not seem all that different from rural India. Yet, we soon realized that the sort of religious harmony that exists here is something that our country is yet to achieve. And everything we saw during the course of our travels only reinforced that.

Flourishing under the shadow of the active volcano Mount Merapi, Yogyakarta or Yogya, is what many would call Indonesia’s soul, the culture capital of sorts. We had six days and therefore no time to waste. Determined to experience the town as the locals did, we set out on a walking tour with our guide. Before starting the actual tour though, we spent an agonizing ten minutes attempting to cross the road while Yogyakarta’s manic and trademark traffic rushed on. That adventure behind us, we followed our guide into an alley that turned out to be a peaceful residential colony. We walked past grandparents sunning themselves in their patios as their toddler grandchildren stumbled and crawled away. Our guide had a smile and a greeting for every person we met. They returned the greeting, not only to her but also to us, teaching us that a smile goes a long way in these parts. We made our way to the Alun-Alun or the South Square and then walked down a cobblestone path, to the back door of the Kraton or the Sultan’s palace. This was not our destination for the day though. We walked on to a small shack just beyond the back gate. There, hanging from the walls and casually left on a worktable were the famed Indonesian puppets in various stages of formation. As we looked at the Krishnas and Hanumans and other characters of the great epics, the puppet maker told us that his family had been creating them for seven generations. With the white paint coming from the crushed horns of the Caribou and the black from the volcanic ashes of Mount Merapi, a ‘Walang Kulit’ puppet as they are called is all Yogya.

As is the Kraton, that we visited the next day, armed with the mandatory palace guide who dutifully pointed out the artefacts and the Sultan’s family tree. Yet what caught my eye were the ‘offerings’ that the Sultan had left at odd corners of the vast palace. Freshly plucked flowers placed on a cut banana leaf were something I would have expected in a Hindu temple, but certainly not in a Muslim ruler’s residence.

A stroll through Yogya’s traditional bird market later, we were ready for the sights that travellers come to Yogya for. The temples of yore! Ever ready to take us to our destination, our guide and her friend revved up their bikes and whisked us away to the ninth century Prambanan temple complex. Standing proudly erect, apparently unaware of the small town that grew around it, we caught our first glimpses of Prambanan while waiting for the signal at the junction.

The temple complex was badly damaged by the May 2006 earthquake that affected Yogyakarta severely. Though the site got a lot of immediate attention due to its status as Indonesia’s largest Hindu temple and a UNESCO world heritage site, today a lot of the smaller complexes are nothing more than a pile of ancient debris. Rising above the calamity though, is Candi Sewu the 8^th century Buddhist temple that is within the complex grounds. Despite the yellow lines that warn the tourist of the ongoing restoration, the stone monument is still stunning.

As the sun started to make it’s descent we made our way through manicured lawns to the central shrines that are dedicated to the Trimurti or the Creator, Destroyer and the Preserver trio from Hindu mythology. The Vishnu and Brahma shrines flank the Shiva shrine on either side. Covered from the top to the bottom with intricate relief work, the Prambanan complex is awe-inspiring, as the busloads of school children swarming the area would testify. The sight of the three central spires bathed in the fiery rays of the setting sun is one that will be etched in our memory forever.

The next day we drove through congested highways that were lined by paddy fields and streams to Borobudur, home to the world’s largest Buddhist monument. We were told that the best time to view it was at sunrise. And so we spent the rest of the day gorging on scrumptious Javanese street food. From Ayam Goreng Kalasan and delicious Padang food, it took a superhuman effort to tear ourselves away from the eateries and head to our hotel. After all, we had a sunrise tryst with destiny to wake up to.

At four thirty in the morning, we were herded along with a handful of tourists to the base of the massive monument that rises to a height of 400 feet. Armed with flashlights, we stumbled up the narrow stone stairs and thresholds to the top and found ourselves nooks to view the sunrise from. As the sun’s rays cut through the pitch-black night, we feasted our eyes on what Borbudur was famous for - the perforated stupas. As Borobudur awoke, we peered into the one of the stupas only to gaze upon one of the 504 statues of Buddha on Borobudur. Making our way down, taking our time through each level that told the story of the pilgrim’s ascent to heaven we were overwhelmed at the artistry of those ancient creators.

Finally with a deep sigh of farewell, it was time to head home. But not without a Batik painting ensconced safely in my bag as a piece of Yogyakarta that would always remain with us.

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May 2010, New Indian Express

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Indian Voices Vol one featuring authors from around the world will soon be on the shelves. Please watch out for the launch.I have a story featured in it and would love to have all you fine people pick the book up and share your thoughts. :D

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A Javanese Sojourn

Indian Voices Vol one featuring authors from around the world will soon be on the shelves. Please watch out for the launch.
I have a story featured in it and would love to have all you fine people pick the book up and share your thoughts. :D