THIS IS IT !

You know how you feel when you’ve just met or done a thing you’ve been looking for, all your life? Its an Unknown, yet a familiar kind of excitement. Like the ‘soul mate’ funda. Now, apply the same thing to what you you’ve been looking at wanting to do all your life.

You might be able to catch my pulse and get a sense of what I’m hinting at, if you are a regular here. You  know how confused or unfocussed I was with my ‘life plans’. Sometimes I was wistful about my short-lived ‘corporate’ career, and then there were days when all I wanted to do was cook, clean and be a stay at home mom. Well, the book was never really a ‘career’ option.

All these days i was juggling with multiple ideas, talents and desires. All I wanted to do was taper my focus areas to one main activity, that I could devote my time to. Something that  excited me, immensely. And like you might have already guessed, it turned out that there were several ‘immensely exciting’ things I could and wanted to do. So I started giving everything time. Photography, cooking, writing, firming up plans for my ‘silver’ venture. I was doing them all with a lot of panache. And the more energy I put into these activities the clearer everything got.

I went for my first class on ‘Silversmithing’ today at Sydney Art School. I learnt to make my own silver ring, out of a strip of silver. It took me 4 hours to make it. But this post is not about the how’s and what’s. All that you’ll find on my silver blog. What I want to share here, is the feeling . It felt so familiar- holding the metal, filing it, polishing it. As if I was meant to do it. As if the metal I so adore, was destined to be in my hands.  (I swear, for the very first time on this blog, I am not exaggerating :-)).

The feeling was akin to meeting Raj :D. A this is it feeling, or like I hurriedly updated my status message from the bus, I’ve found my calling.

Happy. Happy. So happy!

For those who I know won’t go to my silver blog, here is what I made :

Thoda Ketchup Try Karo, Ketchup Hota Kaddu Bhara..

So Manikarn sparked this off. A lot of people have asked me how ‘Ketchup’ came to be my blogging nick.

When nehavish, my favourite-est blogger, and then colleague/ friend introduced me to this addiction, I didn’t know I  could mask my name. Yes, I was rather duh (notice the past tense pl). So when I finally got down to creating this blog and was prompted for a name, I had this sudden urge to remain anonymous.  I wanted to be this mystery writer…basically I didn’t have the guts to go public. Its really a different matter that what I wrote in the initial years of this blog was pretty cringe-worthy.

But I digress. So I got thinking. I’m not exactly a patient person – so ideating about my blogging nick was getting me into a state of tizzy, and I had to settle on something quickly.

My eyes scanned my office interiors looking for clues. Pictures of beautiful Adivasis and little kids from government schools adorned the walls of the NGO where I worked.  I was next to an orange wall.  Nothing worked out somehow. ‘The Adivasi Girl’, or ‘Orangiee’ somehow didn’t quite cut it (: .

That evening I took a tea break to visit Bakers Inn (Hyderabad) to satisfy my Cheese Tart cravings. Little did I know that my blogging-nick was safely tucked between two sand-paper like tissues, inside the take-away box.  I opened the box in the pantry and out came the tarts, tissues and a sachet of TOMATO KETCHUP. Aha. Eureka!

Absolutely nothing cerebral about it. I know. But really, do you care? Also, I’ve begun to wonder what the consequences this nick will face when I turn 60 plus. I think I’ll stick to KG, notwithstanding what my grand kids might have to say :). (Oh of course I’ll be blogging at 60, doubtlessly, through my arthritis! Whatever the hell did you think, aye?)

Of course, KG is no more unknown.. No, by ‘not unknown’ I don’t mean ‘popular’.  By ‘no more unknown’, I mean, all those I was trying to hide from -friends, relatives, neighbours- they all know now,  the face behind the ‘Ketchup Girl’. But I  do take solace in people, who haven’t bothered to know more and go beyond Ketchup. You are happy with this Ketchup babe, and don’t want to know if Ketchup was Kylie or Kalyani in the real world, so long as the posts are published regularly. :-) Cheers to you all!

…is mein Kaddu nahin zara! Laal Rasile tamataron se hota hai tayyar , Volfarm! (All who remember this, please stand up!)

A list

Exactly at this point in time, I want to

- join Art school, get a degree in Visual arts and major in Jewellery  design.

- take a quick lesson in French Patisserie

- attend a workshop on creative writing

- book a stall in Bondi’s market place and sell silver jewellery

- take off to Bali

- pull out the water-colour tubes and re-create what I did eons ago

- give life to my Silver boutique

- pack my camera, tie my Nike shoe laces and set off to capture Sydney through my D60.

- make a cuppa and read  Rushdie on my rattan reading chair

- go for a all girls holiday to an exotic island

- take a Himalayan holiday in Ananda spa

- go in search of ‘true happiness’

There are some very complex things too that I wish for. Mentioning those  here will set off an alarm in the man’s head. So will let those points remain safe in the head.

I love lists. :)

Want to share yours?

Dog talk

I don’t think it will be a lie to say that I grew up with dogs. We as a family never really brought home a dog, but we gave shelter to many. I was notorious for picking up puppies from all corners of the colony and bring them home, begging ma to give those ‘poor puppies’ a home. One such pup that our milkman- Krishnappa brought home,  remained with us. Ma miraculously agreed to keep him and I like every other person in those days did, named him ‘Tommy’.

Tommy was the son of a mongrel. No lineage so to speak of. But he had the cutest tail , brownest eyes and very loyal. He walked me to school, and arrived bang on time to walk me back home too. He sat by me in the evenings, brought back my lost pair of chappal, allowed us to ride him like a horse,  and destroyed ma’s vegetable garden with the vivacity of a  mad dog.

He loved dad and me the most. He did have to bear the brunt of ma’s wrath for all the  backyard destruction, but he never left us. When dad got back from work, he gave him a guided tour of our backyard, leading dad, mum and me from plant to plant, tree to tree checking if the fruits and vegetables were ready to be plucked.  The colony I grew up in was also a very dog-friendly place. A lot of people we knew, had dogs. I still remember the names of many – Bamby, Snowy, Suzie, sandy, Rex :-).  The idiom ‘Once bitten twice shy’ doesn’t mean much to me. When I was about 10 years old ‘Bruce’, my aunt’s Doberman, got a little irked with me, and gave me a little ‘identification mark’ for life on my cheek bone. That didn’t scare me a wee bit.

And when we went to Kolkata for summers, we had ‘Tipu’ (he was named after my brother and me :D) to play with at our grandparent’s place. He was a strange mango-loving dog. My brother and I adored him. Tipu’s ancestors- 3 generations before him, were brought up my my dad's family. Apparently Tipu’s mother Neeta loved listening to the Tabla that my youngest paternal uncle played and was quite a temperamental bitch. There was ‘Patchie’ too. But I know very little of her.

After I got married, my husband and I, both wished to bring home a pup someday. But that someday arrived a tad too soon and like God-sent wish that was express-delivered, a friend called us to ask if we’d be interested in adopting a lab pup, all of one month. We agreed  without thinking much and brought ‘Coffee’ home. But we were young, restless and inexperienced. We weren’t ready for him. I wasn’t ready to handle the hunger tantrums every few hours. Coffee was just like a baby. I freaked out. We didn’t have the support of family either. My in-laws are not fond of dogs and my dad was not willing to take over the responsibility of bringing a dog home. Ma, I knew wanted to keep Coffee, but didn’t have dad’s support. So finally we gave him back to the owner. After that what followed was a miserable one month. I haven’t forgiven myself for what I did. And I know my only redemption will be by bringing home a Lab again.

Watching Marley and Me (for the second time) brought back memories of all the canines that gave me company in my childhood. Apparently Coffee is a lot like Marley. A complete rogue. :-)

I think every childhood must have a dog in it. Why just childhood, every person must share his life with a dog. Never mind what the pedigree, he/she will be your friend for life . In Australia when you register your pet’s name you also give your family name to it :-). I think its the cutest gesture – it’s your family after all. 

I love the last few words of the film-

A dog has no use for fancy cars or big homes or designer clothes. A waterlogged stick will do just fine. A dog doesn't care if you're rich or poor, clever or dull, smart or dumb.
Give 'em your heart and he'll give you his. How many people can you say that about?
How many people can make you feel rare, pure and special?
How many people can make you feel extraordinary?

Pat, Arnab and Dalma.

Arnab:  You never made this before. How come no non-veg today?

Pat: Just felt like having Dalma. You’ve had this before . Ma makes it so often. It’s a true-blue Oriya dish.

Arnab: Oh ! this is that special dal that the ‘band-baaja walas’ have in a Oriya wedding?  ha ha ha.

Pat: Where on earth did you hear that?

Arnab: Your mother told me. Apparently they make it in gallons, because the Baaja walas eat tons. So you made this for me?

Pat: Ma must have meant it in a different way. You have the knack to look at the flip side of things. Especially if there is an Oriya side to it.

Arnab: Why are you offended? But, I must admit that the Bong band-baja walas have fish-fry and a ten course meal, just like the rest of the invitees.

So,  Pat, the band-party in our wedding had this ..…this Dalma?

Pat: May be they did.How does it matter?

Arnab: I bet in our reception, which my parents hosted, the musicians had the same food as the rest of the invitees. Bongs are large hearted, when it comes to food.

Pat: Don’t even get there . Why, yes! I remember you left my side in the wedding and served them yourself.  But you know what, the way your Bong relatives pigged,  I’d be surprised if there was anything left at all. I remember Poltu boasting about the 8 Pantuas and 6 fish fries he ate. Incidentally he wanted more but the guy  who was serving didn’t return to his side with the fish. And is it true that the entire Midnapur gang of relatives who came fell sick after eating the ‘bou-bhaat’ (Reception) food?

Which brings me to the point, baby, why didn’t your parents have a buffet arrangement like my parents did?

Arnab: becau..

Pat: I’ll tell you. Because they were so sure of a mob at the buffet table. Half my relatives must have gone hungry because they didn’t want to stand behind the chairs of those sitting, waiting for them to finish. Was that Pujo bhog distribution or our wedding reception dinner?!!

Arnab: Oh please. I saw them all. Everyone ate. ok?

Pat: Anyway I couldn’t keep tab. I was too nervous batting questions from your kakimas and mashimas. Apparently the gold I wore was too little.

Arnab: (sensing ‘gold’ was a very dangerous territory to tread on)But you digress. We were talking about the humble Dalma. And here you have seamlessly digressed to my Kakima. Listen na, can you make me Kosha Mangsho tomorrow? I’m sorry, never again will I belittle the mighty state of Kalinga! Make that Kosha Mangsho with luchi, please?

Pat: It is Thursday tomorrow. It’s my veg food only day. I made a ‘gallon’ of this ‘Band-baaja special’, Dalma. Eat that. Good Night.

Arnab: Shit.

(other Pat and Arnab stories in the tab above, under the header called- KG’s short stories).

*Dalma is a special Oriya preparation of moong-dal and vegetables.

The Cha Lover

This blog has said little about its title.  Thought it can be best expressed with images. Completely inspired by Arch at Rang, I spent some very personal and precious moments with my only friend in solitude, Cha. I need to spend more time with my camera. It is indeed very relaxing.

Tea is drunk to forget the din of the world.  ~T'ien Yiheng

There is a great deal of poetry and fine sentiment in a chest of tea.  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Each cup of tea represents an imaginary voyage.  ~Catherine Douzel

Tea should be taken in solitude.  ~C.S. Lewis

Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves - slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future.  ~Thich Nat Hahn

You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.  ~C.S. Lewis

Find yourself a cup of tea; the teapot is behind you.  Now tell me about hundreds of things.  ~Saki

Liked? 

Yesterday.

Wasn't it just yesterday
we stole a bottle of gin into my room,
drunk, we lay still on the terrace to watch the full moon?

Wasn't it just yesterday
 we pooled in coins to catch the first show,
entered a salon together, for the first time, to pluck our eye brow?

Wasn't it just yesterday
we went on our first double date,
and told a bunch of lies, when we got home awfully late?

Wasn't it just yesterday
he proposed to you,
then in a few years, yes, he did to me too?! (:D :D)

Wasn't it just yesterday
we planned our grand futures,
while painting a perfect picture, of a greener pastures?

It was yesterday, indeed it was,
when we knew not what it meant to be mothers
nor what it was, to change soiled diapers!

I never thought I'd think of us
in a tense, that's past perfect,
groping around for a bit of yesterday
is my current pet-project.

But in tomorrow, I have hope
to bring us again together.
Though, all my heart wishes for now
is a glimpse of you today, and not wait for a moment later.

Nostalgia is a horrid thing

Know what, nostalgia sucks. Its a nosy little prick and always wants room for a night, for free , always at your place. And he comes knocking without a warning. A lousy, useless, thing- this nostalgia. Yesterday I got a visit out of the blue, when I was talking to Phish-phish. Turned out madam was travelling to Dilli by train, and then the darned chai-wala had to do a chai-chai number on the platform. And I had to  hear him on the phone. That’s where the little prick boarded MY train.

It hasn’t left me yet. And it is not fun anymore reveling in old times. Why the hell is that when we talk of ‘good times’, its always yesterday, in the past?  Its a load of crap and I am not giving in anymore to nostalgia. No, sir. I feel old when I do that. And feel as miserable as the German Soccer team (they lost, they lost!). Though I can’t be happier that they lost- a paradox?! 

So then, as Mr.. George Wildman Ball apparently said,  yes ‘ Nostalgia is a seductive liar’. 

A few updates that you must have already noticed:

I now blog for Vogue.in. For their reader’s blog, on jewellery related posts. This happened via Silveratti – my silver blog, I so so love. I’m on cloud nine to be blogging there!

I won that Blog Adda contest. Pringoo sent a personalized mug to my dad. It has Mishmash’s pic on it and now rests as a prized trophy in my parent’s ‘show-case’ amongst assorted knick-knacks , wondering if they’ll ever use if for a cuppa!

And I have put on 3 kilos.

So long for now. And for all my pals who’ve tagged me, a little patience please. KG is down with the nostalgia bug.

A jealous mother and some conspiracies.

In the one (almost) decade I’ve known you as a partner, and over the last four years, as a father, there’s much I’ve learnt of you. Some facts were interesting, some fun, some horrifying and quite a few bits of it were confounding things. But lets strictly talk about you being a dad.

So, from the time when you didn’t quite know what ‘positive’ in a pregnancy test really meant, to filling forms to admit your 4 year old in a public school, your progress has been good. This is not me rating you. Its your pink marshmallow. She  will vouch for anything that has ‘papa’ in it. Actually, only she will. I’ll tell you why.

I still hate you for holding her the first time, before I could. (I should have sued the hospital, man. Chcha.). It was then, that a bond was made. A special one, which I haven’t figured yet. Something that makes her run to you, even if its me who bakes her the best cakes and buys her ALL the pinkness she demands. Its got something to do with you holding her first. I know and am convinced, it was a big conspiracy theory. And it all began there.

Because you worked late nights and passed gladly as a nocturnal being, ergo, had almost the entire night  to play with her in her early years. She being a night child herself, obviously liked being in your arms in those twilight hours, watching you, fascinated, as you effortlessly balanced her in the folds of your left arm and attended con-calls with your right. So there, you had an advantage of a night job. (That’s when you and her, I suppose, made little pacts, eh?)

Even when she was unwell. Severely sick. She preferred you. Why? You held her firm while they poked those nasty needles into MY poor baby. I couldn’t bear to do it. But she mistook my maternal fears and instead, looked at you as her papa in shining armour, while you coochie-cooed into her ears and distracted her when she was poked. You cast your spell there too. Very clever.

Then, you take the most unfair advantage of being the taller one of us. Why, she likes being perched on your shoulders more than she does on mine. The view is better from yours, but obviously. How unjust. Really. She puts her face on your head and also gives you a little head massage. Just not done.

The beach. I like photographing you both - to ensure she has memories for later. So you pounce on this opportunity and dash with her into the waters? While she looks into your eyes, hands clasped tight, like you were God or something. What's the big deal about getting into the water, anyway? And you will never hold my camera while I take her in, won’t you? More conspiracy.

The puzzles you solve together are done, ALWAYS when I am cooking dinner. Easy way to keep me out. Easy way to tell her, see dad is so much fun. If this is not treason, what is?

The trampoline. It cannot take my weight. And I admit, I’m a wee scared of it. Does that mean you both jump on it all Sunday morn and mock me? Besides, I know you jump less and sleep more on it.

Oh well, dinner time takes the conspiracy cake. When you feed her, she likes it better. Of course she does, and will. Why wouldn’t she, when you help her eat faster, by eating little spoons from her plate, yourself? And both of you suppress giggles when I come to check on you both. You think I haven’t noticed it? Such wrong means to make her yours.

She thinks big of you, just because you can ice-skate? And I cannot? And you do all sorts of things to annoy me. Slouched on the couch, both of you, watching meaningless animation, for hours. I know, that’s another way of gaining brownie points, no?

The worst, perhaps is bed-time. Your stories. I won’t allow them. I’m telling you. Should you tell her The Ali Baba story as many times as she demands? And must you read her 10 stories always? That sets a bench mark, no? So, there. I’m so convinced of a plot. Of a big nasty understanding between you both, that began right from the moment she was taken out of ME.

Oh there’s more. I have a slip disc, hence I cannot try that Super-Girl thingy you do with her- taking her high her in your hands and swooshing her mid-air while she goes yipppiieeee I’m the Super Girl! But how would she know the meaning of ‘Slip disc’? I can’t blame her. And, last but so not the least, what can I do if I like to shop and you both don’t?

However, today, being Father’s Day and all, I’ll let you hog some limelight. Since she thinks of you in a rather big way, and would take away my brownie points if I don’t wish you a happy one.  Hope you and your four year old have a good time.  And I hope to God almighty, you stop playing conniving games with me. There will come a day, when she will realise.

But for now, just for now, we’ll settle with (just for her) :

My Papa Bestest.

Happy Father’s Day. Whatever.

(My entry to  BlogAdda’s Father’s Day competition)

(Dad’s Pringoo gift.)

My First Crush

First crushes are meant to be special. The kind that make you blush even after 30 years of the said cra(u)sh. Some talk of it with a sparkle in their eyes. Some die laughing, talking about it. Some brood, like forlorn Devdas-es, over it. Why, some even marry their crushes.

Mine was a tad different. I was on a ‘lookout’ for a crush. At the time when one’s ‘crush hormone’ is predominant, umm at about 12-13 years (?), I just couldn't make do with Pete Sampras, Charlie Chaplin (!) or Rambo, all three who adorned my wall. Even When Aamir’s QSQT released and all the girls around me were swooning, my crush-hormone refused to surface. I was in no mood for poster boys, film stars (though exactly at this moment, I’m very very weak-kneed for Shah Rukh Khan. I really could die for him, you know). I wanted the real thing. Even if it could just have been our neighbour’s son, who was kinda ok looking, besides the fact that he smiled at me, often, without reason. But I didn't budge.

You see, I wanted my first crush to be as real and special as possible. So I waited. Waited patiently while women around me walked about with picture postcards of Tom Cruise, Pierce Brosnan, Sanjay Dutt and of their first crush-and then steady boyfriend from their apartment complex/colony. And then, like Om Prakash Makhija in Om Shanti Om says that kickass dialogue which translates to- ‘the universe conspires to make your deepest desires come true’, I visited Bangalore the very first time in my life, with a friend. While she went her way, I was left to spend the day with a friend I knew for many years. We went to a pub. For the very first time. Then for a movie. And then walked aimlessly on MG road. It was then, out of the blue, he bought a stuffed toy (a dog), from a roadside vendor and gave it to me. (Come to think of it now, the toy was hideous, and anything but cute.)

What happened after that was what tripped me. He took me for a ride on his motor cycle. That did it. I saw the moon, stars and the sky like a digitally mastered painting. I knew I was sitting behind my very first crush. BUT. That guy. He didn’t have even an ounce of oh-my-whatte-sweet girl-like expression on his face. He was his usual 'good friend' self and out of the blue asked me who this other friend was who I had come with.  Apparently she was 'striking' and to my horror when he finally met her briefly the next day, he shamelessly flirted with her. All this while, not one glance at me, ok. Not ONE. Instead, before leaving he gives me with very 'brotherly' hug and gives me some even more 'brotherly' advice. Sheesh. I wanted the earth to split.

That day on the bus back to Hyderabad, I was crying like Meena Kumari, whose love was not just going to be lost forever, but an even worse fate would meet it. Her so called  love would remain a secret- an untold, un-felt one sided, sidey love story.  I decided to blame it all on that furry –not –one –bit- cute- anymore- dog.

Years later when ma washed that stuffed toy (Her OCD Highness), I told her about it and laughed until tears rolled down my eyes. Many more years later, after I got married, I met him again. In a Pub. And told him.
That time, we both laughed till our sides ached and the table next to ours decided to move to a table far away from ours.
This post is my entry to Blog Adda’s My first Crush Contest.

The suicide

The good part about being here is,
one can get away with a lot,
almost everything.

Controversies, slander, extra-marital affairs.
But what you don't realise is,
there are people here too,
and they are as real,
as the ones you meet on the road,
in the supermarkets.

All lurking around.
Waiting for the next juicy tid-bit.

You know, I've realised,
its worse than the real thing.
Too many people, too much invasion.

Sure, I invited them over,
indulged them, shared too much.
Now, its getting a little out of hand.

Emotions are running high,
jealousies abound,
excessive familiarity,
as much contempt.

So, how does one get away from here?

Shall I do, what in reality would hurt too much?
It would be legal too.
Let me kill myself,
That’s the best way to get away, from this.

ACCOUNT. DELETE. FOREVER.
Just a couple of clicks and gone.
How easy is that?

So, I have solemnly decided to commit suicide.
Virtual suicide.
And this is my last note.

Everything, everything is possible virtually.
Even death.

(Note to readers: ok, so i will be dead soon. And you can find me only in the other side of this world- the real world. Not here, the virtual side, where everyone  likes to inhabit in. And yes, I’m only joking. I just liked the word-virtual suicide. :D :D You really thought, i can do it? Virtual or real, i love living far too much to die. And love all you lurkers for making my boring life so much fun :D)

Happy 33rd, hero.

To the only bearable-bong man I know-

I see there is no point in being general and vague. No point in wishing you ‘a very Happy Birthday and hope you have a great year ahead’ type of ambiguous wish. For what ‘great’ really means, only the person wishing knows.

Since, I have the legal right to be and sound like your better half, I have half a dozen clear-cut wishes for you. Wishes that, I have realised in 6 (soon to be 7) years of marriage, bring utmost joy to your being.

1. Here’s wishing you get to eat cart loads of Kosha Mangsho and Luchi .

2. Here’s hoping the emails on your Blackberry never cease to decline in numbers. I know the joy your heart feels each time it goes buzz with a new email alert.

3. Here’s hoping Sydney remains extremely cold over weekends, just so you don’t have to head to the bath.

4.Here’s hoping that there is soon a dedicated channel that shows repeats of House MD, all day long.

5. Here’s hoping your injured shoulder heals soon. Just so you can then say- it has healed after so long, I don’t think I should risk injuring it again by going for tennis/exercising.

6. Here’s hoping you win that one million lotto you’ve been thinking of for so long now. ( But am really hoping you stick to the plan of letting me have 1/2 the share.)

And besides these, here’s hoping you, my dearest, that there are endless evenings, great movies, beautiful holidays, 24X7 mish-mash entertainment, more wine, more family time, more everything and  kickass health.

For you, my hero, deserve the best and nothing less.

Happy Birthday.

A pile of whatever

So, what I wrote in the previous post was sheer hypocrisy. You just saw the other side of the Gemini me. I have no business crying foul over those Dolphins, when I have no qualms chewing on a chicken leg. I should just shut up.

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Mishmash is very unwell. As I type she is kissing my left palm silly. She says she loves me more when she is sick. I’m heartbroken and lost for words.

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June is supposed to be ‘our’ best month. The happiest one, full of excitement. So far it doesn’t feel quite that way.

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R let Mish watch House- MD a few times. When she was delirious in high fever in the middle of the night she goes- ‘My brain is stuck. There is too much blood. I’m that’s why allergic to my brain. And So I cannot pee.’

NEVER NEVER take the effect of television on children’s minds as a joke. Everything is getting registered in the heads, their subconscious. Don’t ever underestimate what their heads can and cannot process.

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Last night’s dream was better. Mish saw me and her dad. I was mermaid, he was the prince. I rescue and marry him. She wasn’t present at the wedding because she was busy driving a spaceship which has fire in its behind, left-right-left-right.

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The Cove.

When was the last time you really saw a hard hitting film/documentary? I still cannot find an appropriate emotion to describe what I just saw in 92 minutes of unbelievable footage on Dolphin/whale/Cetacean slaughter and trade in Japan, in this astounding documentary called,  ‘The Cove’. 

The Cove is not just another ‘animal rights’ documentary with compelling footage of gore and cruelty . And it goes beyond just gaining awards (its picked up quite a few, including an Academy and audience choice in Sundance). The Cove is a thriller of sorts. Just that this thriller, gives you no cheap thrills- just a big lump in the throat, by the time you finish watching it. And this lump, strangely remains.

Aren’t Japanese and Chinese followers of Buddhism (most followed religion) ? And aren’t Buddhists the most peace-loving and non-violent people? I know I say this at the risk of sounding absolutely illogical and incongruous, for we are humans first. And I forget, we humans are the most abusive and ungracious lot of all species. We are the most evolved, ergo the most powerful, ergo think we are greater than nature. We have the right to kill, slaughter, wreck , destroy.

What kind of people buy stuffed dolphins (guilty), pay big amounts to watch them entertain us  (guilty) and then, pick up packaged meat of the same dolphins from super markets?

And what kind of government tries to cover up and promote a trade like this? I was confounded when I learnt, the Mayor of the town of Taiji (a whaling town in Japan, where a large source of income for most comes from commercial hunting of Dolphins)  had proposed to introduce dolphin meat in all public school lunches. I don;t know what horrified me more- the high levels of toxic mercury Dolphins have in them that will be fed as a compulsory school lunch item or by the mere fact that these kids will be fed Dolphins.

The scene at the end where very high end hidden cameras show a beautiful blue ocean go crimson red while the hunters continue to hit, push and kill these so, so intelligent and loving creatures, nonchalantly will remain in my head for a very long time.

Sure, there are a million other issues, and saving Dolphins might not be your top most thing to do for your environment – but knowledge enlightens. This film will make you more sensitive, cautious and loving towards everything around you. And, Love is ALL we really need.

A must watch. For details on the director and cast go here.

How do you think?

Why can’t we just think in isolation, without the 'so-called ‘help’ of catalysts? My man, he cannot apparently think without smoking. Some friends of mine can’t come up with ideas unless they wash down their throats with mugs of coffee. Some need alcohol, some food and I need gallons of water in the shower. I ‘think’ in the shower. These days, I’ve been trying more eco-friendly methods like making bigger pots of cha. That seems to work ok.

What do you do to think? And I am not talking about taking a walk, jogging etc. Those I think are- clearing the mind- activities. I am here, asking you, what is your thought catalyst?

Back to Basics

I want to go back to basics. I want to give up this materialistic, misery inducing life and go to my village and start farming....erm or may be organic vegetable gardening. (Its time Orissa got its due anyway.) You guys can send me my monthly rations of Lush, Body Shop, and chota-mota gadgets that I might need from time to time. With time, I'll get over those too. As it is I’ve given up a lot of things. Like you, my loyal readers will rightly remember my tryst with the very fragrant Keo Karpin Body oil. I’ll soon out grow all this.

Dad has been waiting for mum to signal yes, just once. And I know in no time he’ll pack lock stock and barrel and head straight to Kanachchanda, my native place. Oh, it’ll be so grand to live together once again. (And right now it is annoying me no end to know Kanachchanda is not listed on Wikipedia, even under villages of Jajpur district, Orissa.) What of my family? Oh well, SHE can follow her mother if she wants to and HE can really stay back in Sydney and attend barbeques and watch ‘House’.

While, I walk on the banks of the river Kharasrata, have moonlit dinners on the ancestral home’s terrace, cook straight out of a chulha , and live happily ever after. No magazines to lure me, no shopping malls to bring out the Lucifer in me, and no more friendship requests on Facebook.

And I really believe I can do this, and do it well at that. And maybe , maybe, one day, I’ll be the queen of organic farming and both, Orissa and I, will get the much deserved attention and admiration, we’ve been craving for in a long long time.

(Back to Basics KG, Limited edition)

Déjà Vu in a piece of blue

A monkey cap covering the head and ears, 4 layers of thermals, a wrap of woolen stole around the neck, fleece track pants, knee length woolen socks, gloves – like a warrior walker, I go for my early morning walks at the crack of dawn these days. But with the weighing scale telling me, nothings gonna really change, I asked the universe on Sunday morning,  if she was planning on rewarding me for all this bravery (try waking up at 5.30 AM for a walk in peak winter, and you qualify for – because she braved the cold – award). I decided on giving up on this early morning schedule if something really awesome didn’t encounter me that morning.

Threatened that she’d lose my august company every morning, the Universe decided to make Sunday morning especially special. On my way back from the walk, I did something I never do- rather, I leave this job for the man. Checking the mail box. Who would write to me? Or shouldn't it be, who writes these days, anyway? Apart from banks and credit card statements and bills, there really is nothing usually in the little wooden mail box.

Assumed too fast. Turned out, something awaited me, after all.

Amongst an assortment of junk mail and pizza flyers, lay a quaint looking aerogram – in that lovely blue that reminded you of times long gone. All the way from the sub continent, with two priceless stamps of a legend, Satyajit Ray, this rectangle piece of blue stirred in me, a kind of mirth I hadn’t experienced in a long time. 

I didn’t tear it open, like I used to, as a teenager. Partly because I had forgotten where/how to tear it open. I fussed over it, read the addresses – to and from – and sat on my porch. As I untied my shoe laces, I kept smiling, looking at it. Like a guest I had just received from the railway station, I let the Aerogram rest awhile, after the long sojourn it had undertaken for me. Meanwhile, humming on a Geeta Dutt number, I made cha. Then, opened this little overseas visitor, with excitement I could barely contain, and waited for it to tell me all.

 

Inside, in perfect handwriting, dad had written little bits of news I already knew of. (Inasmuch as I appreciate the speed of technology and its efficacy, isn't there a strange joy in learning of some news from a handwritten letter instead of hearing of it over telephone? (or even worse- from a pixilated Skype window).  But I pretended to learn of it anew. Apparently my uncle and aunt with my cousin are planning on a Himalayan holiday. Also, he wrote with unmitigated sincerity that he and mum had not been going for their morning walks since 3 days, all because of excessive cricket and adda. Dad also expressed his doubt over my postal address, specifically about the spelling of my street name. Evidently, he had cared to check and found the spelling I had mentioned was after all, correct. :D

The sky blue paper was full – not a little space left even to so much as add, a dot some where. Exactly the way I like letters to be. Corners, sides, little spaces – firmly packed.

That missive now lies next to my bedside, inside Obama’s ‘Dreams From My Father’, on the 67th page, like a bookmark. Akin to how my granddad marked the Bridge books he read. (Have you encountered something similar in your life? Opening books from your grandparents to find old post cards and inland letters strategically placed.

Thank You, Dad. I hope this is the first of the many you’ll eventually write to me. Those emails you type to me don’t feel half as lovely as the ones you write, literally. Do keep this dying art alive!

Men and gifts

Mother’s day in these countries are so big and blown out of proportion, that I am sure most men feel pressured to do  (read: buy) something for their wives (mothers). I didn't want my man to be coerced into doing something or give into conformity behavior, just because the world was doing it, or every window in the shopping mall asked him to do it on Mishmash’s behalf. Besides, I always feel, such things can be expressed best subtly and simply by just letting the mother feel special the entire day- a cup of tea, surprise breakfast…you know little things like that.

So I decided to take it head on a few back-

Me:  Listen, don’t spend money this Mother’s Day, pl.

Him: Ok. Won’t you sulk?

Me: (Ignoring the latter comment, I go on.) My biggest treat will be u and Mishmash making me a meal…and keeping the home clean..just that one day.

Him: cook? clean also?

Me: Something basic ya. The idea is for me to keep off the kitchen. And cleaning …not much. Jut keep the cushions in place….the kitchen bench top clean..Mishmash’s toys in place, beds made….u know small stuff like that. Not vacuuming and all…

Him: *looks in disbelief*

Me: What?

Him: with pleading eyes he begs-  Pleaseeeeeee…let me buy you something instead?

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First time interviewers, interviews in general and all the gas that goes with it.

I am not an interview expert. But I have given enough and more of them to understand the WTF nature of (some) interviewers, especially those interviewing the first time. Some worst case scenarios:

The first time interviewer type 1- Psychographics : This person has no idea what it takes to interview a person. He /she is so overwhelmed by the whole idea of interviewing someone for the first time, that they often take it as a personal vendetta against the poor soul sitting across them. Its more of a commemoration  and reminiscence of the first time they were interviewed when - they were attacked mercilessly. Years later now, the sides of the tables have changed. Its time to revel in the feeling of being the supreme being called the interviewer. So the main plan is to get the interviewee to squirm, go red in face, see them stammer, stutter, go blank. His/her purpose is achieved best if the interviewer can find a weakness to latch on to, and then go on questioning the person around it.

The first time interviewer type 2 – Psychographics: This person is shitting bricks, has no idea how to go about it, and is terrified by the CVs they have received for the job, especially of the one they need to interview, one of which seems far capable than him/her and ergo, intimidating. What kind of questions does this person ask? None- he ends up talking about himself, his job responsibilities, his achievements and by the fag end of the interview realizes what’s happening and in a flurry and suddenly acquired authoritative voice asks, go on, sell yourself to me.

The first time interviewer type 3- psychographics:

This person comes for an interview armed with the ‘ HR best practices’ questions. This person will ask these questions in this order: 1. Tell me something about yourself. 2. What are your strengths? 3. What have been your biggest achievements? 4. what will you do when…..blah blueh bleh (gives the interviewee a situation..most often it is a crisis management question or a question to check on the interviewee’s attitude) 5. Sell your self to me…..and this goes on

Note: the interviewer here is not one bit concerned about how the interviewee fares. This person is too busy drafting the next question in his mind for the interviewee. By the end of the interview the interviewer is more exhausted than the interviewee.

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So much for the first timers.

But besides them, I have issues with the way interviews are conducted at all. By the time a person is out of the complex web of psychometric related questions he/she has forgotten what job they had applied for. Apparently these psychometric tests give the employer a ‘sea’ of information about the applicant.

See, my point here is not that these questions are pointless. But i believe a lot has changed in the professional realm- people today come prepared with these questions. So chances are that (mostly), the answers they give are not the one they believe in one bit- but a forged, padded answer that bests suits the role advertised for. Especially for a question like ‘sell yourself’ .  When I was asked once, so in a situation where everything is going wrong, how would you react- did she expect me to say that I will probably be pulling my hair out, yelling and hating the job??

Don’t you think it makes more sense for the employer to put the interviewee at ease, and then try and understand from the applicant’s point of view  all the things he needs to understand.

Somehow, I don’t subscribe to the school that believes an interview is but a sales pitch.

The ‘Autumn of My Life’, already?

I spotted the first, many days back,
but chose not to notice it.
Then today, I saw rows of them,
neatly seeded and shiny.
Bounteous patches,
happy and ga(re)y.

Some said,
'lack of care'
others (to humour me) said, 'genetically predisposed'.
Methinks,
its the epoch of the ‘Autumn of my life’.

Those grey strands of hair-
they mock and say,
'this marks the beginning of another innings,
in your scintillating and wondrous life'.

But I haven't let panic set in,
no, I haven't superannuated, yet.
So, bring them on-
shades of red, brown and blue, if you please.
There isn't a way, I'll let Grey take over,
and  let wisdom prevail with such ease.