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.

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.

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.

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)

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.

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.

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.