One of the classic pieces of interaction on the Indian campus takes place between the mostly-Hindi speaker (rather pejoratively known as the 'Hindi Type' or HT, for short), and the mainly-English speaker (equally pejoratively known as the 'English/Inglis' type; ET for short). HT sees no reason to speak in anything other than Hindi unless he has to; it is also his way of cocking a snook at the uppity ET. ET, for his part, is in all probability a Tam, Bong or Mallu who did his schooling in a 'speak only English within the premises of this institution' kind of place and does not feel any need to change now, and refuses to be apologetic for his appalling Hindi. They have this special means of communication where one speaks in Hindi, the other in English and somehow the messages get through. While each of them feels this mild contempt for the other for not speaking in his preferred tongue, there is a grudging acknowledgment that he wishes he could speak the other's language better.
This is just a random thought, but an online conversation between an SMS lingo person (SL) and a complete sentences person (CS) is along very similar lines. Both parties refuse to take a backward step when it comes to their preferred medium of communication while looking down on the other, but at the same they have to admit that the other's is a legitimate means of communication. When the chat is going on, SL is probably wondering why CS is spending so much effort in getting his grammar and spellings right. He decides to ignore the hint and stick to his guns, thinking to himself, "wat 2 do, v r lik dis only". Since I've been mostly on the other side of the fence, I can better predict CS's attitude at the time. CS is likely to be one of the following:
1. The tragically unhip: People who at one point dabbled in slang and SMS lingo in order to fit in, fell flat on their faces and decided the wisest recourse was to avoid it altogether.
2. The activists: People who dare to be different from the word go, and are particularly proud over their mastery of the English language. They derive mileage out of smallest of causes. Likely moderators of the "Say no to SMS lingo" community on Orkut. The archetypal guy probably heads the debate team (and lets the whole world know), while the girl has to carry her copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird" wherever she goes.
3. The evolved CS: Just out of college, this person has decided that ranting is so second-year-undergrad, and adopts the "to each his own" stance. While extremely pleased about his world-view, he still has a slightly condescending attitude towards the SL's, despite the fact that a few years ago, he was one of them.
And which one do I come under? I dunno (dammit!).
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
"One, please" (or, Thou shalt not dine alone)
I love my food, but I'm also pretty irregular about it. I eat when I feel like it, whenever the whim to experiment takes over, and often in sync with my equally random sleeping habits. I'm not much of a cook, but I like checking out new places and all that blah. I often eat alone, because most of the people I hang out with are not given to random spontaneous trips to some arbit place. And people find it difficult to believe that I actually eat alone at diners and restaurants. Or, to be more accurate, I find it hard to come to terms with the fact that people find it odd.
At around 11pm yesterday I was dying of hunger. I'd put two consecutive night-outs on campus and for all purposes had practically lived there. My body clock was messed to the extent that I had breakfast at Kerbey Lane at 7 in the morning (without having slept a wink), and promptly went home and crashed. I slept a bit more in the afternoon after class and had seen out the entire day without having anything else to eat. I've talked about how Austin is the Bangalore of the US in many ways, and here too most restaurants close as early as 10pm. Kerbey Lane cafe, close to campus, is the one 24 hour place around and your only other late night options are the beer bars which serve your usual pub grub. Anyway, I didn't feel like cooking dinner that night or ordering food because my roommate A was out with his friends B, C and the rest of their gang, and it would have worked out to too much food for one person. A,B, C and the others had gone to this beer joint close to my place, called "The Flying Saucer".
There's another Kerbey Lane somewhere closer to my apartment. I called up B, a regular patron, and he reckoned it would be a 25 minute walk. Too far, I decided. My stomach was well and truly rumbling now, so the Flying Saucer loomed as the only option. Although they model themselves on a traditional German beer place with some 300 varieties of Beer from all over the world, the Flying saucer serves some good simple German fare, basically sausages, wurst and potato salad. So I headed there, and though it was buzzing quite a bit for a Thursday night, I managed to get a table on the patio outside. As I was tucking into my dinner, A suddenly stepped outside and was more than a little surprised to see me. "You should've come inside and joined us. We're heading home now." "Well, I just came for a quick bite. I'm not drinking you see." And he added, with a look of major concern "You enjoying yourself?" Out came B, C and the rest of them, hanging around the place for some post-drinks banter. Before I knew it, I had become this object of major curiosity among the group, who clearly thought I had lost my marbles by being seen alone in the place. "I thought you were going to Kerbey Lane!" said B. "Well, I decided it was too far to walk, and this was the only place open for dinner." C had just joined the group and voiced his amazement, and I had to repeat the explanation for his benefit. "But surely you can't come here for dinner! Alone!" "I'm doing just fine, no worries" didn't seem to cut it with him. The rest of them, on being told "Woh us ka roommate hai" were meanwhile nodding their heads knowingly. So much for a peaceful dinner.
Even if I'm not the most gregarious person, I'm not a recluse or anything. I keep some really good company here, but at the same time I like a bit of privacy and anonymity, and often enjoy doing certain things by myself, like browsing through music stores or going for random walks. And sampling food, of course. But far from wanting to understand, people seem to be disturbed by it and classify it as abnormal behaviour. Another blogger had a nice long rant about how annoying it can be the way society perceives the single woman. For the single twenty-something male it can be equally irritating and also amusing to see others' reactions if you don't conform to the stereotype. Apparently, you have to live by the 'work-hard-by-day party-harder-by-night' credo, be surrounded by fast-talking cronies everywhere, be a complete Raymond family man at home and an incorrigible flirt everywhere else, be obsessed with fast cars and bikes, have strong opinions on everything and NEVER be seen alone. If you like reading, blogging or, god forbid, eating by yourself you suddenly become this depressing Devdas type character who needs help.
The funny thing is, I've known people who like to consciously portray themselves as solitude-loving lone wolves, who like being far from the madding crowd as if to build an aura around them. Whether this constitutes an iconoclastic streak or just being an exhibitionist, I don't know because in my case I'm not out to prove anything to anyone. I guess I could take the philosophical view and be reminded of a line from an Archie comic: When a person dares to be different, he gets called an individualist. On the other hand, if he is different, he becomes an oddball.
At around 11pm yesterday I was dying of hunger. I'd put two consecutive night-outs on campus and for all purposes had practically lived there. My body clock was messed to the extent that I had breakfast at Kerbey Lane at 7 in the morning (without having slept a wink), and promptly went home and crashed. I slept a bit more in the afternoon after class and had seen out the entire day without having anything else to eat. I've talked about how Austin is the Bangalore of the US in many ways, and here too most restaurants close as early as 10pm. Kerbey Lane cafe, close to campus, is the one 24 hour place around and your only other late night options are the beer bars which serve your usual pub grub. Anyway, I didn't feel like cooking dinner that night or ordering food because my roommate A was out with his friends B, C and the rest of their gang, and it would have worked out to too much food for one person. A,B, C and the others had gone to this beer joint close to my place, called "The Flying Saucer".
There's another Kerbey Lane somewhere closer to my apartment. I called up B, a regular patron, and he reckoned it would be a 25 minute walk. Too far, I decided. My stomach was well and truly rumbling now, so the Flying Saucer loomed as the only option. Although they model themselves on a traditional German beer place with some 300 varieties of Beer from all over the world, the Flying saucer serves some good simple German fare, basically sausages, wurst and potato salad. So I headed there, and though it was buzzing quite a bit for a Thursday night, I managed to get a table on the patio outside. As I was tucking into my dinner, A suddenly stepped outside and was more than a little surprised to see me. "You should've come inside and joined us. We're heading home now." "Well, I just came for a quick bite. I'm not drinking you see." And he added, with a look of major concern "You enjoying yourself?" Out came B, C and the rest of them, hanging around the place for some post-drinks banter. Before I knew it, I had become this object of major curiosity among the group, who clearly thought I had lost my marbles by being seen alone in the place. "I thought you were going to Kerbey Lane!" said B. "Well, I decided it was too far to walk, and this was the only place open for dinner." C had just joined the group and voiced his amazement, and I had to repeat the explanation for his benefit. "But surely you can't come here for dinner! Alone!" "I'm doing just fine, no worries" didn't seem to cut it with him. The rest of them, on being told "Woh us ka roommate hai" were meanwhile nodding their heads knowingly. So much for a peaceful dinner.
Even if I'm not the most gregarious person, I'm not a recluse or anything. I keep some really good company here, but at the same time I like a bit of privacy and anonymity, and often enjoy doing certain things by myself, like browsing through music stores or going for random walks. And sampling food, of course. But far from wanting to understand, people seem to be disturbed by it and classify it as abnormal behaviour. Another blogger had a nice long rant about how annoying it can be the way society perceives the single woman. For the single twenty-something male it can be equally irritating and also amusing to see others' reactions if you don't conform to the stereotype. Apparently, you have to live by the 'work-hard-by-day party-harder-by-night' credo, be surrounded by fast-talking cronies everywhere, be a complete Raymond family man at home and an incorrigible flirt everywhere else, be obsessed with fast cars and bikes, have strong opinions on everything and NEVER be seen alone. If you like reading, blogging or, god forbid, eating by yourself you suddenly become this depressing Devdas type character who needs help.
The funny thing is, I've known people who like to consciously portray themselves as solitude-loving lone wolves, who like being far from the madding crowd as if to build an aura around them. Whether this constitutes an iconoclastic streak or just being an exhibitionist, I don't know because in my case I'm not out to prove anything to anyone. I guess I could take the philosophical view and be reminded of a line from an Archie comic: When a person dares to be different, he gets called an individualist. On the other hand, if he is different, he becomes an oddball.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Big fish, little fish
I read that Bangalore now has a second Landmark bookstore, this time in Jayanagar. The arrival will probably be welcomed in South Bangalore but it makes me wonder what lies ahead for Select, Blossom, Premier and other places of that ilk in the future. The old Madras Landmark is probably the best I've ever been to, and holds many happy memories. But the one in Forum mall tended to disappoint because of its comparatively indifferent staff and ridiculous pricing. The arrival of Planet M (with its customer schemes and mostly clueless personnel) on Brigade road sounded the death knell for some of my favourite smaller music shops, and I can only hope the same does not happen with the Crossword and Landmark expansion, which comes at the expense of personal attachment.
Franchising may be big in the US, but there's an admirable 'support local businesses' drive here in Austin (and other places, I'm sure) that makes me wish more of the same happened in Bangalore. More than the traffic, pollution and insider-outsider wars, it is the compromising of local flavour (the 'homegrown' factor) and this inexplicable need to keep up with other cities which is my major bone with Bangalore of late. When a branch of Copper Chimney opened in Bangalore, critics were quick to point out that the food and quality of service were nowhere near that of the Mumbai branch. I can well imagine regulars to the Chennai Landmark feeling similarly about the Bangalore one, and yet we have branches sprouting in all corners of the city now. Why, you must ask, do we go ahead and try to emulate everyone else and be someone we're not? There were enough good homegrown establishments to begin with, but today apparently the Landmarks and PVRs have to be accommodated wherever possible so that every big city gets streamlined and devoid of uniqueness. This will allow the Bangalore haters to get stuck in and feel further vindicated, but at least some local businesses continue to lend the city some charm.
Another blogger had written a similar sort of post when the Forum Landmark had first come up, and suggested it was a similar situation to the one portrayed in You've Got Mail. I suppose this gives me a reason to watch that rather lightweight film again and perhaps see it in a new light. Apart from the fact that my weekends have become excruciatingly empty.
Franchising may be big in the US, but there's an admirable 'support local businesses' drive here in Austin (and other places, I'm sure) that makes me wish more of the same happened in Bangalore. More than the traffic, pollution and insider-outsider wars, it is the compromising of local flavour (the 'homegrown' factor) and this inexplicable need to keep up with other cities which is my major bone with Bangalore of late. When a branch of Copper Chimney opened in Bangalore, critics were quick to point out that the food and quality of service were nowhere near that of the Mumbai branch. I can well imagine regulars to the Chennai Landmark feeling similarly about the Bangalore one, and yet we have branches sprouting in all corners of the city now. Why, you must ask, do we go ahead and try to emulate everyone else and be someone we're not? There were enough good homegrown establishments to begin with, but today apparently the Landmarks and PVRs have to be accommodated wherever possible so that every big city gets streamlined and devoid of uniqueness. This will allow the Bangalore haters to get stuck in and feel further vindicated, but at least some local businesses continue to lend the city some charm.
Another blogger had written a similar sort of post when the Forum Landmark had first come up, and suggested it was a similar situation to the one portrayed in You've Got Mail. I suppose this gives me a reason to watch that rather lightweight film again and perhaps see it in a new light. Apart from the fact that my weekends have become excruciatingly empty.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Not-so-random musings
This opening paragraph business has been reduced to a space for convenient and banal explanation as to why I can't seem to post more regularly. Has blogging become such an indulgence that I have to save as much material as possible for a monthly post, as if to justify the bloody exercise? A more appropriate term for 'writer's block' would be 'laziness'.
So I turned 25 a couple of weeks ago, my face smeared in cake and my body soundly kicked from all sides, as if to make up for the relatively sedate celebrations of the last two years in Austin. I barely escaped being flung into the apartment pool, despite actually playing along and protesting. A year ago, I woke up the day after my birthday feeling strangely miserable and empty, and decided the solution to all my problems was to get a haircut. In twelve months, nothing's changed. The long hair remains (with a lousy haircut looming large), the sleeping through classroom lectures (with date and topic neatly scribbled in my notebook) continues, and I am still oblivious to the happenings of the world outside. The problem then, with 25, is expectation. It may be a mere number but it gives people (including myself) a license to ask questions about my life to which 'I don't know' or 'we'll see' are not acceptable answers. In that regard, maybe I do feel old. But then age is just a state of mind right? Whatever.
Another occasion which made me feel old (or shall we say, 'dated') was, strangely enough, a heavy metal concert I attended a couple of months back. It was one of those 'Metal Masters Tour' sort of things, with an all star lineup of Testament, Motorhead, Black Sabbath and Judas Priest. With stalls outside selling beer on tap (a blessing in the oppressive summer heat) and food, which you were allowed to bring in to the arena, this was the sort of concert experience I could only dream of having earlier seen live acts only at the comparatively repressive Palace Grounds in Bangalore. But the crowd was an eye-opener. If the same lineup were to be playing at Palace Grounds, your entire Engineering/ St.Josephs Commerce College metal contingent would have shown up in all their black finery (making sure their t-shirt featured a band other than the ones on show), and suitably wasted to the point of being at their savage and anti-social best). Here, apart from the precious few at the half-full mosh pit right in front, the place was packed with forty-somethings, presumably wallowing in nostalgia and ready to put away their band t-shirts for a Halloween party. Nevertheless, the show was a great one, and a gentleman named Ruben Palomo was nice enough to send us a few snaps like the one above (we had forgotten to bring our cameras).
It sometimes concerns me that after coming here I haven't expanded my musical tastes as much as I used to during my earlier college days, and it's difficult to stay contemporary when you don't own a TV and your friends listen to mostly retro stuff too. But then again, one of the things I've come to like about the college crowd in this country is their attitude towards musical tastes; everybody listens to a wide range and nobody really tries to typecast themselves or anyone else because of it. I mean, on a typical Indian campus you find people using musical leanings to make a connection, and even friendships. Whether it's your guy-girl gangs who spend endless hours playing Antakshari and Guess the Shayari, or your guys-only Metal 'til Death groups, music seemed to polarise people. I'm not saying that sort of thing doesn't happen here, but (having gotten to know and work with a few American undergrads), it's just far less noticeable. Although I've always been something of a classic rock loyalist, I no longer cringe when hip-hop is played on the radio, I sing along when the desi junta blast out Himesh and mindless Punju ditties, and I've come to appreciate (thanks to a few people I've met at the music department) that DJing is an art, and a difficult one at that. I don't know whether this gradual attitude shift is due to evolving of my musical senses, or simply growing up. But I'm happier for it.
Mentally, I feel exactly the same as I did four years ago, circa final year of undergrad. But the crucial difference then was I already had a job to walk into as soon as I graduated. I wonder if that was a good thing, after all. If I was forced to actually hunt for a job and make myself *ahem* marketable, I would have probably learned a good deal about job hunting (and myself). That particular challenge has finally come up (given that I don't feel as if I've learnt a thing in the last four years), what with an economic slowdown here and all. Depending on how it pans out, I will probably get a small taste of what Will Smith's character must have felt like in his pursuit of happyness.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Passing the Baton
I could have updated the blog much earlier over the last thirty-two days. I haven't been particularly busy, but then free time has never really lent itself to substantial blogging has it? I did consider putting up a post about the Olympics, about how merely watching Usain bolt, Michael Phelps and Dara Torres scale their respective peaks of excellence was uplifting in itself. About my earliest memories, of Greg Louganis, Ben Johnson and showjumping during Seoul '88. And the relay. No event captures the spirit of from you to me as visibly as the relay. I'm currently mining the web for Doordarshan's old National Integration ad, featuring all those sportspersons (Gavaskar, Usha, Padukone and others) running the length and breadth of the country, passing on the blazing torch. Truly magical, that was. Find it and you'll make my day.
In the meantime, thanks to Swaroop I get to pass on a baton of sorts myself. Since I probably won't be buying him a beer anytime soon, I'll try to comply with the other terms and conditions on Swaroop's post and urge all of you to read his blog. Filled with satire, spice and other things nice, I can't recommend it nearly enough.
Choosing seven blogs to pass on is not quite the no-brainer it seems. I read a great many of them at random, sometimes without letting the writer know of my presence and each one has proved to be interesting in its own way. So finally, among the dozens of friends, family and arbits who have provided me generous hours of timepass with their writings, I've narrowed the list down to the following:
1. Ashanka: Hers was the first blog I used to read on a regular basis. Filled with quirky and witty accounts of life in the big city, and consistently solid writing.
2. Atulya: The Monkee is a seasoned traveller, and he sprinkles his blog with several tidbits about the places he visits. A highly readable blog I discovered belatedly.
3. Shom: His sports blog is the kind I aspired this blog to be back in the CTS days of 2006. No regrets because I have a great time reading his posts anyway. He earlier blogged here and a very good blog it was.
4. Prabha: This is the blog of a true junkie. Named food for thought, it is filled with food and just about everything else. She claims the blog is "mainly here for my entertainment", but behind all the timepass lies much love and effort.
The remaining three blogs are each owned by a senior of mine from RV. For various reasons, they seem to have been on a hiatus for a while and I hope this might compel them to write more frequently.
5. Soup: He always calls it as he sees it. Mostly forthright accounts about life while he was in France, now that he has returned there to study the updates might come in more regularly.
6. Nitish: A fun blog full of rants and raves. One of the earlier blogs I used to read during my CTS days.
7. Raghuray: Another one from the old days, when my blog never existed. Every time I go here, it's as if he throws the old Monty Python line at me "And now for something completely different".
I'm not imposing the fine print on anyone, but I'll do a quick copy-paste-edit job on the points from Swaroop's blog. Awardees may:
1. Award seven other people. (Or zero, or one, or two depending on how seriously you decide to take this).
2. Write a post about this award, and link to our blog in that post.(Optional)
3. Buy me any food or drink for this award, not necessarily a pitcher of beer.
Pass it on.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
On Blogging
This is my fiftieth post. I've noticed a few bloggers using the same landmark as an opportunity to look back at how it all started for them and how their blog evolved, and I think I'll do the same. I've always liked milestones, even if most of my milestones have been small ones. Fifty posts in just over two years may not seem like a big deal; most of my favourite bloggers would be able to put out twice that number in the same time, and still exercise great quality control. On the other hand, a lot of people I know have let their blogs fall by the wayside so all things considered, I'm happy I've kept this going.
As with most things, I have an ambivalent attitude towards it. The name was taken from a cassette I have at home, featuring some highly entertaining discussions among BBC radio's cricket commentary team members. In June 2006, when the Bangalore monsoons were bringing about stop-start passages to my routine, blogging seemed to hold this 'rainy day and a cup of tea' sort of appeal, something to kill time with. I eventually found this picture to be very wrong; these days, all my posts inevitably get keyed in when I'm supposed to be working. A look through the posts from the beginning is actually a pretty good indicator of my lack of focus and general direction. I started off intending it to be a simple diary and a way of killing time at the workplace. I next wanted it to be an all-sports blog. I then went back to writing some general everyday crap, till I left Bangalore for Austin. When I was well and truly into the gradschool routine, there was a paucity of things to write about. I now took to posting cricket match reports and reviews involving the only institution I care about, the New Zealand team. This somehow didn't work out, so I shifted all that to another blog, Paint it Black which has been rather in a state of neglect. I've continued to blog ever since, but only occasionally. There's been the odd satisfying post, but most of the time I've been torn between writing a post that feels forced(for the sake of keeping the blog alive), or letting things drift.
I often wanted to rant, but instead ended up discovering that I don't overflow with enough bile. I wanted to review endlessly, but often couldn't summon up the attention to detail. I've tried writing about day-to-day life here, but it's hard because nothing ever happens in boring ol' Grad school(and I mean that in the nicest possible way. I like dormancy and the relative lack of blog-worthy happenings around me). Of course, there's also the issue of everyone in my family from my parents to my zillionth grand-aunt having discovered the blog and wanting to mention the same every time they meet me. That was quite weird to deal with in the beginning, and seemed to take some of the fun out of the whole exercise. I mean, I started becoming rather conscious of the material I was putting up because feedback from a lot of corners is guaranteed. On the other hand I seem to have earned something of a regular readership, not a bad thing at all. It's good to know that people care about how I'm getting along.
I suppose one starts to appreciate blogging for what it is when it gets likened to say, watching Dravid build a long innings, or Grad school life; a series of mostly mundane events with the occasional moments of brilliance that actually make the whole thing seem strangely worthwhile. For example, it was quite heartening to see the response to my critique of Mukul Kesavan's article last year, including a comment from Mukul himself. I really enjoyed coming up with the Beatles spoof, the lines of which occurred to me in a dream and that's as close as I'll get to feeling like Lennon on LSD. So overall it's been a satisfying exercise in timepass; no more, no less.
As with most things, I have an ambivalent attitude towards it. The name was taken from a cassette I have at home, featuring some highly entertaining discussions among BBC radio's cricket commentary team members. In June 2006, when the Bangalore monsoons were bringing about stop-start passages to my routine, blogging seemed to hold this 'rainy day and a cup of tea' sort of appeal, something to kill time with. I eventually found this picture to be very wrong; these days, all my posts inevitably get keyed in when I'm supposed to be working. A look through the posts from the beginning is actually a pretty good indicator of my lack of focus and general direction. I started off intending it to be a simple diary and a way of killing time at the workplace. I next wanted it to be an all-sports blog. I then went back to writing some general everyday crap, till I left Bangalore for Austin. When I was well and truly into the gradschool routine, there was a paucity of things to write about. I now took to posting cricket match reports and reviews involving the only institution I care about, the New Zealand team. This somehow didn't work out, so I shifted all that to another blog, Paint it Black which has been rather in a state of neglect. I've continued to blog ever since, but only occasionally. There's been the odd satisfying post, but most of the time I've been torn between writing a post that feels forced(for the sake of keeping the blog alive), or letting things drift.
I often wanted to rant, but instead ended up discovering that I don't overflow with enough bile. I wanted to review endlessly, but often couldn't summon up the attention to detail. I've tried writing about day-to-day life here, but it's hard because nothing ever happens in boring ol' Grad school(and I mean that in the nicest possible way. I like dormancy and the relative lack of blog-worthy happenings around me). Of course, there's also the issue of everyone in my family from my parents to my zillionth grand-aunt having discovered the blog and wanting to mention the same every time they meet me. That was quite weird to deal with in the beginning, and seemed to take some of the fun out of the whole exercise. I mean, I started becoming rather conscious of the material I was putting up because feedback from a lot of corners is guaranteed. On the other hand I seem to have earned something of a regular readership, not a bad thing at all. It's good to know that people care about how I'm getting along.
I suppose one starts to appreciate blogging for what it is when it gets likened to say, watching Dravid build a long innings, or Grad school life; a series of mostly mundane events with the occasional moments of brilliance that actually make the whole thing seem strangely worthwhile. For example, it was quite heartening to see the response to my critique of Mukul Kesavan's article last year, including a comment from Mukul himself. I really enjoyed coming up with the Beatles spoof, the lines of which occurred to me in a dream and that's as close as I'll get to feeling like Lennon on LSD. So overall it's been a satisfying exercise in timepass; no more, no less.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
A shot in the arm
One of the best things about maintaining a big tape collection is the thrill of revisiting or rediscovering an album you've neglected for a long time. The other day, I was feeling quite listless having just moved into the new apartment when I suddenly fished out this Best of Junoon compilation out of a pile of tapes in a suitcase waiting to be unpacked. This was probably my first listen in three years (and certainly my first 'serious' listen) of the entire tracklist, and by the end it had sucked all the worthlessness out of my day. The tape seemed to scream and crackle into my eardrums of its own volition, perhaps out of those years of neglect.
As is my regular habit, I spent a couple of minutes glancing at the album cover and ridiculously thin sleeve and my mind immediately flashed back to 2004, when I purchased the tape in a nondescript corner of Brigade Road for 65 bucks. Being an EMI release, this was marketed in India by Virgin Records, a fucked-up company I have a major grudge against. Ever since they took over music licenses from their dependable predecessors HMV and Milestone, they have successfully marginalised listeners of audio cassettes (to the point of flogging tapes to a quick death in the market), by overpricing, compromising on their quality, leaving out lyrics booklets and sleeves, and also by simply refusing to release albums in the format. I've been hard hit ever since. Despite there still being a sizable number of cassette buyers in India (admittedly mostly for Hindi film music), it enraged me that the industry was trying to drive our kind to extinction. Anyway, enough ranting. Back to the album sleeve, lyrics to some songs were considerately included, with their English translations an added bonus. There's only so much Urdu I can fully comprehend.
The cuts on this compilation, in keeping with Junoon's reputation for creating images of beauty and despair with their strife-torn homeland as a backdrop, are sheer diamonds in the rough. Somehow the combination of Urdu verse, Sufi sensibilities, tablas and tastefully injected guitar riffs adds up to a sort of street-level authenticity which Indian counterparts rarely accomplish. 'Garaj Baras', contributed by Ali Azmat to the soundtrack of Pooja Bhatt's Paap, has an a Rolling Stones-like intensity to it. 'Meri Awaz Suno', probably the best known song off Azadi after Sayonee, is the typical cry-for-help that characterises Junoon's more resigned songs, as they lament the situation back home. 'Kyon Pareshan hai tu' is brilliantly resonant. 'Pappu yaar', one of two Punjabi songs on the album, opens up the formula a bit by adding elements of funk.
'Best of' albums are usually far from the finished article. I straightaway wondered about the exclusion of three tracks which would have made the set feel more complete. The Punjabi ode 'Bulleya', which pre-dates Rabbi Shergill, 'Jazba e Junoon', their anthem for the 1996 World Cup (and an abject lesson to Indian songwriters on how to get behind your team), and the Political satire 'Ehtesaab'. The last one was the song that got Junoon banned in Pakistan for the video, and I remember being fascinated upon reading about in 2000, when my rebel phase had well and truly kicked in. While the song is simplistic, the video is pretty clever and biting.
(After looking up the album online, I discovered that the actual compilation, presumably on CD, does have Bulleya and a few more songs on it, seemingly confirming my suspicions about the music industry's blatant attitude towards the cassette. Ah, life's a Virgin. Fuck it.)
Repeated listens bring nostalgia attacks with them. 1998 was the year Sayonee was in heavy rotation on MTV and Channel V, and Junoon were suddenly established as superstars, and the toast of various music award ceremonies. The song itself is a masterpiece, and for me invokes a sort of optimism-pessimism feel (even though the song and the video are both pretty despairing); a feel achieved and bettered only by Sultans of Swing. The influx of Pakistani singers and Sufi rhythms into Bollywood music can be traced back to these foundations in 1998, and while Indian-artists-versus-their-Pakistani-counterparts is the next logical talking point, it'll have to be left for later discussion.
The compilation may not be perfect, but it served its purpose. Which was to cry out to me "If you think this is good, HOW DO YOU THINK THE MAIN ALBUMS SOUND?". I'll definitely get around to acquiring most of Junoon's output. I'm also looking forward to hearing Ali Azmat's solo stuff, and will be glad if someone would be willing to share the same.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Rediff on Bahadur's funeral
Rediff in many ways is a sign of the decade. They started out as an excellent Indian portal, full of high quality writing and a solid webmail service. These days they seem to put out mostly sensationalist tripe, but occasionally there is some good stuff to be read on the site. This article makes a good point.
I didn't know of the Field Marshal's death, or the fact that he had been based in Wellington until I chanced upon the article a couple of days ago. It's nice to learn of the public reaction and I hope the media acted suitably as well. Apart from that, the article says it all and there's not much to add. But a glance at the comments section was quite telling. It features the inevitable crass mudslinging between two camps that seems to characterise any feedback on articles related to politics, cricket, films or the weather. In this case, the bone seems to be between supporters of the Congress and the BJP (read:'secular' and 'communal'), and they use the article to try to highlight the apathy of the opposition while absolving their leaders of any blame. Reading the comments proves to be disappointing not only because the readers appear to ignore the point of the article, but also as it shows the privileged class in poor light. We urbanites (and I use the term in the assumption that all of the estimated 60 million Indian Internet users are English-knowing city dwellers)seem unable to evolve beyond name-calling and a clannish us vs them mentality. But then, as a 52 percent voter turnout in Bangalore showed, we are probably indifferent to the real cause, and more concerned with satisfying our own pet propaganda.
I didn't know of the Field Marshal's death, or the fact that he had been based in Wellington until I chanced upon the article a couple of days ago. It's nice to learn of the public reaction and I hope the media acted suitably as well. Apart from that, the article says it all and there's not much to add. But a glance at the comments section was quite telling. It features the inevitable crass mudslinging between two camps that seems to characterise any feedback on articles related to politics, cricket, films or the weather. In this case, the bone seems to be between supporters of the Congress and the BJP (read:'secular' and 'communal'), and they use the article to try to highlight the apathy of the opposition while absolving their leaders of any blame. Reading the comments proves to be disappointing not only because the readers appear to ignore the point of the article, but also as it shows the privileged class in poor light. We urbanites (and I use the term in the assumption that all of the estimated 60 million Indian Internet users are English-knowing city dwellers)seem unable to evolve beyond name-calling and a clannish us vs them mentality. But then, as a 52 percent voter turnout in Bangalore showed, we are probably indifferent to the real cause, and more concerned with satisfying our own pet propaganda.
Picture Imperfect
I've made a few seemingly inconsequential vows in my lifetime, with or without reason. Never to own an I-Pod, which still stands. Never to set foot in Bangalore Central, which I broke during my last visit to the city. And never to put up any images on this blog, for what I never knew. The last one is about to be broken, because this comic is right on the button:
I guess this puts my ranting about the insomnia problem in perspective, which is not a bad thing at all.
I guess this puts my ranting about the insomnia problem in perspective, which is not a bad thing at all.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
This of a hot Southern evening....
Tomorrow I'll be shifting house.
Just when I thought I'd come to terms with American lingo, it turns out you don't shift, you move. So yeah, I stand corrected, I'm moving to a new apartment.
A new place is kind of like a new pair of slippers. Uncomfortable in the beginning, but soon enough you fit in and life goes on. Until it's time to hunt for a new one. I like living in the past, but this place has definitely run its course. The furniture provided to us right at the beginning has become useless, the sofa has long become a breeding ground for bedbugs, and the bursts of tap (sorry, faucet) water upstairs has been reduced to a trickle. And of course, Splinter had been a regular visitor over the spring. We kept him at bay by placing big bottles against the kitchen cupboards and cutting out his food supply. But he still comes out at night, almost as an unseen roomie. The casings on the lamp lights have come off as well, so I expect they'll slap a heavy fine on us. But then we'd do well to get back even a small fraction of the deposit from them, so maybe we're even.
I didn't have any great friends in this place, but there were these people I would encounter while strolling barefoot through the premises, walkman in hand. Most of them had a smile ready, some would stop for conversation. They made my evenings. The Filipino who's been around, the punk who had a strange habit of leaving his beachball to bob about in the pool, the Japanese girl who seemed nocturnal, the jamming trio who took a fancy to Bob Dylan songs, the IITan who invited me in for tea, and the chap who compiles his thesis outdoors on his laptop. Maybe I could have got to know them better. Maybe I didn't feel like worming my way into new places.
The new apartment doesn't look all that promising. There's not much around, just wide open fields; this one was closer to the university. There aren't any places to grab a bite in the immediate vicinity. Maybe the crowd there will compensate. The manager seems a bit cold and rude, but that's how they all are apparently. It's their job to be as detached as possible from the tenants. Thesis boy has this theory that you only find women in such positions of power; a man would probably invite you in for a beer and ask you the score.
I'm almost apathetic to this change of apartment, but when it happens I won't know what I'm hoping to find, or what I'm leaving behind. Better to keep it that way.
Just when I thought I'd come to terms with American lingo, it turns out you don't shift, you move. So yeah, I stand corrected, I'm moving to a new apartment.
A new place is kind of like a new pair of slippers. Uncomfortable in the beginning, but soon enough you fit in and life goes on. Until it's time to hunt for a new one. I like living in the past, but this place has definitely run its course. The furniture provided to us right at the beginning has become useless, the sofa has long become a breeding ground for bedbugs, and the bursts of tap (sorry, faucet) water upstairs has been reduced to a trickle. And of course, Splinter had been a regular visitor over the spring. We kept him at bay by placing big bottles against the kitchen cupboards and cutting out his food supply. But he still comes out at night, almost as an unseen roomie. The casings on the lamp lights have come off as well, so I expect they'll slap a heavy fine on us. But then we'd do well to get back even a small fraction of the deposit from them, so maybe we're even.
I didn't have any great friends in this place, but there were these people I would encounter while strolling barefoot through the premises, walkman in hand. Most of them had a smile ready, some would stop for conversation. They made my evenings. The Filipino who's been around, the punk who had a strange habit of leaving his beachball to bob about in the pool, the Japanese girl who seemed nocturnal, the jamming trio who took a fancy to Bob Dylan songs, the IITan who invited me in for tea, and the chap who compiles his thesis outdoors on his laptop. Maybe I could have got to know them better. Maybe I didn't feel like worming my way into new places.
The new apartment doesn't look all that promising. There's not much around, just wide open fields; this one was closer to the university. There aren't any places to grab a bite in the immediate vicinity. Maybe the crowd there will compensate. The manager seems a bit cold and rude, but that's how they all are apparently. It's their job to be as detached as possible from the tenants. Thesis boy has this theory that you only find women in such positions of power; a man would probably invite you in for a beer and ask you the score.
I'm almost apathetic to this change of apartment, but when it happens I won't know what I'm hoping to find, or what I'm leaving behind. Better to keep it that way.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Return to two cities: Madras
(Continued from the previous post)
In the middle of the vacation was a three day visit to Madras. Considering my first ever post was about my previous trip to the city, it feels appropriate to give a nod to the return-visit on this post. Now, few places divide opinion like Madras. I have this typically middling attitude towards the city; a nice place, but I'll take Bangalore over it any day. This is a bit ungrateful on my part, because back in the day when Bangalore was a sleepy town, Madras was the closest we were to a big city. And it provided me all the entertainment Bangalore couldn't over the summer holidays. Endless spaces where you could play cricket, video libraries which boasted tapes of the 1975 ashes and the 1994 survivor series, libraries from where I read my comics, and of course the Nungambakkam Landmark - the best bookshop ever. Even better than Premier.
Madras is generally everything Bangalore isn't (which is not intended either as a compliment or criticism), but this time the city did its best to seduce me. The roads, cleanliness, shops and overall efficiency gave me the feeling of a big but not bursting city completely at ease with itself in this funny decade. Part of the trip was spent at Mahabalipuram and the Crocodile Bank (which I didn't enjoy to the full because it was way too hot, the reptiles decided submerging was the best policy). Back in the city, I did eventually return to Landmark - and this time it was the one in Spencer Plaza, which I hadn't visited till date. This branch thankfully keeps up the standards of the Nungabakkam one, including a highly knowledgeable staff which the Bangalore Landmark sorely lacks. What blew me away however, was the plaza itself. I'm not a malls person, but if you must visit one Indian mall Spencer's would be it. I can't put my finger on it, but the ambiance which felt like a cross between forum and Dubai plaza actually worked for me. Add to this the eye candy all around and it was a great place to be at.
I met up with my cousin for a drink that evening. Getting a drink in Madras is still not the simple matter it is in Bangalore, for ever since Amma imposed complete government control over the sale of liquor, options are limited to shady wine shops and big hotels, and a pub can only be granted a license if attached to a hotel. We headed to the Maris, a purely veggie hotel that's been around for ages. If the thought of having no meat to go along with the beer was a dampener, I wasn't very happy with my first impression of the pub/bar either. It was dingy as hell, and undoubtedly a 100% male preserve, which seemed to reinforce the 'permit room' picture I had in mind. However, the place won me over by doing the basics right: Blissfully powerful air-con, ice cold beer (a detail certain Bangalore pubs often neglect - the ice cold bit, I mean) and no loud music (Bangalore pubs, take note again), just the IPL on a big screen. The crowd was pretty decent too - average joes but no drunken louts, happy to relax after a presumably hard day's work. The simplicity of it all kind of summed up Madras for me, although I was only too happy to get back to Bangalore. And of course, nothing could beat the sheer novelty of being being served rasam-vadai and sundal with the beer!
The vacation ended too soon, and I can only wonder what the two cities will be like next time around. Dickens' London and Paris is a different world in a different era, so I'll have to twist his opening line as I steal it for an ending: it isn't the best of times, it isn't the worst of times.
In the middle of the vacation was a three day visit to Madras. Considering my first ever post was about my previous trip to the city, it feels appropriate to give a nod to the return-visit on this post. Now, few places divide opinion like Madras. I have this typically middling attitude towards the city; a nice place, but I'll take Bangalore over it any day. This is a bit ungrateful on my part, because back in the day when Bangalore was a sleepy town, Madras was the closest we were to a big city. And it provided me all the entertainment Bangalore couldn't over the summer holidays. Endless spaces where you could play cricket, video libraries which boasted tapes of the 1975 ashes and the 1994 survivor series, libraries from where I read my comics, and of course the Nungambakkam Landmark - the best bookshop ever. Even better than Premier.
Madras is generally everything Bangalore isn't (which is not intended either as a compliment or criticism), but this time the city did its best to seduce me. The roads, cleanliness, shops and overall efficiency gave me the feeling of a big but not bursting city completely at ease with itself in this funny decade. Part of the trip was spent at Mahabalipuram and the Crocodile Bank (which I didn't enjoy to the full because it was way too hot, the reptiles decided submerging was the best policy). Back in the city, I did eventually return to Landmark - and this time it was the one in Spencer Plaza, which I hadn't visited till date. This branch thankfully keeps up the standards of the Nungabakkam one, including a highly knowledgeable staff which the Bangalore Landmark sorely lacks. What blew me away however, was the plaza itself. I'm not a malls person, but if you must visit one Indian mall Spencer's would be it. I can't put my finger on it, but the ambiance which felt like a cross between forum and Dubai plaza actually worked for me. Add to this the eye candy all around and it was a great place to be at.
I met up with my cousin for a drink that evening. Getting a drink in Madras is still not the simple matter it is in Bangalore, for ever since Amma imposed complete government control over the sale of liquor, options are limited to shady wine shops and big hotels, and a pub can only be granted a license if attached to a hotel. We headed to the Maris, a purely veggie hotel that's been around for ages. If the thought of having no meat to go along with the beer was a dampener, I wasn't very happy with my first impression of the pub/bar either. It was dingy as hell, and undoubtedly a 100% male preserve, which seemed to reinforce the 'permit room' picture I had in mind. However, the place won me over by doing the basics right: Blissfully powerful air-con, ice cold beer (a detail certain Bangalore pubs often neglect - the ice cold bit, I mean) and no loud music (Bangalore pubs, take note again), just the IPL on a big screen. The crowd was pretty decent too - average joes but no drunken louts, happy to relax after a presumably hard day's work. The simplicity of it all kind of summed up Madras for me, although I was only too happy to get back to Bangalore. And of course, nothing could beat the sheer novelty of being being served rasam-vadai and sundal with the beer!
The vacation ended too soon, and I can only wonder what the two cities will be like next time around. Dickens' London and Paris is a different world in a different era, so I'll have to twist his opening line as I steal it for an ending: it isn't the best of times, it isn't the worst of times.
Return to two cities: Bangalore
The decade hasn't been all that kind to Bangalore. Through a combination of apathetic governance, overpopulation, burgeoning traffic problems and certain inadequacies, the city seems to have become a sort of punching bag for the rest of the state and country. Outsiders reportedly don't feel as welcome as before. Even Bangalore's forgiving climate isn't what it used to be. And of course, the Royal Challengers weren't exactly the epitome of sporting prowess last season (If you think the last one was irrelevant, the most common question I get from Desis these days in Austin is 'Why are Bangalore so crap?').
Bangalore redeems itself by being a very...hmm...redeeming sort of place. The day I landed for the short vacation was the first time I became conscious of my US-returnee blood. The dust and pollution got to me, and it felt really strange because on my visit last year I never felt anything of the sort. After all the waiting, I was also taken aback to discover the volume of traffic on Wheeler road (refer previous post). I recovered quickly, for in spite all the limitations and changes, Bangalore still provides the same dependable delights. For example, a typical morning would center around kickass chutney and coffee, my dad's obsession with getting the perfect shot of the cuckoos on the tree next door, and helping my mom at her office (with a free ride to MG Road an added bonus). The afternoon would usually involve critical acquisitions around the MG/Brigade road area, such as a pair of jeans that actually fitted me, or an old battered Magnasound Cassette from one of the two shops-that-actually-sell-these-things. The evenings were generally about food and friends.
For me, two Bangalore institutions epitomise the nature of the city in the face of change like no other: Lakeview Milk Bar, which was rudely sent packing from MG's last year, has made a seamless shift to St.Mark's Road and continues the drive in service and brilliant sundaes (Preacher's note: Corner House fans,forget everything else and have the triple sundae here. Even now at Rs.60, I still rate it the best pound-for-pound sundae going around). And Premier Bookstore, which was supposed to have met with a rude ending of its own, soldiers on in the same place with the same messy but fascinating piles. As I made my discounted purchase, I asked Shanbhag about the lease problem and how long he could expect to remain there. He smiled and muttered something with a casual shrug. Whatever it was, I completely agreed. It was a stupid question.
(continued in the Madras post)
Bangalore redeems itself by being a very...hmm...redeeming sort of place. The day I landed for the short vacation was the first time I became conscious of my US-returnee blood. The dust and pollution got to me, and it felt really strange because on my visit last year I never felt anything of the sort. After all the waiting, I was also taken aback to discover the volume of traffic on Wheeler road (refer previous post). I recovered quickly, for in spite all the limitations and changes, Bangalore still provides the same dependable delights. For example, a typical morning would center around kickass chutney and coffee, my dad's obsession with getting the perfect shot of the cuckoos on the tree next door, and helping my mom at her office (with a free ride to MG Road an added bonus). The afternoon would usually involve critical acquisitions around the MG/Brigade road area, such as a pair of jeans that actually fitted me, or an old battered Magnasound Cassette from one of the two shops-that-actually-sell-these-things. The evenings were generally about food and friends.
For me, two Bangalore institutions epitomise the nature of the city in the face of change like no other: Lakeview Milk Bar, which was rudely sent packing from MG's last year, has made a seamless shift to St.Mark's Road and continues the drive in service and brilliant sundaes (Preacher's note: Corner House fans,forget everything else and have the triple sundae here. Even now at Rs.60, I still rate it the best pound-for-pound sundae going around). And Premier Bookstore, which was supposed to have met with a rude ending of its own, soldiers on in the same place with the same messy but fascinating piles. As I made my discounted purchase, I asked Shanbhag about the lease problem and how long he could expect to remain there. He smiled and muttered something with a casual shrug. Whatever it was, I completely agreed. It was a stupid question.
(continued in the Madras post)
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Where the streets have no traffic
It'd be easy to say that I'm headed all the way to Bangalore for a paltry two-week vacation purely for a small round of hometown indulgences - eating/drinking, loafing, visiting old bookstores and cassette shops - in addition to visiting family. The real reason I'm going is to relive the experience of crossing the main road outside my apartment.
I define 'home' as a place where you can cross the street without ever having to look left or right. You step outside, without so much as a quick glance at the incoming traffic, and next thing you know you're transported to the other side as if the traffic never existed. You might as well be blind (for those few seconds, anyway). It's this feeling of invincibility I get every time I hop over to Thom's Bakery and stores on Wheeler Road, for a round of provisions or a quick snack and it's the homecomer's ultimate high. The one thing here that makes me conscious I'm an outsider is the fact that not only do I have to remember "left-then-right" all over again while crossing, the speed of the converging traffic is much less predictable too.
Of course, I'm alive to the possibility that the traffic menace from the rest of the city may have spilled onto virginal Wheeler Road, as Change usually conspires to crush my happiness. That, however, doesn't mean my expectations are dampened, and I look forward to finding out what else might have changed and whether I can deal with it. Just before my last visit, at home they actually considered keeping mineral water and toilet paper ready for me. I'm happy to say that TP is not yet a necessity, but a reassurance that my stomach's immunity system hasn't been spoilt by another year of American water would be most welcome.
I define 'home' as a place where you can cross the street without ever having to look left or right. You step outside, without so much as a quick glance at the incoming traffic, and next thing you know you're transported to the other side as if the traffic never existed. You might as well be blind (for those few seconds, anyway). It's this feeling of invincibility I get every time I hop over to Thom's Bakery and stores on Wheeler Road, for a round of provisions or a quick snack and it's the homecomer's ultimate high. The one thing here that makes me conscious I'm an outsider is the fact that not only do I have to remember "left-then-right" all over again while crossing, the speed of the converging traffic is much less predictable too.
Of course, I'm alive to the possibility that the traffic menace from the rest of the city may have spilled onto virginal Wheeler Road, as Change usually conspires to crush my happiness. That, however, doesn't mean my expectations are dampened, and I look forward to finding out what else might have changed and whether I can deal with it. Just before my last visit, at home they actually considered keeping mineral water and toilet paper ready for me. I'm happy to say that TP is not yet a necessity, but a reassurance that my stomach's immunity system hasn't been spoilt by another year of American water would be most welcome.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Drip off the tongue
Work dangles over my head like an axe waiting to come down, but all I can think of is food. I'm not sure how many grad students feel the same way, but deciding where my next meal will come from is becoming an increasingly integral part of the the day. This tendency puts me at odds with the company I keep, most of whom are satisfied that returning home to a meal of potato curry and rice every single day provides at least one reassuring constant in this place. Though a lot of people think I'm superficial (or just plain impractical) for not seeing things in this light, it does make my occasional food quests more challenging and interesting.
Which brings me to the common desi pastime of cribbing about the food scene here. You've heard it all before, but no reports of homesickness can be complete without mentioning how you miss your ghar-ka-khaana, how you've been forced to learn to cook(and whatever you whip up tastes infinitely better than the junk you get outside), how the trip to Madras Pavillion or Taj Palace is the high point of your month, and most importantly, the reaffirmation that Indian food is the best and everything else is as bland as hell.
My friend has this theory that the one side effect of Indian food is, if you've been eating nothing else all your life, the continued assault of spices and chilli will eventually damage your taste buds. To the extent that you'll find most overseas food (particularly Western cuisines) totally flat and tasteless and as a result be unable to appreciate the subtlety and mild flavours that make some of the food here really worth trying. Ashanka makes the point quite well, in a post about her China visit. I guess most of the college and work crowd I used to hang out with would label me a pretentious pseud for subscribing to sentiments like these. I remember most of the quizzing crowd in RV and the rest of Bangalore who used to deem eateries which were not cheap or even moderately classy as "pseud places", probably because it fell in line with the whole "simple living high thinking" aura. It could be the same attitude that desi grad students have towards eating out here. I mean, some of them would be happy living on Taco Bell throughout their study program. For my part, I'm willing to spend good money on good food once in a while, even if it's only for the sake of trying something new.
My two-bits for the cribbing crowd would be: there's lots of good food out here, if you take the trouble to look. You need to be prepared to sample and experiment, and the rewards will come. The myth about (the lack of good) vegetarian food here was debunked long ago. From American salad and sandwich bars to immigrant-run Mexican and Vietnamese places, there's something for everyone and every budget.
Note: Since I'll be leaving for Bangalore in two weeks (and fully intend to revisit all my favourite food haunts there), homesick desi readers will probably take all this patronising with a pinch of Morton table salt. A classic 'other side of the fence' case - but not for long.
Which brings me to the common desi pastime of cribbing about the food scene here. You've heard it all before, but no reports of homesickness can be complete without mentioning how you miss your ghar-ka-khaana, how you've been forced to learn to cook(and whatever you whip up tastes infinitely better than the junk you get outside), how the trip to Madras Pavillion or Taj Palace is the high point of your month, and most importantly, the reaffirmation that Indian food is the best and everything else is as bland as hell.
My friend has this theory that the one side effect of Indian food is, if you've been eating nothing else all your life, the continued assault of spices and chilli will eventually damage your taste buds. To the extent that you'll find most overseas food (particularly Western cuisines) totally flat and tasteless and as a result be unable to appreciate the subtlety and mild flavours that make some of the food here really worth trying. Ashanka makes the point quite well, in a post about her China visit. I guess most of the college and work crowd I used to hang out with would label me a pretentious pseud for subscribing to sentiments like these. I remember most of the quizzing crowd in RV and the rest of Bangalore who used to deem eateries which were not cheap or even moderately classy as "pseud places", probably because it fell in line with the whole "simple living high thinking" aura. It could be the same attitude that desi grad students have towards eating out here. I mean, some of them would be happy living on Taco Bell throughout their study program. For my part, I'm willing to spend good money on good food once in a while, even if it's only for the sake of trying something new.
My two-bits for the cribbing crowd would be: there's lots of good food out here, if you take the trouble to look. You need to be prepared to sample and experiment, and the rewards will come. The myth about (the lack of good) vegetarian food here was debunked long ago. From American salad and sandwich bars to immigrant-run Mexican and Vietnamese places, there's something for everyone and every budget.
Note: Since I'll be leaving for Bangalore in two weeks (and fully intend to revisit all my favourite food haunts there), homesick desi readers will probably take all this patronising with a pinch of Morton table salt. A classic 'other side of the fence' case - but not for long.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Battling Insomnia
The original title I had in mind for this post was "The trite and tested", because I was all set to write it in point form once again. When every other post on your blog is a list of some sort, you know that scourge called writer's block has kicked in. At one end of the blogging spectrum you have Fred Astairs and Prabhu Devas who churn out sonnets and haikus of varying quality, but varying nonetheless. At the other end we have the majority whose hypothetical two left feet are forever stuck in that blogospheric cement called listmania. So this post is really an exercise in dragging my feet away before the cement dries.
Anyway, this insomnia problem is quite debilitating. In my previous student phase, it might have actually felt pretty cool to declare to the world "OK, so I'm not a morning person after all. Everything happens by night so screw you." Insomnia's a bit like cynicism. One moment you feel all knowing and proud, mocking reality's moves with your every observation. Next thing you know, it's dragging you down at a time you wish you had kicked it long ago. So now, after my body clock has devolved to the extent of unfailingly keeping me up till 3 in the morning, I've decided I need to become an early bird overnight, dammit.
I tried a whole lot of suggested remedies. Reading, which at my mother's insistence, used to work back in high school, but no more. I tried listening to some long winding tapes of L.Subramaniam and Miles Davis but found myself concentrating too hard on the music. My roomie recommended a nestle hot chocolate drink which came with the tag "award winning", and the psychological impact of the tag was good enough for it to cure my problem for a short while. Unfortunately, I couldn't find it in the shops again and horlicks wasn't a good enough substitute. So I'm back to square one again and open to suggestions.
Anyway, this insomnia problem is quite debilitating. In my previous student phase, it might have actually felt pretty cool to declare to the world "OK, so I'm not a morning person after all. Everything happens by night so screw you." Insomnia's a bit like cynicism. One moment you feel all knowing and proud, mocking reality's moves with your every observation. Next thing you know, it's dragging you down at a time you wish you had kicked it long ago. So now, after my body clock has devolved to the extent of unfailingly keeping me up till 3 in the morning, I've decided I need to become an early bird overnight, dammit.
I tried a whole lot of suggested remedies. Reading, which at my mother's insistence, used to work back in high school, but no more. I tried listening to some long winding tapes of L.Subramaniam and Miles Davis but found myself concentrating too hard on the music. My roomie recommended a nestle hot chocolate drink which came with the tag "award winning", and the psychological impact of the tag was good enough for it to cure my problem for a short while. Unfortunately, I couldn't find it in the shops again and horlicks wasn't a good enough substitute. So I'm back to square one again and open to suggestions.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
To ponder, or not to ponder: Ten things I'll probably never understand
1. The rear spoiler on cars: I'm not a car person so I guess I won't get the point. But seriously, does aerodynamic benefit really matter in the crowded city? And 'spoiler' is just the right word, in terms of looks.
2. The stock market: At some point I'm going to have to convince myself that ignorance is neither bliss nor an excuse.
3. How the transistor works: Now here's a notable academic (anti) achievement. After finding modern physics interesting in class 12, six years of engineering have done enough for me to un-learn the baby steps.
4. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand: I must have attempted to read this book at least ten times, and have never got beyond page 50. Objectivism be damned!
5. Why every contemporary Bollywood song has a seemingly mandatory Hinglish chorus: Samples: "My dil goes hmmmm", or "I looked at you, you looked at me
aur ho gayi mushkil ...." OK, so using English in film songs isn't a new thing, and is probably a reflection of how adaptable modern Hindi is. But isn't the fad starting to feel overabused and jaded?
6. The toothpaste tube etiquette suggestion. Squeeze tube from bottom and flatten as you go up: Here's a rule I've been following blindly from day one. Will be happy if someone can provide me the scientific or logical explanation.
7. "What is the matrix?": Eight years after, I still don't know the answer, and I still couldn't care less. If you finally figured it out at the cost of many a tedious moment, I hope your grey cells took a well deserved vacation.
8. Organised religion: The emphasis is on organised. Maybe this is what comes with a liberal Hindu upbringing, but I believe religion is a personal thing and should be left to the individual. And I'm neither an atheist nor an agnostic.
9. Death metal type vocalists: How does the genre (and all its related styles) get so popular when the lead singers seem to have drawn their primary inspiration from Cookie Monster?
10. Women calling each other "babe": Interesting one. A case of mars and venus, I guess.
2. The stock market: At some point I'm going to have to convince myself that ignorance is neither bliss nor an excuse.
3. How the transistor works: Now here's a notable academic (anti) achievement. After finding modern physics interesting in class 12, six years of engineering have done enough for me to un-learn the baby steps.
4. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand: I must have attempted to read this book at least ten times, and have never got beyond page 50. Objectivism be damned!
5. Why every contemporary Bollywood song has a seemingly mandatory Hinglish chorus: Samples: "My dil goes hmmmm", or "I looked at you, you looked at me
aur ho gayi mushkil ...." OK, so using English in film songs isn't a new thing, and is probably a reflection of how adaptable modern Hindi is. But isn't the fad starting to feel overabused and jaded?
6. The toothpaste tube etiquette suggestion. Squeeze tube from bottom and flatten as you go up: Here's a rule I've been following blindly from day one. Will be happy if someone can provide me the scientific or logical explanation.
7. "What is the matrix?": Eight years after, I still don't know the answer, and I still couldn't care less. If you finally figured it out at the cost of many a tedious moment, I hope your grey cells took a well deserved vacation.
8. Organised religion: The emphasis is on organised. Maybe this is what comes with a liberal Hindu upbringing, but I believe religion is a personal thing and should be left to the individual. And I'm neither an atheist nor an agnostic.
9. Death metal type vocalists: How does the genre (and all its related styles) get so popular when the lead singers seem to have drawn their primary inspiration from Cookie Monster?
10. Women calling each other "babe": Interesting one. A case of mars and venus, I guess.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Pronounced "Su-haas"
Americans sure appreciate brevity and clarity. Especially when it comes to names, and that goes double for foreign names. Exotic names simply disturb the precious equilibrium here. Unless you are French or Spanish (with a suitably seductive accent), foreign names are a turn off. The effect this has on us outsiders-looking-in is quite noticeable on campus; some laugh it off, others acquire convenient nicknames, and a few are even tempted to change their name. The far-eastern students, obviously aggrieved by the manner in which their names are murdered by the average American who takes it upon himself to pronounce them, have hit upon a callcenter-like solution; they adopt convenient 'American' aliases (Trang becomes Alex, Xingzhou becomes Robin). The yanks are spared the tongue twisters, their eardrums are spared the damage, and everyone's happy.
Indians, however, are not so compromising (unless they dream of ending up in a callcenter themselves). Long names are like prized possessions to be flaunted, an attribute that adds to individual uniqueness. While Americans prefer our names any day to the Chinese, for every Shah or Singh with which they may get away lightly, there is always a Sabharwala or a Ramalingaswamy waiting to confound them. Occasionally half-measures prevail; Padmanabhan introduces himself as Paddy, and Manimozhian provides a reassuring 'You can call me Mani'. Far from being upset about the inability of his name to be universally accepted, the average Desi gets a kick out of it. Despite the high standing that goes with all this, I'm pretty happy that my short five-letter name has posed no problem whatsoever for American tongues. Surprisingly, they find it easy to pronounce my surname too. The only ambiguity I can recall is when a Teaching Assistant spelled my name as 'Suhaas' and wondered if I was German. Well, anyway I can be happy with the fact that no awkward moments have resulted in calling out my name.
This is in complete contrast to the scene back home. In India, it's as if the simpler the name is the more difficult it becomes to pronounce; hardly anyone gets my name right the first time, and fewer still prefer to leave it as it is. 'Suhas' is apparently the perfect candidate for a mumbled corruption. Some landmark abuses of my name over the years include:
1. "Sugas": This is the Tamil pronounciation. In much the same way as 'Mahesh' becomes 'Magesh'.
2. "Subhash": As if the Tam version wasn't bad enough, this is the regular Northie version. At one point, I was called Subhash Ghai in school and that was as close as I got to being likened to anyone in the film industry. And I won't even mention the Bong version.
3. "Suhasini": A common way of mocking a young boy is to girl-ify his name. I think it has its origins in the fact that Suhasini Manirathnam used to live very close to my Grandmother's old Madras home. Another film industry connection.
4. "Seuss": Inspired by Dr.Seuss?
5. "Sauce": Apparently a lot of people feel the need to condense two syllables to one.
Well, at least one thing's changed for the better after coming here.
Indians, however, are not so compromising (unless they dream of ending up in a callcenter themselves). Long names are like prized possessions to be flaunted, an attribute that adds to individual uniqueness. While Americans prefer our names any day to the Chinese, for every Shah or Singh with which they may get away lightly, there is always a Sabharwala or a Ramalingaswamy waiting to confound them. Occasionally half-measures prevail; Padmanabhan introduces himself as Paddy, and Manimozhian provides a reassuring 'You can call me Mani'. Far from being upset about the inability of his name to be universally accepted, the average Desi gets a kick out of it. Despite the high standing that goes with all this, I'm pretty happy that my short five-letter name has posed no problem whatsoever for American tongues. Surprisingly, they find it easy to pronounce my surname too. The only ambiguity I can recall is when a Teaching Assistant spelled my name as 'Suhaas' and wondered if I was German. Well, anyway I can be happy with the fact that no awkward moments have resulted in calling out my name.
This is in complete contrast to the scene back home. In India, it's as if the simpler the name is the more difficult it becomes to pronounce; hardly anyone gets my name right the first time, and fewer still prefer to leave it as it is. 'Suhas' is apparently the perfect candidate for a mumbled corruption. Some landmark abuses of my name over the years include:
1. "Sugas": This is the Tamil pronounciation. In much the same way as 'Mahesh' becomes 'Magesh'.
2. "Subhash": As if the Tam version wasn't bad enough, this is the regular Northie version. At one point, I was called Subhash Ghai in school and that was as close as I got to being likened to anyone in the film industry. And I won't even mention the Bong version.
3. "Suhasini": A common way of mocking a young boy is to girl-ify his name. I think it has its origins in the fact that Suhasini Manirathnam used to live very close to my Grandmother's old Madras home. Another film industry connection.
4. "Seuss": Inspired by Dr.Seuss?
5. "Sauce": Apparently a lot of people feel the need to condense two syllables to one.
Well, at least one thing's changed for the better after coming here.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
No more fear and loathing in Austin, Texas
A couple of readers, presumably the only ones who visit this blog, have complained that my posts have degenerated into cynical nothingness. The apparent overload of dreary dark drivel seems to have raised questions about my state of mental health. In my defence, I maintain I have been totally jobless of late and the dross I keyed in was just for kicks, without any pretensions of wanting to prove anything to anyone. However, in a bid to retain my core audience (whoever they may be), I have resolved to give the blog a more optimistic outlook.
The last newyear resolution I made must have been back in 1990 when I promised to be a good boy or not to fight with my sister or some such crap. Eighteen years on, the time seems right for a new one. I promise to curb my pessimism and facade of bitterness, even if 2008 is already nineteen days old. Maybe I have unwittingly been enjoying it and have been in denial about the comfortable student existence I now lead. Out here, I have finally come to the realisation that I'm leading the good life in its twilight, and I should savour it while it lasts. I am now free to make my own entertainment, without any pressures apart from academic ones, and that rocks.
The first day of the new semester was a case in point. It could've been any day of the last year-and-a-half, which is a very reassuring feeling. I had a class at nine in the morning and had duly set three alarms. As if by clockwork (excuse the pun), I was woken only to turn off the noise and blissfully get back to sleep each time. I somehow leaped out at five to nine and arrived in class at my usual standard time. Once on campus, I could focus my faculties on the most important item on my daily agenda: lunch. The day spun madly but predictably on, and I was all the happier for it. Work will soon pile up, but the timepass will remain a constant. Might as well celebrate it, while it lingers on. For now, i can look forward to another sem's worth of the following:
1. Hours of guilt free sleep constrained only by regular homework. One of the reasons I would rather not work in this country is the scary thought of having to wake up at six in the morning most of the time. No such worries at the moment, though.
2. The daily indulgence of getting to answer mankind's most important question: "Where shall we have lunch?". The undisputed highpoint of my day, and I've been pretty pleased with my discoveries here, including a Brazillian restaurant.
3. Continued improvisation on my own cooking. While the results are not always as palatable as they should be, it gives me scope to enjoy the previously stated activity even more.
4. Access to a library with pretty much all the books in the world. As a result, I've become pretty promiscuous in my reading habits and I'm currently shuttling between four books at the moment. Whatever faithful lit snobs may say, variety rocks.
5. Access to a swimming pool. Great for cooling off once in a while, or relaxing in the sun on a deck chair with cooler in hand and dark glasses on to render the roving of eyes in the direction of heavenly bodies less obvious.
6. Trips around town in the local buses with (visibly) colourful characters. This is a place full of hippies, you see.
7. Putting my tapes to good use. I've recently come into possession of an old cassette player, so I don't have to rely solely on my walkman to keep my tapes in circulation.
8. Oh yeah. And coursework of course.
So, life's good. The year has got off to a fine start, following the resolution. I'm not repenting on that one.
The last newyear resolution I made must have been back in 1990 when I promised to be a good boy or not to fight with my sister or some such crap. Eighteen years on, the time seems right for a new one. I promise to curb my pessimism and facade of bitterness, even if 2008 is already nineteen days old. Maybe I have unwittingly been enjoying it and have been in denial about the comfortable student existence I now lead. Out here, I have finally come to the realisation that I'm leading the good life in its twilight, and I should savour it while it lasts. I am now free to make my own entertainment, without any pressures apart from academic ones, and that rocks.
The first day of the new semester was a case in point. It could've been any day of the last year-and-a-half, which is a very reassuring feeling. I had a class at nine in the morning and had duly set three alarms. As if by clockwork (excuse the pun), I was woken only to turn off the noise and blissfully get back to sleep each time. I somehow leaped out at five to nine and arrived in class at my usual standard time. Once on campus, I could focus my faculties on the most important item on my daily agenda: lunch. The day spun madly but predictably on, and I was all the happier for it. Work will soon pile up, but the timepass will remain a constant. Might as well celebrate it, while it lingers on. For now, i can look forward to another sem's worth of the following:
1. Hours of guilt free sleep constrained only by regular homework. One of the reasons I would rather not work in this country is the scary thought of having to wake up at six in the morning most of the time. No such worries at the moment, though.
2. The daily indulgence of getting to answer mankind's most important question: "Where shall we have lunch?". The undisputed highpoint of my day, and I've been pretty pleased with my discoveries here, including a Brazillian restaurant.
3. Continued improvisation on my own cooking. While the results are not always as palatable as they should be, it gives me scope to enjoy the previously stated activity even more.
4. Access to a library with pretty much all the books in the world. As a result, I've become pretty promiscuous in my reading habits and I'm currently shuttling between four books at the moment. Whatever faithful lit snobs may say, variety rocks.
5. Access to a swimming pool. Great for cooling off once in a while, or relaxing in the sun on a deck chair with cooler in hand and dark glasses on to render the roving of eyes in the direction of heavenly bodies less obvious.
6. Trips around town in the local buses with (visibly) colourful characters. This is a place full of hippies, you see.
7. Putting my tapes to good use. I've recently come into possession of an old cassette player, so I don't have to rely solely on my walkman to keep my tapes in circulation.
8. Oh yeah. And coursework of course.
So, life's good. The year has got off to a fine start, following the resolution. I'm not repenting on that one.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Lost in a dream, nothing's what it seems
Yup, readers will squirm at me reading too much into a cricketing incident and wondering if it mirrors the real world. I accept cricket is not a metaphor for life, but sometimes it comes pretty close.
If you're in India right now you must be sick of Bollyline or Puntergate or whatever the media has chosen to label the Sydney test happenings. I was disturbed. Not merely on a cricketing level. That 'pact' about taking the fielders word, proposed by Ricky Ponting and accepted by Anil Kumble before the game, strangely continues to resonate. It allowed the Aussies to justify the Ganguly dismissal on day 5, and I'm certain they couldn't believe how well it served their purpose. It sure came back to haunt Kumble, didn't it? What was he thinking? It seemed to serve as a reminder that 'trust' is something better left to storybooks, fables and moral science classes. Or maybe it just reiterated a new age truth that anything you 'trust' in may be used against you.
I can see where Kumble was coming from. As a keen student of the game and a great admirer of his opponents, he was all for entering into what seemed like a move towards the right spirit (whatever that means, you might say). Maybe he saw it as a chance to play the game the Aussie way - as a fellow blogger put it? Perhaps he was just being a hopeless romantic, imagining world peace was still a solution. Given the chance I too would like to believe that people around me, friends, competitors or otherwise, are well intentioned and things like 'honesty' and 'integrity' do not exist merely in the corporate sense. But ever so often we are forced to re-evaluate and lower our expectations of individuals because, well, a Puntergate happens. I guess there's only so much any of us are willing to live up to.
We live in an era where how you say it is sometimes more important than what you say, or what you do. Ricky Ponting's success, particularly in the way he dictated that umpiring verdict and the way he was able to sway the match referee's decision to punish Harbhajan Singh, bears this out. The guy (before this game, anyway) was an expert at talking to the media and saying all the right things, being the perfect ambassador and all that. It took a Puntergate to know the real Punter behind the smiling skipper. And I am pretty unhappy about this because I believed, or wanted to believe in his nice-guy image.
Am I being naive, or just too much of a cricket tragic?
If you're in India right now you must be sick of Bollyline or Puntergate or whatever the media has chosen to label the Sydney test happenings. I was disturbed. Not merely on a cricketing level. That 'pact' about taking the fielders word, proposed by Ricky Ponting and accepted by Anil Kumble before the game, strangely continues to resonate. It allowed the Aussies to justify the Ganguly dismissal on day 5, and I'm certain they couldn't believe how well it served their purpose. It sure came back to haunt Kumble, didn't it? What was he thinking? It seemed to serve as a reminder that 'trust' is something better left to storybooks, fables and moral science classes. Or maybe it just reiterated a new age truth that anything you 'trust' in may be used against you.
I can see where Kumble was coming from. As a keen student of the game and a great admirer of his opponents, he was all for entering into what seemed like a move towards the right spirit (whatever that means, you might say). Maybe he saw it as a chance to play the game the Aussie way - as a fellow blogger put it? Perhaps he was just being a hopeless romantic, imagining world peace was still a solution. Given the chance I too would like to believe that people around me, friends, competitors or otherwise, are well intentioned and things like 'honesty' and 'integrity' do not exist merely in the corporate sense. But ever so often we are forced to re-evaluate and lower our expectations of individuals because, well, a Puntergate happens. I guess there's only so much any of us are willing to live up to.
We live in an era where how you say it is sometimes more important than what you say, or what you do. Ricky Ponting's success, particularly in the way he dictated that umpiring verdict and the way he was able to sway the match referee's decision to punish Harbhajan Singh, bears this out. The guy (before this game, anyway) was an expert at talking to the media and saying all the right things, being the perfect ambassador and all that. It took a Puntergate to know the real Punter behind the smiling skipper. And I am pretty unhappy about this because I believed, or wanted to believe in his nice-guy image.
Am I being naive, or just too much of a cricket tragic?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)