Saturday, November 11, 2017

Peregrinate...

Sometimes the keeda in my head is a word. This morning at the Toastmasters meeting that I attended, the word of the day was peregrinate. It won’t leave my head, has been playing on loop like a broken vinyl and not like it’s the first time I heard it.

My earliest memory of the word is Robert Kincaid saying “I am the highway and the peregrine and all the sails that ever went to sea” to Francesca Johnson during one of their deliciously long sessions, described thus: “The leopard swept over her, again and again and yet again, like a long prairie wind, and rolling beneath him, she rode on that wind like some temple virgin towards the sweet, compliant fires marking the soft curve of oblivion”.

Leopard didn’t stay but peregrine falcon did and is back with a vengeance today. The word "peregrine" means "wanderer" or "pilgrim”. This post is a meandering into my rabid mind, why does this appeal so much to me! After all peregrine, aubergine sound almost alike and the poor vegetable doesn’t beleaguer the duffer head, like ever. Ok so it’s not the consonance.

It is the visions that the word conjures, of the majestic hunter that the falcon is soaring above the skies, free and powerful. A terrible attempt at Freudian interpretation here, if indeed he had to, I’m sure he’d find a phallic association, kinky fart that he was.

The Peregrine Falcon is a very fast flier, and may reach speeds of 320 km/h (200 mph) as it drops toward its prey.

I like that. It’s fast and furious, businesslike, calculating and precise. But this ain’t it.

What appeals most is not the bird or the word but how it was used by Robert Kincaid to describe himself, offering it almost like an apology to Francesca and telling her that he was here, now and will be gone the next. For those of you who have read the Bridges of Madison County know that this was the greatest fallacy of the book.

He writes her a letter years later which reads thus: “I live with dust on my heart. That's about as well as I can put it. There were women before you, a few, but none after. I made no conscious pledge to celibacy; I'm just not interested.
I once watched a Canada goose whose mate had been shot by hunters. They mate for life, you know. The gander circled the pond for days, and more days after that. When I last saw him, he was swimming alone through the wild rice, still looking. I suppose that analogy is a little too obvious for literary tastes, but it's pretty much the way I feel.”

Technically I should now hook up on Canada geese after the bloody leopard and the falcon but no… peregrine stays and soars.

Maybe it echoes the wanderlust in my soul that although builds nests, seeks to peregrinate… all the time!

Friday, November 3, 2017

Ennui…Envy?


French word, pronounced ‘on we’ means boredom and lethargy.

Pretty close to the English envy methinks, not just in the pronunciation but also in the individual meaning. Idle mind being the devils workshop is such an oft repeated adage that it loses its pallor due to overuse.

Yet, isn’t it the vacuous mind that meanders aimlessly seeking a plausible excuse, so what if it’s a dull one, latches on like a cootie close to the booty on that something that the other possesses.  

Oh and both ennui and envy are one of the seven cardinal sins, which I think is a bit much. C’mon if anything, jealousy should wear that badge, not poor envy.

The difference between envy and jealousy are complicated but not. Envy is the feeling one has when they do not, but want to possess an attribute that another has. It is also called a two person situation, plain vanilla. Jealousy on the other hand is something that occurs when a third person threatens what we possess. Also called a three person situation, ménage à trois.

Capiche?  Not as simple since we use the two words often interchangeably. If asked to narrate an instance where one felt this not very laudable emotion, how would you answer. Once you have answered, lets dissect it. 

So was it something someone has that you wish is yours or does something you wish you could, then that’s envy. Was it when someone you believe is yours and they develop a yen for someone else and that gives you gut burn, now that’s jealousy.

Is it completely wrong then and should one suffer pangs of guilt for indulging in either. I’ve seen how envy at times has spurred an individual to achieve a goal and jealousy allowing someone to morph into achieving more.

A lotus arises from the mud after all. Why not a positive outcome from a negative emotion. As always balance, balance and balance is the mantra. Ennui though needs a kick on the butt and indulge if you may… for a brief bit and then give it the boot.


Oui...

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Juxtaposition…


I love the word, it has nine phenomes! Phenomenal me thinks… not I’m not stoned. Yet. Seriously, say the word slowwwly… ja k s ta po zi sh a n. See!!!

I haven’t written for a while, thought it was writer’s block, truth be told it is the Florentino syndrome. 
Have to revert to the natural order of things since apparently everything comes, even the words.

Ok sounds good the word, what the exact meaning and how does one use it in common parlance?
Quote: Juxtaposition is placing two elements or words side by side and letting the reader or viewer compare them. This act compares and contrasts the two elements and can show irony, humor or sadness. Unquote.

Pretty much like oxymoron and paradox. Cold and heat, false and true, perfection and flaw. In a sentence: I grip you gently with angel’s claws. Being cruel to be kind.

Remember that chilling scene in the Godfather when Michael Corleone takes vows as his nephew’s Godfather in the church and the spate of murders being executed at the same time. Birth and death. Juxtaposition.

Pretty much the prevalent disposition. Nascent and ancient, weary and rejuvenated, thoroughly loving hating it. How I thrive in simple complication and contriving coldly sweltering tableau's. 
Must be my name, apparently means the bee’s expulsion. Sigh! Which explains why I need a buzz. No no, not the dutch toys. In the cerebellum and myocardium. Latter over the former.


Most likely that it’s just the position! No no, not switching hammocks. Much of the tragicomic scenes of this drama called life are created by the idiot self. Scenarios fabricated to entertain the dullard brain. What’s life without angst. What’s art without a muse. 

What’s a position if it ain’t juxtaposed!

Sunday, September 17, 2017

Þetta reddast...

“Þetta reddast” the Icelandic philosophy of life can be translated to “it will all work out okay”. ‘Þ’ pronounced as ‘th’, almost. Those who know me will figure out why I felt absolutely at home.

Travelogues aren’t my style, I know, I know, I've been told too! Sigh! This isn’t one. At best is a simple recap of seven days of incredible experiences, insights and the dope on my shenanigans.

I guess it’s natural that we have preconceived notions and theories of a country and the people. Iceland as a country and people is fascinating and blows all prior perceptions to smithereens. So, they haven’t fought a war, have no history of battles except for the Viking led ones and they don’t have their army to date!!! It was hard to digest and I asked them many questions on the why and when and the simple answer was, who would want to live here and what would they aspire to plunder and lord over.

Which probably explains why there are no grand monuments, forts, castles and wartime memorabilia unlike the other European countries I have toured, nor do the people have any military background and maybe the discipline that comes from such experience? Their crime rate is one of the lowest in the world, translate crime to narcotic and finance based. Murder rate is 1.8 per year for the past decade. Education including university and health care is absolutely free for all. There are no private schools, which ensures there is social equality and the tax rate is at 37%.

Iceland doesn’t grow vegetables or fruits in its natural environs, the only vegetables they grow like potatoes, cauliflowers and salad greens are in greenhouses. They are very proud of their two banana plants which are a national treasure and they spend enormous amounts of money ensuring their sustenance. The only fruit bearing plants they have!

I spent six days running two workshops with the Icelandic and Norwegian people, touring the countryside, socializing, learning about our products and spent all of my coherent time and some incoherent time with them. The country is cold but the people are genuinely warm and giving, openly affectionate and completely chilled out, pun intended.

 I suppose I went to Iceland to impart learning and have returned with too many to count in one go and these are life lessons that inspire and elevate. Have learned much from each person I met and three gentlemen stand tall. They are part of the original team that built the business the company I work for recently bought.

The older of the two is the perfect example of ‘Servant Leadership’, gave me the spiel on the beer I should imbibe (beer was legalized in Iceland on 1 March 1989 and they celebrate the day as a national holiday!) to a grand tour of the offices and took us to the west of Iceland just so we could see the products in the fish farms and rivers… his thoughtfulness was incredible as he brought along massive eskimo jackets, scarves and gloves for the ‘hot’ chicks.

The other gentleman is a fitness enthusiast, hiker, off roader, adrenaline junkie and a photographer par excellence and drove us to the East of Iceland, aurora hunting and to sample the lobsters of Iceland called Langoustine, the yummiest crustacean and a smaller cousin of the lobsters we are accustomed to.

The third is a Scot married to an Icelandic woman, his sense of humor reflects the Icelanders, dry self-deprecating and if you can get it, hilarious! Loves his motorbikes, fitness and the people who work in the outfit. He’s the funny bone that tickles the ribs and keeps the human spirit alive.
Of the 39 member team, 5 were Norwegian and the banter n gentle ribbing between the Icelandic people and Norwegians was utterly refreshing. Each believed the other was affecting their salmon farming and is almost willing to borrow the current American president to build a wall in the sea! The conversations in the pubs after a barrage of barrels were riots of laughter.

If they have a national food, its Skyr. A cultured diary product like yoghurt but not and has been part of their cuisine for thousands of years. They are not accustomed to eating vegetables and are only learning the art now, sweet potato being the favorite. Fish is staple diet, salmon, trout, haddock and cod are consumed with great relish, smaller fish like mackerels are used as bait and never for human consumption. Lamb is the favored meat, beef comes second and none of the restaurants that I went to served any pork although pork ribs are part of the Christmas spread. Whale, reindeer and horse meat are common.

The landscape like I said before is desolate, stark, unyielding and barren except for clumps of moss that grows like an afterthought. There are plenty of volcanic mountains, lava fields, rivers, glacial rivers, lakes, geysers, hot springs, glaciers and glacial caves. The eye is trained for a certain kind of beauty that is lush and voluptuous with foliage and color. Minus the frondescence and you find everything else. Hunting, fishing, fly fishing, sailing and hiking are very popular and almost every Icelander does one, more or all of the above.

The northern lights or the aurora borealis is a pain in the you know where. She’s a fickle mistress, willful and erratic and is hard as hell to catch. When she does appear you feel like you’ve been blessed. A word of caution for all who want to behold her, she isn’t a movie show or theatrical act that you can expect a performance just ‘cos you paid for it. We hunted her for six nights and only caught faint glimpses of her twice. The picture I had posted earlier is not how I saw her. The camera captured her light far better than our eyes could, so yes keep those expectations really low and count yourself lucky if you do witness her grandeur but let it not be the reason for your Icelandic adventure.

Oh and save for the Icelandic experience. Like now. It’s expensive. The accommodation (Airbnb included) is at least 50 percent higher than other destinations and their public transport system isn’t great. In fact real bad. From the Keflavik airport you can take the Flybus which takes you to Reykjavik and to most hotels. Book online before you travel. You can drive or do the guided tours. Driving is the best option though. It’s packed with tourists, Americans and Chinese being the majority. Get to the airport four hours in advance. Keflavik airport is bloody crowded as it also connects North America with Europe and due Iceland’s own tourist activity. Food is expensive too and you cannot buy fruits off the counters like you do rest of Europe. You can, but it costs and arm and leg. If you're flying in to a Scandinavian country for a connection to Kef, ensure you have enough time between transfers as you have to clear immigration at the first port of landing. I had a two hour layover in Stockholm and it wasn't nearly enough! The queue was terrible and I had to beg and plead people to advance to the front.


The day before I was scheduled to fly out, happy in a pub, I was fretting over not having spoken to the hotel yet about my transport to the airport and a beautiful Icelandic woman, turned towards me and said, “Hey! Heard about “Þetta reddast”? I said yeah, that’s my life motto. She looked at me for a few seconds in silence and burst out laughing. “You have a bad memory then! What is the worst that can happen if you don’t get through to the hotel, you will walk in a little late on shaky legs and tell them what you’re desperate to now. You are neither living here nor there. “Þetta reddast” girl, always “Þetta reddast”. Happily, I took the advice. The hangover was anything but happy. Sigh!

So yeah "Þetta reddast" is me.

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Four letter words...

On a flight, just watched a movie and I will be hammered for recommending it to anyone I know, for sure. Its impression is dark and depressing and lugubrious and dismal. I love it. Do I love the movie or is it the theme that I’m captured by. I’m even embarrassed to say it aloud.

Louuuu...

The story is set around a couple who bump into each other a few times at different places on the same evening and the little interlude of that night which they spend together, not on a physical realm but yeah ‘little death’ did visit eventually.

It’s set in Portugal and at one point the woman says, ‘I was sick for a few years’ and  he asks her, ‘how’ and she says, ‘I was crazy’ and he looks at her with his incredible saucer eyes and says, ‘who says you aren’t now’.

Cry came…. Aiyyoooooo…. Wino and Bloody Mary… never the twain shall meet in my ventriculus no more, methinks.

I guess the world is torn between figuring out what really matters, like all of us are, me me first first!
What should this life mean… what means triumph, definition of loss. Who means what. What means who. Where should be the focus. What means success. Happiness, Happyness. Unhappiness equals to failure. Failure equals to doomsday, apocalypse. Wasteland…

Sheeee!!!! Not me!!??!! Hello, me Hip, Happening, Cool, Successful, I’m too sexy for my shit types….

Why are we embarrassed to avow that love elevates us or annihilates us. And why is it a bad word? Hello! I consider myself this little ninny from a one horse town and whenever I examine my thinking I’m like, ‘you peasant, whaddya know about what really matters? And what this love, up yours shove’ and in slow motion the tail which was upright slowwwwly cows down and sinuously langorously makes it way between the legs…. Ahem! Me likes the allegory (hic!)

(good sense will ask me to edit this post when the wino mary have exited via the bladder… but steadfast I shall hold the balderdash)

Where was I? some more cry came… there’s this older couple next to me and he just belted out, “are you lonesome tonight” and she held his hand and shoo’d him…. What a cute… he looked at me with such perplexity and embarrassment and hid his face in his blanket to slowly surface a few seconds later and point at his headphones and the screen, he’s listening to Elvis!

Ah ok… back to the four letter word… I’d lay all my unworthy, unimportant, ungainly ‘successes’ for the glory of that one, four letter word.


F or L??? sometimes simply confuse happens!!! hic :D

Saturday, August 19, 2017

Were thee?

Watching the movie Kaabil and I’m pondering about the theme song, ‘mein tere kaabil hoon yaan tere kaabil nahi’ and the rationalist (ok… sometimes I am) in me wants to barf. But the chardonnay I’m indulging in, is exquisite. I refuse to estrange it from my gut. Back to the ad hoc question ‘am I worthy of you or not?’

Although it is one of my all-time favorite songs, ‘aapki nazron ne samjha pyar ke kaabil mujhe’, it rankles the cerebellum. I guess our psyche is influenced by this non sequitur that if we are indeed loved, we question the ardor by inspecting our worthiness (sic!)

Paradoxically is the object of our affections worthy of receiving the ‘gift’ of our amour.  If love was based one’s worthiness, wouldn’t it be a purely business transaction? Isn’t love supposed to be a despite of, inspite of, smite?

So if you’re supposed to strive to make yourself worthy of being loved and you are indeed the recipient of this ‘wonderful’ gift, is it a hollow victory, a shallow trophy of a callow personage? Or should you do the Tarzan-beat-his-breast-whoop and celebrate your ability to have been able to evoke this noble emotion.

What means this worthy? I’m fascinated by women who walk the cosmetic surgery path to snare a catch like desperate fisher folk, of men pumping iron for ‘ceps that will be irresistible. Of the education, job, collateral we hoard as bait, of the tangled web of deceit we weave when first we practice to deceive- Walter Scott (I can’t be expected to come up with original thought at this hour, creative juices diluted by the inebriant, hic!)

Is it societal pressure that encourages us to believe that our worthiness has to be an external feature over the internal. You will be forgiven for thinking that it’s my inherent laziness that preempts this apathy for action makes me disavow the striving to embellish one self.

By all means we should, but let it be that we spruce up our intellect, empathy, thinking, vision, values and behavior, dwell on the visceral rather than the extraneous.

The idealist in me champions that, we will allure a love that sees beyond the frills and the masks, above the drama and tomfoolery, rises over the commercial and expected to espy the grandeur of our souls and cherish it.


If you do not, can not, will not… fret not… who you are, is not for naught. You are enough unto yourself. Keep the faith. What’s meant to be… will find a way. 

If it does not, it never was worthy of you.

Thursday, August 10, 2017

Close... err?

Whether while crafting a speech or an essay, the standard format is Introduction, Body, Conclusion and it has always been stressed that the Body deserves the best attention cos the meat of the message lies therein.

So also maybe in life I guess. What we did in childhood was a passing fancy and what we will be capable of in dotage will be forgiven (if we kick the bucket while on our feet). Our years in between are what we will be measured by.

Hmnnnn... not methinks. I like closures. Spectacular endings. Delicious culminations.

The heaviest burdens that pull us to the nadir are when the ending hasn't sated the soul. Like a book or movie that leaves you guessing. If your imagination is superlative you could concot a gratifying denouement. Good for you.

Yet there are moments... how do I ostend it copiously? Take this scenario. You've had the most intimate coupling in a darkened room that reverberates with muted sighs, mingled sweat, blended body fluids, shared whispers, incongruous giggles and delightful shudders.

You get it.

Now this - Nonchalantly you turn away without as much as a distortion of your facial muscles or minimal acknowledgement through touch or sonance. A mute obelisk like (yeah yeah. It's a fixation) transformation. Just killed it eh?

Endings... complete the circle. Raw edges chafe and abrade. Complete it then. From your sentences to your stories, even the path you walk or the goal you set.

Your measure is in the closure.

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Palat vs. Salt



For all of us who've watched DDLJ, the word 'palat' rouses memories of SRK, banjo slung carelessly over his shoulder, eyes dilated with breathless anticipation, lips quivering as he mouths the word, repeatedly. Bloody hell, the moment Kajol turns to look over her shoulder, the theater erupted like a restless volcano.

As a cinematic effect it's been used prolifically in both Hollywood and Bollywood, remember Ingrid Bergman as she walks away from Humphrey Bogart in 'Casablanca'.

Life is supposed to be a lot like movies right, perhaps that's why most people long for that look, the shoulder check/ the palat.

Interesting, having failed the driving test three times ten years ago in the UAE, while desperate for a license, my instructors would tell me I failed 'cos I didn't do the shoulder check which is a mandate here. I could never explain to them that I'd driven for 15 years in India and dared not take my eyes off the road to do a shoulder check or any check for that matter, except eye candy of course for the ever present threat of landing into an auto rickshaw or under a bus. I remember practicing this until I cleared the test and I'm glad I did, this has saved me more times than I care to cite as I change lanes.

Ah, the shoulder check now, mandatory while driving, necessary at goodbye's, is mired in disgrace. Permit me to introduce you to Lot and his lot.

Lot was Abraham's nephew and the poor sod had a raw deal I guess, not only did his wife turn into a pillar of salt but his two daughters seduced him when he was in an inebriated state and had babies too. Lot's fate has not been lamented upon as much as his wife's is, well her fate isn't really repined except used as a warning. Why did she morph into a pillar of salt? Well, she looked towards the city of Sodom and that shoulder check sealed her fate. The city of Sodom was immured with impenitent sin and yes buggery, in case you were wondering why the name sounds familiar. Genesis, the first book of the Old Testament.

Back to the poor salt obelisk, apparently her venial desires spurred the palat and she paid for it and how.
Dilemna is, now what, should we or shouldn't we? If you think carefully, all the shenanigans with the shoulder check/ palat have been concupiscent from then to now. Is this terribly wrong then?

A friend of mine keeps repeating, there is no reverse gear in life and one should always look forward. Being the frail, faulty and frivolous individuals we are, a peek over the shoulder is part of who we are. Rather than view the action as flagitious, I'd like to use it to thwart dangers unseen. A recce of past actions and outcomes are vital. Doing a shoulder check may also prove to allow us to see beyond a twenty twenty vision, a wider periphery then, a panoramic view. We should learn from mistakes, eh?

Oh yeah, now if your eyes beam licentiously while you're doing that, go right ahead. It's better to be sagaciously salty than sickly sweet.

So go on... and palat...

Friday, June 2, 2017

You’re guilty, yes you…

When I ponder over my actions and my thinking, I’m predominantly assailed by pangs of guilt over the things I did and didn’t, said and shouldn’t have, over feeling happy and satisfied, over unbridled laughter, at achieving something , basically over things that have brought much joy. Immediately guilt comes calling along with a sense of foreboding.

As I gouge a little deeper into the recesses of my mind and memories, I’m certain that these insidious thoughts are a reflection of the coalescence of religion, family values, upbringing, environment and people who have influenced me. No this isn’t remonstrance nor is recrimination against anyone, just thinking out loud, this blog my confessional (in my defense).

The society and faith that I grew up in somehow ingrained it into us that we had no right to enjoy the pleasures of this world since we were reason for the cross on Calvary and every nail and thorn that pierced the Lamb of God was our doing. Oh and this world is a passing fancy, the real McCoy was Paradise and we’re better off suffering in this temporary dwelling since infinite joys await us yonder.

What stemmed from this thinking went deeper and touched almost every aspect of our character, from being treated differently according to our gender, the norms on what we could and couldn’t do to and in our roles as we became spouses and parents. Even now, when we do something solely for ourselves and spend that extra penny on a simple pleasure we feel like we’ve committed a grave sin. I’m not going any further with this, I’m pretty sure each of us can identify.

Is this a bad thing then, if we didn’t feel remorse would we be a fractious and unruly people who lived without morals and values and let our base instincts get the better of us enabling a violent society. If all of us lived by our own norms would it be anarchy?

Would we on the other hand be more creative, open, vulnerable and human if we didn’t?


Tell me what you think… I love a good debate... guilty as charged!

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

To be a new born…sigh!


Having married and gone to live in the coffee plantation I was an eager beaver, wanted to learn everything about coffee, from brewing a perfect cup to growing the perfect beans (none I can claim glory or adequacy over!!!)

So my lessons begin, coffee is largely two varieties, Arabica and Robusta which have diverse sub species, the former a dainty plant with narrow trunk and narrow leaves and the latter true to its name, a robust and sturdy plant with coffee growing in clumps making it a pretty sight.

One of the first tasks we did as a young couple was prepare the nursery, not for our offspring but for the plants that we needed to grow as we were replanting the estate. The best looking coffee beans of the previous year’s yield would be encrusted with ash and preserved as we would fill soil into little plastic pouches, use a twig to poke an indentation and drop the seed in gently.

Great prudence was exercised in the care of the plants and the health of the sapling was vital. In about a year or fourteen months’ time, depending on its sinew, the plant would be transferred into the real world, i.e. into cavities dug in the earth within the plantation and it would embark on its journey of being a ‘great’ contributor to the harvest.

The plants from the previous years which hadn’t begun yielding yet would be pruned and I was taught which branches were rogue and which defined promise and the top of the plant as it grew used to be shorn off!  And I used to be pissed.

My argument was, why circumcise the plant every year till it frikkin bloomed (maybe something that can be tried on the human genus?) Ok! I get the parasitic branches bit but the beheading was a bit much.
So I would argue with whoever I found on the ‘bonsai’ zation of the coffee plant and oh the cruelty of it all! If the Good Lord had wanted to make dwarf plants he would, what right did we have to mutilate His creation to suit our avarice??!!?

Oh yeah, it was an exercise in futility and after a few drinks I would forget whether I was for it or against.

Karma is NOT my friend, the turnaround time is too volatile. Like w**king into the pot and as you shake off the last drop, the stork delivers to your doorstep a parcel wrapped in pink/blue. Seriously!
The rebel in me recognized that some pruning and paring is a necessary evil even for our own growth and development as I became a parent. (if you can wipe that grin off your face, Mother?)

It’s been a while since the pruning shears have come a calling. For me.

But not today, the bubble I floated on, you know this I’m too sexy for my boots, too sexy for my sh*t, too sexy for my @#$% ditty that plays on loop in your head, that one. Now that one was ripped out. Sigh!

One of the worse quirks of my personality is that I am a ruminator and I have an enviable memory. So when I meditated on the ‘Oh you’re 45 and yet what do you have?’ I’ve been Sinatra ing on feelings varying from defeat, defiance, fear, sorrow, failure and then again to who is to judge what I have and have not achieved and by what standards. 

So, this roller coaster has been spinning furiously.

What helps balance is the fact that I need these reminders, to keep me humble, to aim higher, to prune my branches and clip my wings, perhaps grow more feathers for a longer flight? I need to bugger off from this wagon of self-pity I’ve been traipsing around. Snipping that ego is imperative for the soul.

And oh yes, to walk down memory lane and connect it to my outrage at what I thought was the cruelty of coffee bonsai. 


To be trimmed like a new born…sigh!

Friday, May 26, 2017

Cult Cher?


I’m a lazy oaf and don’t have much energy to expend on controversies, digressing here now, I’ve been told it’s important to take a stand even if it means leaning left. I’m most amused by the ‘culture protectors’ of Indian society and even more tickled to see that many of them are among the ‘educated’ masses.

How we’re going hammer and tongs at preserving our culture and having bans from moral codes to dress codes to lynching cow slaughter houses and beef eating communities, destroying churches, harassing minorities, stooping down to inhuman and disgusting practices for the greater cause of preservation of course. Such cowardice that stems from such fear.

On our 14 day trip of Italy, in every place we went to, whether a big city or major attraction to small villages we found tour groups of young Italian children, varying from ages 9 to 18. In hordes. All of them with guides, probably organized by schools or their ‘culture gurus’. They were made to trudge along and every place allowed them free access and priority. The guides spent much time going through the marvels of the vista and you could see the glow on the kids faces. Even the older ones.

Simple methinks. 

You want to preserve your culture? Your roots? Ensure that the next generation nurtures, adores and perpetuates it, then take them to the places we’re proud of. The wonderment I saw on the children’s faces, to me was like a solemn oath they took. I’m sure these young minds and hearts will have such deep pride in their country and who they are and it’s here to stay for always.

Religion? I doubt it matters anymore to them. They have grown above petty matters of who believes in what faith. They are united by the love for their homeland. A lesson we can take as Indians you think?

Catch them young, instill a love for the country not by reciting a few lines or encouraging differences but by allowing them to see, touch and feel the masterpieces of our temples, museums, architectural marvels… those that have captured the essence of our culture and you may never have to beat the culture drum no more.

Finally Rabindranath Tagore’s  prayer may ring true.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake 

unquote

Now let me go drink myself silly! phew!!!

Friday, May 5, 2017

The a an mea culpa…

The English language, no matter how proficient you are, can confound at times and cause you to transgress unerringly.

Exactly like life itself.

Nouns are the Pashas’ of grammar and most other parts of speech dally around describing it. Articles are placed lower in the strata and may seem to be insignificant but are incredibly powerful in giving the noun a definite/ indefinite character.

Overthinking can cause one to blunder in using the right syntax and ruin a sentence. When you believe you’re a savant, the slippery slope leads to arrogance especially when you refuse to apologize or discern the damage.

Exactly like life itself.

Strive then to upgrade knowledge and keep abreast with the reconnaissance of the art of language, the dictionary adds new words every year yet grammar stays constant. Fundamentals remain like our character as we add new skills that morph us. The secret is to never lose touch with the bedrock of one’s true self.

Exactly like life itself.

Words are powerful, when they’ve caused lacerations remember to use all articles there are for reparation. 


The a an mea culpa…

Friday, April 14, 2017

Buyer beware...



When you’re a reader you’re essentially a loner, I’ve always escaped into a world of my own where I’m immersed in the plot, rhythm, characters, storyline and the volatile emotions I flirt with incessantly.


There are however books that asphyxiate and you seek desperately to surface from the terrible emotion that grips until you feel the desperate need to bob up from the mire and breathe unadulterated air, fill your lungs with pure oxygen and shrug violently the devil seated on your chest. If you’re lucky. To happen upon a book like that.


Hanya Yanagihara’s, ‘A Little Life’ is like a fist around your heart, gripping insidiously at first and then its iron clad grasp chokes you and the lump in your throat moves to a vice around your brain till you’re sure you will explode.


When I read the reviews of this book I was amused to read that someone suggested  a support group for the readers of this book. I now wish there was.


While I’m trying to resurface let me tell you why I love this book. It’s about friendships and love. It’s central theme is dark and filled with such terrible pain yet the treatment of this isn’t preachy or judgmental.  This is a voluminous book, 718 pages of which over 200 hundred you will read with clenched fists and helpless despoliation. Morbid really, you want it to end… moth to a flame yet you’re entrapped, unable to stop. Sadism at it’s best. Not the book. Your treatment of it.


This is when you fling the book and go do something mundane, futile, stodgy. Only because your sense of self preservation finally kicks in. When you reach the final page and you know you’re reading the last sentence there is a sense of relief. Finally you are set free. So you think.


The joy of the book is many. It’s set in Manhattan and I could identify almost every avenue and street. The story is about four friends who met as students and their struggles through the years, their relationships with others, with each other and their careers. It struggles with the anxieties of our lives and leads you to a better understanding of human nature especially of mental illness and foibles which we as an ambitious progressive culture fail to comprehend. Against your will you are forced to forgive Jude St. Francis’s decrepitude, waffle between wanting to whack him on the head and hide him in your arms.


Finally what gets me is the lack of recriminations and labelling when there could have been another 200 pages alone on this. My takeaways are too many to mention, let me just say my soul is wrung out of me and I will carry this book for weeks to come and if fortuitous, recover. Don’t want to though. It’s gift abundant.


Read it, Caveat emptor.

Saturday, April 8, 2017

Eli Eli lama sabachthani


The seven sayings of Christ on the cross are part of the liturgical meditations of the Lenten season. The parents being devout Protestants ensured that Manny and I had an upbringing which included Sunday school every Sunday, twice if you please. 2 hours in church after the service and 3 hours post lunch at a family friend’s home. Methinks this was a ruse to ensure we weren’t underfoot more than a religious endeavor.

 The Lenten season was special, besides the Sunday service we would go to church on Wednesdays for special service and the holy week beginning with Palm Sunday was solemn as we recollected our many transgressions and tried hard not commit any, at least for that week (nope, didn’t work with me).

Maundy Thursday was when we were most contrite and our penitence was heightened as we partook in the repasting of Christ. Good Friday was spent in church in a three hour service and seven preachers would deliberate on the seven sayings of Christ on the cross and this is one of my best memories of the church I grew up in.

Most of the sermons were by laymen and I loved their interpretation as it was a fresh perspective and not as full pious pomposity of the men/ women of the cloth. These lay preachers made Christ seem more real, more human and someone I could relate to. He sounded more like my friend the Lamb and I would have long dialogues with Him.

Of these seven sayings, the one that affected me most deeply was Christ crying out “Eli Eli lama sabachthani” in Aramaic translated into English “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” I would hurt for Him and find myself mired in sympathy mingled with grief and terrible anguish.

To many people there are many verses from the Bible that are the cornerstone of their faith. To me it is this… “Eli Eli lama sabachthani”, simply because I could identify with the vulnerability of this powerful Lamb who shed all inhibitions to display his lacerations instead of justifying the greater cause.

Methinks I’m shaped by this as well, I connect better with those who aren’t afraid to share their pain and adduce their scars like I do mine. And I’m never afraid to get mad at Him and lament sometimes in rage sometimes in agony, “Eli Eli lama sabachthani”

Until I hear a voice say can it, drama queen!!!

Monday, March 13, 2017

Filigree dreams...

I’m no stranger to metal or mettle. The former since my dad ran a fabrication workshop and the latter as his art spoke for itself. Dad was an artist at creating the most intricate designs. Going to the workshop was always great fun. I loved the sounds, sights and smells, the electric flame of welding, that began as gold, turned blue and violet and then white and the sizzling crackle as the metal smote in rebellion as it connected (while it should rather rejoice at the mating) with fire.

As is common with Protestant men from Mangalore, mechanical, structural, electrical works are almost second nature to them and they owe this to the influence of the Basel Mission via Hebich Technical Training Institute run by KACES in Balmatta. Which meant that I had an entire family that dabbled in the similar line of business and technical terms of welding, lathing, milling and the like were thrown around carelessly like flecks of lint you brush off hand.

Women of the community weren’t encouraged to pursue this vocation, they either ended up as teachers or nurses, once again owing to the Basel Mission’s Mission hospital and Schools. No no! this isn’t a lament about lost opportunities, my track record in school wouldn’t afford me dreams of any sort, even ‘fabricated’ ones.

As fate would have it, I began as an English lecturer (true to form) and now work with a manufacturing unit and our foundry and machine shop adopts best in class technology. I walk into the shopfloor and am assailed with memories of daddy’s ‘Indian Industries’, feels somehow more like home than in the sterilized office space.

As sometimes reminiscence does, while transported from a white washed sterile hue into one of vibrancy that colors and admonishes your every sense, you stagger at the impact and flounder trying to find your foothold lest you fall flat on your roman nose (mine is a pale imitation) or on your back (mine is the real Mc Coy!) and steady yourself with whatever is handy and I found strength in filigree. 

Filigree the definition - then delicate work of fine wire, tiny beads or twisted threads formed into delicate tracery soldered and artistically arranged. Filigree the allusion.


Ah! This peregrination… from fabrication to filigree!

Monday, March 6, 2017

Prolific profit

So read this post today from the second Gospel in the New Testament.

Mark 8:36 "For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?"

It has also been extensively to denote anguish in plays, movies and literary works like Oscar Wilde's 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' and a few thrillers... and has always bothered me, like it’s supposed to I guess.

It evokes the deepest thoughts and most dire thoughts, apocalyptic.


But now, it gets me thinking… lose my soul… hmnnn. Let me count the ways.


Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Just saying...

I am a mass of confusion, like a ship without a mast wildly flailing

Hold that thought for just a minute, you see I know exactly where I’m going

I’m the chaos and cacophony when the school bells rings to signal recess

The flower bed that’s decimated when the gale has blown the deluge to distress

The tortured monogamist who seeks solace in the arms of his mistress

And yet I’m the peace of the restful baby’s fluttering eyelashes


The solace of the cadaver lying cold before it is burnt into ashes

Dark and light, devoid yet bright, competely wrong but perfectly right

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Lift and Elevate…


Watching life is a much loved avocation. The elevator never ceases to provide riveting opportunities. Specially the one to my office on the 22nd floor in a busy building. It’s forever crowded with people entering and alighting constantly and the lift is never free. Too many people, too few lifts.

I watch, sometimes unobtrusively, at times voyeuristically and when occasion demands, brazenly the milieu that I’m trapped in an enclosed space with. Sometimes endlessly it seems (body odor people, body odor!) it’s wonderful to be in a multicultural society, having the fortuity to absorb different cultures and subtle and overt nuances.

There’s a new outfit that has taken up six floors of the building and this lot is the most interesting. They’re in real estate and they are dressed to kill. Like literally! The men are all in three piece suits and the waistcoat is colorful, the cravat, neck tie, pocket square brightly patterned silk that screams garish glamor. The folk are like their garb, loud and ostentatious.

Not much to comment about the women since they are much like the other of their ilk, impeccably turned out with the apparel, bags, shoes, watches, jewelry and sun glasses flaunting brands. Such a feast for the eyes. The ones who walk in solo fiddle with their phones or adjust their hemlines and necklines in the mirror that frames one wall of the lift. The men are pretty much the same minus the fiddling.

Those who enter in groups have loud conversations and I know the P&L of their companies as well as their bonus schemes too. It’s like they’re in their conference rooms discussing company policy. Completely oblivious that they are in a public space.

Earlier this week, as I was leaving office after a long day and even longer wait for the lift I entered an already full elevator. A quick glance around showed that I was the only female and I pulled out my phone, better finger than fiddle!

Obviously it was a cohesive group by the body language and banter. I didn’t bother with my usual scanning and resolutely kept my attention private until I heard someone say, “This morning I woke on the bitch”.

In a flash my nonchalance vanished, my interest piqued, I glanced upward and before I could glean the perpetrator, I heard someone else from across ask, “On the bridge?” By now I’m teeming with curiosity and there’s no way I’m going to miss out on the action here. The endless possibilities flashed quicker Haley’s comet as my imagination ran amok.

If they were going to discuss this in public, why should I pretend I’m deaf? So I raise my head and look around and there’s this Jamaican guy with big beautiful eyes that sparkled with honesty looking at the rest of them who are agog with curiosity and mouths open wide in wonder and some envy for sure and his expression changed visibly. You could see the understanding dawn on him and he enunciated verrrry slowly, “This morning… I Walk… on the Beach”.

An almost giggle escaped me and I quickly nosedived into my phone. The charged atmosphere dissolved in that instant of anticlimax and the lift reached the ground floor and we walked out and I overheard a few of them saying, “Dude, what were you thinking” and the repartee, “Like you weren’t”.


I carried the memory of those few minutes and continued to smile… lifted and elevated.