Namesake - The Ali of Aluva

Q: Among a group of randomly chosen Mallus, how do you quickly find out which are the ones who have not been born and brought up in Kerala?

Ans: It is quite easy !! Just shout the word “PARTY “ !!!!

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Confused? Ok, here is how it works.

If you are a Mallu but already visualizing a place with music, booze and women …gotcha ! you are a BABU-OK (ie: Born And Brought Up Outside Kerala) , the ubiquitous Non resident Keralite , a species which is soon going to out number the Resident Keralite species given the rates of migration.

But on the other hand; like me, if what you thought of; was a sea of Red Flags, a multitude of white mundu clad leaders moving as a block of people behind a red banner, shouting “Inquilab Zindabad” blocking all the traffic- then well, its elementary – my Dear Watson mone – you are a "Pakka Mallu Born And Brought Up In The Heart Of God’s Own Country!!!! (PM BABU IT HOGOC– Ok ,guess I'm not the best of acronym makers )
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I’m picking up a long lost tag to write about my hometown.

But then, it’s not all that easy for me to write a chronicle of my town. Maybe it is because nothing too interesting probably ever happened there. I guess I could call it a sleepy town but then Mom would say I was the one who was sleepy most of the time. Much like that proverbial story of the 6 blind men feeling an elephant (or should I say Visually Challenged persons analyzing a Pachyderm to be politically correct); well, the point is that - it’s basically about perspective. You could grow up in the same town as another guy, even in the same neighborhood and around the same time, but you might have absolutely different memories of how the place used to be. And Mom thinks I never got out of the house enough to tell stories of anyone who lived in the neighborhood. So I’d tell a few stories where I was personally involved and not really try to record how the town used to be.

Here is the first one of the series…

My town was called Alwaye - “was” because somewhere down the line, the name is changed to “Aluva” in a wave of “Malayalamization of every town” but somehow that neither did amazing things to the place’s economy or particularly put the place in the world map. Guess it was all a conspiracy of the paint companies who made a fortune changing the sign boards everywhere. Guess, Aluva was too short to make money –I believe they made maximum when they changed from “Trivandrum” to “Thiru vanantha…(huff puff) puram”.

Growing up in a small town in Kerala has its disadvantages. First of all, you never realize that all the land around you is supposed to be beautiful or any such big deal. That happens only when you become an NRI and then desparately need something to be nostalgic about. That’s when you rue about all those erstwhile paddy fields – now converted to a block of flats; the river which flows by where you used to swim during your summer vacations- currently endorsed by Dermatologists due to the level of pollution & even your dad’s Bajaj scooter with a maximum capacity of 5 – all trigger off wave upon wave of nostalgia. But at that time we probably felt it was not so happening, as the city. And the city meant Cochin 20 km away and that’s where my happening cousins stayed.

Alwaye was rather cosmopolitan and multicultural – now don’t expect that it mean Albanians, Mexicans, Ugandans and Eskimos living side by side in adjacent houses. It just means that all the 3 representative religions co-existing just as they said in the “India- Unity in Diversity” chapter of the Social Studies textbook. That meant we got the Mutton Curry and Pathiri at Id from the neighbors though we'd soon ge have to reciprocate with Mum giving away a portion of my favorite Appam, Stew and Cutlets to the same neighbors at X’mas.

And it meant that like good Mallus, we all faithfully celebrated Onam in its spirit – sitting cross-legged in a yogic pose on the floor for the sumptuous pure Vegetarian Onam lunch on a Banana leaf.

Anyway, this story probably happened when I was 5 or 6, well, I happened to hear of this boxer named “Muhammad Ali”. . Well, I say “boxer” now because now I know him to be a three-time-World Heavy Weight Champion previously named Cassius Clay who used to “Float like a Butterfly and Sting like a Bee”. But back then I guess I just knew he was an “Idikkaran” –( “idi” – a blow with a closed fist, “kkaran”- a person who does the above).

From what I remember, it all happened as follows. Schoolboy conversations would usually revolve around who would be knock out who, if Tarzan fought Mammooty, Phantom fought Nazeer or if Bruce Lee fought Amitabh Bacchhan. (Yeah if you notice, one could easily transcend the fictional-non-fictional divide at that age)

But then this kid talked confidently of someone named Mohammed Ali who can knock down any of the above…even if all attacked him at the same time !!

We were all in awe though I was still sure the Phantom could knock this new guy down too! He’ll leave a Death head mark on his chin too like everyone else got. But I was curious. I didn’t have any clue how this Mohammed Ali looked like, but this kid’s uncle had apparently seen him in Dubai. He was as big as a building and wore gloves that contained granite stones in them, so that the unlucky bugger, who got hit, really stayed hit!

Hadn’t seen any picture of him but somewhere down the line, someone convinced me that he was the same guy in the boxing page of the Olympics themed calendar which some relative had got from abroad. Couldn’t judge how big he was but did look menacing enough; and yeah he had “gloves” on .

And then one day, I heard the big news – you wont believe it

“ Muhammed Ali was fighting someone named Subramanian Potti" !!!

That too, right there in Alwaye !!! That was curious. I'd never seen any movie of this guy Subramanian Potti and neither did he appear in any comics. The only Indian sounding guy in comics was an Orange Kurta clad Bahadur of Indrajal comics.


I was already imagining a boxing ring , Ali landing a 300 kilo punch right on a hapless Subrahmanian Potti's nose. Maybe we could buy tickets and go for this one ..hmm.

But then things got more confusing..

I got to know that they were going to fight in something called the ”election” !!! Now I didn’t know what exactly this election thingy was. I knew that Mom and Dad go for something called “voting” and returns with a “ink mark” on the index finger. Something, which we replicate with a fountain pen to impress the classmates the next day. (Well you mightve noticed that the coolness factor is also politically influenced if you live in such a politically aware state )

Also I knew there were something called “Congressukaar” and the “Communistukaar”. .For a long while I tried to ascertain who are the good guys and who are the baddies. Mom told me Congress was good and the Communist was bad, what with too many weapons right on their flag. And it was in Red – too violent! She knew it right from the church sermons that anyone who voted Communist are headed for eternal damnation. (hehe , guess she was right about that considering the state of affairs nowadays) However, my best friend in school was of the opposite opinion. This “Palm of a hand” (kaipatthi) was not too impressive, on the other “hand” if someone tried to attack you, you could use the Hammer or the Sickle till they saw stars.. Now that; was logical. When you are talking comic book graphics you usually make sense.

But all said and done, how exactly this entire thing connect to the fight between Mohammed Ali and Subramanian Potti?? Such an extremely confusing situation!

The campaign was in full force. Lit up jeeps crisscrossed across the town , and all walls were covered with either Mohammed Ali's or Mr. Potti's name.And then one day I heard it from the loud speakers attached to the jeep covered with election posters.

“Muhammed Ali” was actually coming right to the junction right next to my house. A dream come true! My mind was filled with questions. Will he be wearing that granite stone filled gloves? Will he knock down someone with a fluent “Disshhyooom”? Maybe if he is as big as a building maybe he will need to sit on top of the Car Workshop at the junction. It might just crumble under his weight and smash all the cars below! And what if the glass from all the cars pricks this Mohammed Ali in his behind? The entire situation had several exciting possibilities.

I begged someone to take me for the meeting . Finally Dad agreed. He was a bit rather confused about my undue enthusiasm for the Congress candidate.

The junction was full of people. I couldn’t see what was happening but something interesting was definitely going on. I pestered him to lift me up so I could see the stage. Finally, he lifted me on his shoulders… I couldn’t contain my excitement.I hadnt seen Phantom or Tarzan yet, but I was going to see Mohammed ali in flesh and blood!!

But however hard I looked; I could only see a sea of thick moustached guys in white shirts and mundus. There was some mistake. He wouldn’t be too difficult to spot if he was as tall as a building. But then, on that dais there was none who remotely looked like the guy in the calendar.

Then someone put a heavy garland on one random guy’s neck and everyone else applauded. The air was filled with “Mohammedaali keee jaaiii”. slogans.

“Well and good, but where is Mohammedali????!!” I asked my dad.

“Right there in the middle, look he’s the one waving! “ he replied...

“Him????!!!!”

I’d never been so disappointed in my life. My friend was a liar! Probably he'd lied even when he confided in me that he himself was the guy who played James Bond after having a medicine that made him grow.( He had clarified that there was a kissing scene but it was a camera trick and he never got close to any woman, coz he didnt want to be outcasted because of that )


Because, this guy Muhammedali was no big deal. He was not even wearing those granite gloves. Just as big as everyone else and wearing a white mundu and shirt with a thick moustache as everyone else.He could even sit in a normal chair ! So much for all those high hopes..Bah !

And I was sure of just one thing. Phantom could DEFINITELY whip him with ease !!!!

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Epilogue: (like they do in the end of “Based on True story” Hollywood movies)

1. Alwaye has actually once significantly figured in history. When Tipu Sultan was camping near the Alwaye River during his Travancore invasion and had his horses and men washed away in the sudden floods effectively ending his campaign. If that hadn’t happened, probably the history of Kerala would’ve been much different.

2. Mohammedali the Congress candidate has won from Alwaye seat several times. Guess he is still in the political scene. Alwaye is generally a Congress bastion.

3. Muhammad Ali the boxer retired around 1981, maybe my story would have taken place a couple of yrs around that time.

4. The friend I mentioned is an aspiring actor now I hear. He starred in a Malayalam movie last year - we’re not in touch though

Losto in Translationo- From Kathakali to Katakana

"We have to do a Gap Analysis on the previously done Requirement gathering and ....................."

The boss froze.. "Earthquake???"

"Is it, I didn’t feel anything!!" I asked and also stopped unconsciously tapping my foot against his chair.
“I’m sure I felt something !!” He insisted….

We both listened for a minute and he concluded it had stopped quaking.... Of course, I didnt move my foot again either :-)
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Another day in Sushi land, and I have hardly felt those famed earthquakes yet, a couple of times I was sure there were tremors but others felt it was just a strong wind or too much alcohol in the bloodstream.


But well, this post is not about earthquakes, but it is about the greatest threat to life in Japan for any foreigner......... ie: the Japanese Language !! The squiggly figures of Japanese language and their implications are the greatest mysteries to anyone who lands here. Whereas you can survive here even without knowing a single word of Japanese, there are often moments of immense frustration where you desparately construct Japanese words adding "o" or "u" to the English, Hindi or even the Malayalam words i know. There are guys who used soap powder instead of salt in the curry , or aji-no-motto instead of sugar as the shopkeeper didnt exactly understand the requirement.

Me too used to be a part of the clan till recently , but then wait, its been 6 months here in Tokyo for me; and "Times,they're a-changing.....!!!" Here I'd like to say that the days of elaborate dumbcharades (Kathakali as Mallus would put it) to explain even something simple like "I didnt order this weird dish with strange things floating in it, and can I have a sandwich instead mebbe " – are slowly getting over.

The reason?? Japanese lessons.Yes, I'm beginning to be enlightened!! The cheapest way to learn Japanese in Tokyo is to join one of the classes offered by the City Ward offices. And of course that’s what I did. At just 7000 yen (Rs 2500 odd) you get 20 odd sessions @ 2hrs a class and 2 days a week.

Each class of Learning Japanese is like an episode of "Mind your Language" what with students from varied nationalities. There is a shavenheaded Turkish artist who looks like Bollywood villain Bob Cristo, a trio of un-smiling Myanmarian family with rhyming double first names like Myint Myint, Rin Tin etc , a Norwegian photojournalist who has traveled 55 countries, an English pantomime artist who might strike a pose mid-class, a Serbian Babysitter, a dreadlocked Brit DJ who is a fan of Amritanandamayi, a few Filipino beauties, An English teacher from NY, an Iraqi Telecommunication engineer who never learnt any Japanese despite being here for 15 years , and the usual Indian software guys slogging here for their Japanese bosses.

And together we do to the Japanese language what the Japanese do to English :-)

Absolute Mayhem !

For example last day someone exclaimed "Kono air-con wa warai desu" (that airconditioner is laughing!!!) (ok cant blame him ,"Warui"- would have meant That a/c is bad"). And " Watashi wa kyo terebi sutte to omoimasu" I think I will smoke a TV today....

Everyday I'm learning new words. Just last day I learned that Jiten-sha was not just a Gujju name, it means " bicycle" hereabouts. Also "Sumimasen" though it sounds like Srinivasan's brother ,is the essential "Excuse me". And kuruma does not need a prefix "veg" and instead could use Toyota, as it means car!!!

You might have noticed already; these guys are pretty convinced on having hardcore Japanese names for just about anything. But then; you ain’t seen anything yet. Can you guess what a plasma TV is called in Japanese? A “ Kabekake-ekisho-terebi”!! Even when you have got enough money to buy a Plasma TV, you have to actually say it to buy one. And a dishwasher is a shoki-jido-senjoki. Would you rather wash dishes by hand or learn that up?

Writing the language is another story. It is a mix of 3 sets of alphabets which makes the task real complicated. At the current speed, a page of a Japanese newspaper could provide me enough reading material for a month!!! I mean the 30% of that which I can read.

Well, the funny thing is Japanese could have been entirely written with the series of alphabets called Hiragana - but then they weren’t content with that. They devised another set of words called Katakana to write all the words derived from English and other foreign languages. Now that makes a total of 110 odd alphabets which is still conquerable with a bit of effort. Well ahem, It took me just 2-3 weeks to master the same. Though I struggle with writing a bit, I guess I manage reading pretty fast. Alas, the story is not over....

Displaying an incredible propensity for masochism they use an elaborate Chinese derived series of pictorial symbols called Kanji numbering around 5000!! Although they say only 1000 odd are in common use, learning even these is a really tough task. It works this way- when kids start learning they write everything in Hiragana and as they learn more kanji, they substitute the Hiragana with Kanji and become sophisticated. It is supposed to make things easier, by pictorially representing some alphabets but then again sometimes I see there is a entire long word which is substituted by a couple of Kanjis, but then there are other times when a wee little word is written via 2 or 3 of these complicated heiroglyphics making you wonder what is the point of the entire exercise. To add to the conundrum each of these Kanjis has two or three sounds associated with it as well as 2 or 3 meanings. And so, if you ask me, for all the atrocities Japan has done in China; this seems to be root cause !!!

Apart from the communication part, the biggest concern of an Indian techie coming to Japan is the prevailing notion of incredibly long working hours. The image of an average Japanese salary man is one who is in office by 8 am and leaves only by 11 pm!! The Indian techies working for their Japanese bosses also often have to follow the same timings. Once I met a very Japanese looking guy in a lift who suddenly smiled and asked "Hi, Kahan se ho?" !! Turned out he was a techie from Delhi but as he hadn’t left office for 2 days ☺ his eyes looked quite Japanese,. This part usually depends and as far as I’ve seen, the conditions in MNCs are usually better….

Talking of busy people I have seen only group of people who are absolutely relaxed in Japan. That would be the local police. I guess if they ever made a police series in Japan in the lines of NYPD blues or COPS it is going to be the most insomnia-curing series ever telecast. There seems to be hardly any crime around and probably a NY Cop sees as much action in one hour as a Tokyo cop would do in his entire career. I’ve hardly seen a police car here and an average Japanese cop is a slight bespectacled guy on a bicycle who may not hurt any one even in a video game. Even the people in Wanted posters look so gentle like well , everyone else.....

And this brings me to that eternal question which I’m fed up of being asked by friends back in India; and I suspect, is asked to whoever going to China, Japan, Korea and so on. And that of course is “ How do you tell the people there apart? Everyone looks exactly the same!!” And so the last time I answered “Precisely!!! Here’s how they solved it in Japan being so technologically advanced. Everyone has a barcode assigned to himself/ herself and has it tattooed on their arms. Everyone carries a bar code reader too. So in case you don’t recognize someone, you hold the barcode reader against the other person’s arm and beep all his details appear on your reader”

Honestly, people!!!!!! ;-))

Leaving you now with a clip from the movie “Lost in Translation” (after which my travelogue posts are named) which shows the “What the hell was it…??” sort of feeling experienced by an American actor (Bill Murray) who has come to Japan for shooting a Whisky ad. This clipping is one of the most hilarious moments from the movie....

Losto in Translationo - Part 4 - Must have accessory spotted

Paris Hilton wannabes take note! Here is the ultimate fashion accessory to enhance your reputation of being in tune with the edgiest of fashion. I spotted this at an exotic accessories shop in a High fashion mall in Yokohama.

Curious....last time i saw something like this was in the hands of a Tam Pappadam seller in my hometown..

Losto in Translationo - Part 3 - Spotted in Sushi land

Been quite some time since I posted anything here.

Well, have been travelling around in the weekends a lot. And, roaming around in Japan armed with a cam (sometimes mobile cam) allows you to get some hilarious samples of Japanese English..or as the locals say "Engirisu". These are everywhere- on the tshirts, on menus and just everywhere. There is actually a website dedicated to these outrageous samples of English in Japan (www.engrish.com). Here are my contributions which could qualify for the same. More later...

(Thought I'll put up some snaps and keep the blog alive till i find something to write about :-))



Sign on the bathroom door of an inn in Nikko. Guess there is an option to sing :-)) a la Hera Pheri/ RamjiRao Speaking :-))




Well, the chef is a rather arrogant guy if you ask me .




Thats would be about 4'o clock Beijing time I guess

Losto in translationo Part 2 - A day in the life of ....

It couldn’t be my alarm clock already !!!!

I'd hardly shut my eyes.. The persistent weird tune woke me from my dreamfilled stupor !!
Reluctantly, I pressed the pause button on the dream i was seeing and semi-opened my eyes. The clock was showing 3am.. After a few seconds of absolute incomprehension i figured it must be the phone. Now who could be calling me at this time? I hunt for the phone from the 6-7 similar shaped devices on the table lying on the table …TV remote, AC remote, bar of soap, Beer Can….and then I remember phone had a cradle. I pick it up.

" Hello??"

The caller " something in Rapid Japanese"

I said "Sorry wrong number" and kept the phone.

I lay down again on my bed and pressed, "Play" on the dream sequence. Too good to last. The phone rings again. Muttering under my breath I cut the call, remove it off the cradle and go back to bed. Almost immediately it rang again.

Lesson Learned - No point removing a cordless phone off its cradle!!!!

"Hello??" i ask politely while gritting my teeth. The caller " Something in even more Rapid Japanese" but i catch something like Sandeepo san, plocesso and something called OC-aah.

It slowly dawns on me- the guy is looking for someone in Tech Support for some OCR process. Having been in Investment Banking Ops earlier I understood the predicament of someone looking for Tech Support guy in the face of a huge crisis. This could be important. This might cause a major crisis in the Stock Markets tomorrow. A company might go bankrupt. People might lose jobs. All because some payment did not go thru and this couldn’t be prevented because the Tech Support guy couldn’t be reached at the given number. I could not live with such guilt for the rest of my life!! But what can a Business Consultant do for Tech Support? The person he was looking for would have been staying in my apt earlier and they had the number in the emergency contact list.

Ok, I figured out so much, but how do I convey this? I remembered the Japanese word for Phone number was Bango. So i tried the best Japanese I could manage "Wrongo bango. Sandeepo san doesnt stay here any moro."

The caller " something in bewildered Rapid Japanese ???"

Me "This is a Hoter-o ( I hope that would mean a hotel) . I stay hereo . My roomo. Sandeepo sano no stayo. Manassilayodo?- that last part in my mothertongue ;-)

I slammed the phone this time. Didnt care about any company going bankrupt. My sleepo is more importanto .

But I dont get sleep for another hour now. The phone rings a couple of times more but I dont pick the phone. My sleep is really screwed up. But at 7am, the merciless alarmclock wakes me up. I'm as groggy as a punchdrunk boxer after 9 rounds of fighting, but somehow drag myself to get out of bed and go to office.

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It's a five minutes walk to the Osaki station. Then catch the Rinkai line. The rush hour is at 8-8:30 am range - and though its not exactly Virar fast (Mumbaiites can relate to this) the rush is pretty bad. I go at 8:45 to strategically avoid the rush. People do queue up at times to board a train and allow people to get out first (Mumbaiites cannot relate to this ;-) ). Tennozu Isle (Tennnnn -Oh- zoooo Airu -as per the announcements) wher my office is at, is on area reclaimed from the sea. I'm sleepy thru out the day...
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I was determined to find a solution to the “Tech Support Issue”. I met my "Japanese language expert" friend at the cafeteria. Asked him how to “politely” say "You have a wrong number" in Japanese. "Thats simple" He responded. You say "..................................................................................."He completed a sentence that took around two and a half minutes to complete. I gave up. I'd rather learn Tech Support than learn that by heart. "Ok, how do i say that without being particularly polite??" - politeness be damned!

“Hmm, you can say Chi-gao denwa bango” he said.

Good, short and sweet! That I can remember!
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Getting out of the office happens only around 8pm. My walk to Shinagawa station passes thru 2 bridges across the canal providing a picturesque view of the skyscrapers around. Shinagawa station is really huge, something like Grand Central NY according to my NY returned friend. Aa huge structure with several platforms, shops and restaurants. There’s even a Nepali run Indian restaurant at the station called Sitar. Of course, with my amazing cooking skills I don’t need to rely on any Nepali for an evening meal. So I walk on.

My journey back from office takes exactly 35 minutes. I reach home. Dear readers; this abode of mine, is a sterling example of space optimization. I’ll tell you how this works. Take an average sized PVC pipe. Divide its interior into a “Barbie doll accessories set-size” Kitchen, Bedroom, Shower and Loo.. Install a TV, DVD player, Microwave, fax machine, Washing Machine and dryer in the remaining space – and voila! You have my apartment. Space becomes a issue if you are trying to cook. Storage space is premium and flat surfaces tend to attract stuff. So, what if the pickles jar is on the Fax machine and the Rice cooker on the Washing machine? What if the cornflakes packets line the outside of the Shower room wall? This is a pretty comfortable home for me now.

I switch on the TV and surf the channels. The govt channels are some 11 in number, predictably only Japanese. In fact, even with Cable TV there are only a few in English. However, there are 4 channels, which show English movies, sometimes Japanese dubbed but not always. However, trailers are always in Japanase. In the last month, I’ve seen several Horrywuddu movies such as Dai Hardo, Joorasic Parko and Waaaird Waaaird Westo. Also there’s CNN and BBC to quote the latest tally from Iraq. MTV seems to have 99% Japanese content with some hiphop thrown in at some time. As the soulful Love songs in Japanese pregnant with feelings and emotions are lost on me, I go check out the Sports channels. Baseball, Basketball, Golf and American Football. Got to work out something by the time World Cup starts in March. Here is a country totally Americanized sports wise.

Well, but then you have the Internet for entertainment. A lightning fast connection is something you appreciate if you have waited hours for a download via a BSNL line. The advantage? Streaming content – without much buffering. Youtube has most of the KBC 3 episodes uploaded so managed to catch up on those. Also most Indian Hindi channels are streamed online so that no Software engineer’s wife would miss her daily dose of the Saas bahu capers.. Also, the news channels such as CNN-IBN, NDTV, and Times Now have streamed content so that you can track what is the latest on Abhishek and Aishwarya.

I fix up my dinner- Japanese salmon fried in specially imported Kerala Fish Masala . Awesome!! I salute my own cooking skills, then call wife to report on the success of the same (I ‘ve to keep this on for another month before she joins me here). I check my blog; comment on a few others and go to bed.

2:30 am…..Dejavu! The phone rings. It is the one for Sandeepo san. I almost forget my lines. “Chiii-……….errrr???? “gooo” What was it??"

I manage to remember in the nick of time

“CHI - GAVO DENWA BANGO!!!” I shout it into the phone triumphantly.

”Oh, I hav the wlong number??” he replies…. in English.

I slam the phone….



PS: Sandeepo san, whoever you are - if you are reading this- please update your contact number at your company

PPS: If any of you know any Sandeep or anyone who might call himself Sandeepo when in Tokyo, (u never know) ask him to do the above urgently.


PPPS: This was just a weekday. Await more travelogues on my weekend trips

West Side Story- Misadventures of a Desi Software Casanova in Yankeeland

(While the next report from Tokyo is shaping up, enjoy this anecdote from a friend..of course the masala and special effects are by flaashgordon)

This did not happen to me. Neither did it happen to someone I know. And I heard it from someone I had no business of hearing it from................

Ok enough of crap, just know that this is just an anecdote out of the anecdotal Pandora’s box which opens when there are a couple of old friends meeting up, are a couple of drinks down and are swapping stories…

Anyway…here’s the story.......

“There was this Software guy who went onsite to the US“ … Can hear your collective groans “Aww, not another one”. Are Software guy jokes are more common than the Sardar jokes in Bangalore nowadays? Ok, anyway I can’t help it if he went onsite. .

Anyway, this man was different. He was not the usual who vows to live onsite on just one dollar a day, have only Puliogre or Thairsadam everyday and save the rest. This one, for starters was a stud mallu Casanova who used to make the hearts of every babe in office go flutter (Disclaimer 1: This was probably his own opinion ...Disclaimer 2: The definition of a babe in a Software company is “ anyone who fills “F” in the gender column of the Application form”)…. ….

Well, our man had watched enough movies to get a fairly accurate picture of America as a place where women generally dress in Baywatch gear and guys could pick’em up at any bar/pub just by saying……… “Bond, James Bond”.

And so, he had his task cut out…. He wasn’t going to miss any “opportunity” when it presented itself, and was on the lookout right from the time he boarded the plane. Unfortunately for the man though, most of the intricacies of the Queen’s language were still a mystery to him

The AI flight out of Bangalore was eventless, the Airhostess too old and his neighbor was another software guy. Our man hence concentrated on the next best thing about International flights ie: Free Booze… By the time he reached NY, he had done reasonable justice to Kerala’s "highest per-capita consumption of Alcohol" statistic...But well man doesn't live by whisky alone...

He hoped for better luck in the transit flight from NY. Our man entered the aircraft and found his seat. The next seat was empty. A “gorgeous blonde” entered the plane. Our man held his breath. She paused near his seat. The man fervently prayed to all the gods he knew. She smiled, checked her ticket and sat down beside him. Our man’s heartbeats quickened. He pretended to stare out of the window while strategizing furiously. Scenarios, Alternate Scenarios, Counter Scenarios. The conversation Opener, follow-up, clincher. He didn’t even realize it when the flight took off…

“Sir........” he turned. The Airhostess was offering a glass of Orange Juice. His neighbor helped the Airhostess by taking the glass from her and offered it to him. Maybe it was the unexpectednerss of that, his nervousness, or the alcohol in the blood stream, the man tried to take the glass and awkwardly dropped it. The juice got all spilt in his lap. “ Sorry” She exclaimed ; took a tissue and proceeded wipe it off in his lap. Our man was in a dream. Something had to happen now. Various movie scenarios flashed thru his mind in fastforward . The situation begged to be taken advantage of ....

"No proublam maadamm, ” he said. She smiled. He was encouraged

He decided to start a conversation. “Wh-where you going ?” He asked

“I’m goin to Seattle” She answered

“ I goingg Seattle too. I am SOFTWARE engineer - Microsoft Project, you know Microsoft- Bill Gates???” He was sure that’d impress her.
“ Oh, that’s great”. She smiled again
………………
………………
……………..
Our man was eager to continue the conversation. He wasn’t going to let go of such a golden opportunity. He told her about the “Dotnet” project and how he was chosen out of many for the assignment.

She kept smiling and listening. Our man decided to take it to the next level…..
“ So why YOU going Seattle? ” He asked

And then came the answer, which broke his heart into a thousand pieces; made him stay off blondes in his lifetime….and prematurely ends this story.

She answered, “ I’m going to visit my grandchildren!!!!!!”



(Do you think this initial setback caused our man to abandon hope and focus on coding alone? No way, here’s part 2)


A few days passed; our man started on the Client Project. Lack of Linguistic abilities never tampered with his supreme coding skills and he was doing well in his job. However, this did prevent him getting anywhere close to a Yankee “All-American” woman and so the romantic life he dreamed off never took off.

Days passed and our man was getting desperate. No action, no satisfaction. ...But then one day fate smiled on him. He was working late one day when someone spoke behind him “Excusa Senor“ . He turned, and Lightning bolt struck him . He could hear Violins were playing in the background.. It was the Hispanic maid who was cleaning the office. Almost Salma Hayek, though probably 15 kg heavier and probably, around so many years older. The opportunity he was looking for had come to him with a Vacuum Cleaner.

Both shared a common advantage of not knowing too much English. And soon, our man was more than friends with her. Don’t ask how they communicated but he soon got himself invited to her house for dinner on Friday.

D-Day came. The dinner went great though the conversation was difficult. After the food, they went to the living room. Our man could sense the atmosphere was electric. The night held a lot of promise. He wanted to say something romantic to set the mood. He looked out of the window .... He opened the door and stepped out. He felt chilly so he put on his coat. The lady looked bemused, he hadnt spoken anything after the dinner and was now putting on his coat.

It was a beautiful night, slightly chilly but there was a clear sky where one could see the stars. The moonlight bathed the foliage around. It was breathtaking. The night was so beautiful . He took it all in but unfortunately, his severely limited vocabulary did not allow him to express all that..The only adjective he could think of, was "good". And so he said……………
“Good night!!!”

(It was a long walk back; he never realized why the Latina went inside and slammed the door.)

PS: Do leave a comment and do share a similar story in the comments section if u have one :-)))

Check out my latest post on my Tokyo life here

Losto in translationo (Part 1)

(Am onsite in Tokyo for some time..Here are some reflections from the first few days of being here. Typing this down from my PVC pipe sized Apt)

Even if I was twice as good as Sherlock Holmes himself who figured out the "Mystery of the Dancing figures" in a jiffy ; it is going to take me at least a decade in deciphering these weird little wiggly figures which they call "Japanese". Ok, I’m talking about the language here and not the people. Everyone seems to confuse the two. Like a friend who was asked "Did you try to pick up any Japanese?" He answered, "No way, I'm happily married” And added indignantly " btw neither did I try to pick up any Indians here!"

Well, it’s not just the humans; even the machines talk only Japanese here. The washing machine, the Microwave, TV, DVD Player, the Vending Machine and the recorded voice in the telephone line. A couple of times I managed to horrify people on my lack of manners by slamming shut the elevator doors on their noses coz I pushed the shut button instead of open. The squiggly figures for "Open" and "Shut" looked similar anyway.

Good news is you can make some Japanese words by adding an "u/o" sound after a familiar Engish word. Hence spoon becomes spoonu, glass is garassu, passport becomes passporto, and Bangalore becomes Bengalooru... (ok, the last one is not a particularly good example for Japanese translation)

Unfazed, I'm building my Japanese vocabulary here though some words are outright weird. For eg: can you imagine a language where you call your mom “Haha”? Just remember any sentimental Hindi movie scene and replace "Maa" with "Haha" then you might see the problem! You’ll be clutching your tummy and laughing! And for Dad? Its Chichi !!(ouch! Reminds me of yellow pants, multicolored shirt and awful David Dhawan movies) But I was somehow comforted by the word for 100,000 - it is something like "Jomon (Jumen)" and it sounded familiar enough to my mallu ears ;-)

The ubiquitous Indian techie is now in every city in the world and Tokyo is no exception. In the floor where I work, the Indians actually outnumber the Japanese 4 to 1. Even in the Serviced Apt Bldg where I stay, half the occupants are Indian techies. In fact in office the more serious language problem I face here is with Kannada rather than Japanese. The vegetarians amongst us have one mantra taught by those who came before them. Any place where it involves food say “ Sakana nashi, niku nashi” (no fish, no meat) even if you are ordering ice cream!! At the office cafeteria, now I find it difficult to order anything with fish or meat coz they automatically assume that a person with an Indian face can’t have any Sakana however much he begs and pleads for it.

People here work long. And long is an understatement. Some of them return from work only the next day. They even have a term “Karoshi” to describe death due to overwork. (Thank God we don’t have such problems in Kerala as any remote chances of these are countered using a local custom called "Hartals". Dunno the Japanese equivalent of that anyway. nobody seems to know :-)) And maybe because they do not know when they return from office , all seem to carry toothbrushes wherever they go. To the extent that, at 10:30 pm at night in an upscale lounge pub I saw a guy brushing his teeth!

People are generally helpful if you ask them for directions and will try their best with the limited English. Also it is a safe country with an extremely low crime rate. You see technology in action anywhere. The Electronic gadget supermarkets at Akihabara have shelves and shelves of ingenious gadgets. A USB vacuum cleaner for your Laptop? They have it. And quality is taken for granted so much that, even if you are buying an expensive gadget –say a laptop or camera – all you have to do is point at it and they just pack it. I hear that they get so insulted if you actually insist on testing something before buying that they may commit harakiri.

And then there are the local customs. Long ago when I was a kid I had taken a resolution that I wont bow to anyone’s pressure and would stand up to the right thing. But here I had to discard that resolution because bowing itself is the right thing!! The normal custom of bowing involves the pectoral muscles, and can be considered exercise equivalent to one-ab-crunch at the gym. So if you meet about 20 people a day, you will be reasonably fit. The hands posture taken while bowing is sometimes rather similar to that a defender takes while a free kick is being taken, but your head position should be like Zidane about to butt Materazzi.

People are friendly here but you should not over-estimate it. Like the time we were in a train, and at a station an old couple got in and sat on the opposite seat….They smiled and bowed deep. Touched by their friendliness towards such a ragtag group of Indians, I bowed too! They bowed again and I bowed even deeper. After the third bow, my friend nudged me and pointed to the platform behind me. There was another old couple bowing deep too. Unfortunately, they were bowing to the couple in the train and I just had been in the way!

I have gone back to my resolution of not bowing to anyone.

Check out this sample of Japanese TV fare -( not what the kids watch) and you may appreciate the Saas Bahu Serials a bit more . If you are in office better keep the volume low ;-)




(await more stories from here..this was just the tip of the iceberg.

Check out my latest post on my Tokyo life here

Mon Amie !!!!

Mallu bloggers have often posted on the beauty and variety of Mallu names. Of course, there is no other community who has got creative with names over the years.

If you studied in Kerala, Biju, Baiju, Saju, Soju, Fiju, Lijo, Jijo, Jojo, Mojo wouldve been half your classmates. And if you are non-Keralite -you'd still have met us nice guys from God's own Country - In all probablity the tech guy in the next cubicle with a thick moustache and a thicker accent would be called Jomon.

If you've known enough Keralites, you realize that Minimol has not been named such because of a particular small mole somewhere on her ; and Beenamol is not a statement on the previous career of a KGB infiltrator. Yes, Mol simply means daughter and Mon is son . So when a mother calls out to her son " Mone..." there is no reason she's invoking an French Impressionist painter with a first name Claude..

There's an unwritten code that you have to make sure the name has enough similar rhyming names ; or the non-rhyming one feels cut-off from the family tree. You cannot call the first one Bejoy; the second one Rejoy but the third one Avaraachan. Avaraachan would then be victim of apartheid within his family and the mental scars it leaves would make him do something tragic in life such as say, become a teetotaller or worse; go to work on a Hartal day !!

Parents faced with the creative task of naming their first born have to be really careful as if not; naming the second and third kid would be a nightmare- I know siblings by the names - Saajan, Maajan, Laajan and Vyaajan (ok, i didnt really catch the last one's name). And you might have a dyed-in-red-Communist Dad naming kids as Stalinmon, Leninmon and Mao Tse Tungmon (whew). And there have been cases in the 60's where a Mallu dad with a serious literary bend would call out to his fighting kids " Maupassant-mone (ok, thats pronounced as Mo-ppasang-mon) stop fighting with Kafkamon"

Ok, Why am I so masochistic?- i guess we Mallus are not alone in naming kids on a particular logic. Heard the one about the Sardarji in the army who decided to name his kids with Military titles?? Accordingly the first-born was Captain Singh, the second Colonel Singh but then..horrors ; the third was a girl !! He racked his brains till he could name her appropriately and then he knew what to do. Hospital records later showed that an "Armoured Kaur" was born there!!

All Mallu names are pretty harmless under most circumstances, but then let me come to the focal point of this entire post. ...You have to realize that sometimes there are quite unforeseen circumstances too where a name can be quite a problem!!

Having had to shuttle between 3 cities in the recent past- I store names in my mobile using a short place code. Hence Rohit in Gurgaon is stored as " Rohit Ggn" ; a friend Siddharth in London would be "Sid Ldn" and my wife in Bangalore would be stored as...well " Wife" ;-))

This works perfectly but then recently I was going thru my mobile phonebook when I froze!!!!

I furtively looked for any of the CCTV cameras which are said to monitor every move of Londoners and proceeded to Delete names on my phone.

Afterall, I commute here with a Haversack on my back and as as I'm often late ; i walk pretty fast. Now, that itself should be a reason enough for being shot by the London Cops but imagine a Cop shows restraint and decides to confirm my terrorist links by checking my mobile - maybe just to ensure that it is not some remote detonation device. He'll just take a cursory look at the names in the phonebook and confirm his suspicions about my Al-Queda links

I had an MBA batchmate named " Bini" who's now in London ; and accordingly i'd stored her name in my mobile as " Bini Ldn" !!!!

“ Brit – Cultural Learnings from the UK for Unsuspecting Software Engineers in Bangalore”

It was all a blur to me. I could just about see the shrouded figure in front of me and through the corner of my eye; I saw the Pakistani approaching; weapon in hand. I saw the glint of metal; disintegrating into thousands of reflections, right in front of me. ..

“Hill mat!!!” He commanded in his raspy voice; probably seeing me trying to turn my head. I did not dare…Probably I brought it upon myself, I kind of knew; I wasn’t going to look the same when he was through…
…………………………………………………………………………………………..

(This was of course my first Haircut in London; at the affordable shop at Brick Lane (Yeah, that’s the one made famous by Monica Ali’s book). And yeah, by the way it’s always a problem that once I take off my glasses I hardly can see my own outline, or what the barber is doing to my hair!)
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………


The first thing that a per-diem empowered IT guy does on landing in the UK is learn the multiplication tables of eighty. This essentially is necessitated by the realization that Indian Rupees are not all that valuable, once out of the country. And that one little innocuous British pound coin which looks like a 5 rupee coin is actually worth more than Eighty Indian Rupees…

If not pre-warned, you sense the power of exchange rate on the very first day while paying the cab fare from the airport Heathrow to your accommodation. “Eighty Five pounds!!!? That’s above Seven thousand rupees!! Back home one can pay a driver a salary, bonus and medical allowance for a couple of months with that sort of money” The Vovlo chasing Madivala autowallah who charges 30 bucks for 1.5 km in the morning doesn’t sound all that cut-throat suddenly.

Next day, you step out for lunch at the “cheap” Mc Donald’s. Now a Mc Donald’s value meal deceptively says £ 5.99 and looks cheap too till you apply the tables. “Five Hundred rupees for a damn burger???You can almost buy a 5 star buffet lunch at Leela Palace with that. Or one week of lunches at Shanti Sagar or a life time of lunches at the office cafeteria!!!

“But wait, there’s another meal for £2.75 and WOW YOU EVEN GET A FUN TOY along with it!!!! Maybe I’ll go for that.”

“Boss, that says Mc Donald’s Kids Meal. Maybe they don’t give it to you unless you are a kid, or have a kid”. ;-)

“Oh ok. I’m on a fast today!!”

And here’s more…Forty rupees for an SMS home, Six hundred rupees on train fare to a place thirty minutes away, Three times the price of a shirt if you prefer to get it ironed and guess how much for the haircut?

Any upmarket Central London hair salon would charge a guy at least £12 (nearly 1000 rupees) !!And if you are a non-metrosexual who hasn’t paid anything above forty bucks on a zimble haircut; that is sacrilege. (Ok, I’m talking to the guys here, not the weaker sex who’ll blow up a few hundreds on a haircut regardless of currency). That’s when you ask around and find places like the Pakistani Ali’s “Grace Hair Cut Saloon” in Brick lane with the same familiar shady look as a salon back home, with pictures of Sanjay Dutt, John Abraham and Hritik Roshan at the window.. There’s usually a line of hippie software engineers waiting there, whatever time you go. Well, the done thing among software guys coming here on projects is to come from India with the hairstyle of an Army cadet and don’t take a haircut here till you look like a member of a rock band. So when you sit in the line of people waiting, and look in the mirrors you get an idea how you would look being a part of a rock band. The barber skips the obvious while chatting you up – I mean the “Are you from India question” and directly goes to …"so you from Chennai?, no Bangalore?” You are overjoyed and pay £5 without grumbling; not bothering to remember that it’s still more than Four Hundred rupees!

Now on the entertainment options - (Warning : not all options are covered here, this being a family blog and more so because my wife reads my blog)

If you don’t get a place with Sky TV (i.e.: cable TV) you are stuck with 5 free channels on TV. The first one is BBC which exists solely for discussing whether the British Army should be in Iraq. This is what I call consistency- Three years ago when I was here; they were earnestly discussing the very same thing. Other channels are marginally better at times. However, sometimes things can get so boring if you don’t have Cable TV that once; for lack of choice; I spent an entire hour watching a pgm on the homing skills of pigeons!! Things are different if you have Sky. I actually moved to an apt with a friend mainly because they had Cable TV. And next day I was woken by the dreaded “Jhalak Dikhlaaajaaa” on B4U. Ah ! Am home! You also get Star Plus with the Saas Bahu Serials, Sony with its SMS-IN shows and so on! And that’s not all. There are millions of channels. You name it they have a channel for that – One for Wine, one for Teachers, one for Manchester United and what not ;-) Quite a lot music channels- good old Classic rock in VH1 Classic! And all those Comedies which you receive back home too. But…..guess what; there’s no trace of Cricket anywhere – I keep wondering how this place can call itself the birthplace of cricket. Champions Trophy was a “blink-and-you-miss-it” column in the papers. You have to pay about what the match-fixers pay the players just to get Sky Sports. There was a “Who wants to be a Millionaire” contestant who was asked for £ 64,000; “Which sport does Marcus Trescothick play?” He preferred to end the quiz there and walk away!!!

Movies cost a bomb to watch in Rupees terms; say quite a bit more than a PVR Gold class if you want to compare. Minus the complimentary popcorn and Pepsi. However, Bollywood is big here; the Dhoom2 poster covered half a wall outside the hall where I went to watch this new movie everyone’s talking about “Borat – Cultural Learnings from America to make benefit Glorious nation of Kazakhstan” (Don’t think it’ll be released in India without quite a few cuts- its an outrageous and often gross comedy which offends just about everyone!)

And now, a word about what you’re supposed to wear over here….

In the Investment Banking district of Central London, on the streets it’s a sea of black coats and jackets, you feel as though in the sets of Matrix. And inside office, the only right thing to wear is a dull white shirt with blue/ black trousers. Ok, even this is not the “Rin ki safedi “wallah white which gets people jobs and wives hugged. This is quite a dull variety of white which the guy in the ad would wear before the Rin magic worked. The more fashionable folks wear white shirts with light blue stripes or checks along with grey trousers. Once during my last trip I thought I’ll introduce London to Allen Solly’s Friday dressing and accordingly wore my bright orange shirt and beige trousers to office. Have to say I got the elevator pretty much to myself and an insight into how a Christmas tree feels like when all lit up! So, remember; if you are coming to the UK. Pack your bag with the dullest white shirts you ever had! And if ever you go clubbing – never go in the usual t-shirts and sneakers- They may not let you in- the right uniform is an un-inserted shirt, jeans and your most formal black shoes!!

And don’t think you can shop a lot for the entire village whilst you are here. Unlike the Yankee counterparts who load their check-in baggage with stuff from Wal-Mart, you don’t have too many cheap options here. Clothes are outrageously expensive in most of the swanky Shopping areas – except in one “oasis of low prices” which goes by the name Primark- where stuff is available for £6 - £7 which sounds friendly enough for the Exchange rate wizards. It’s easy to spot on a Saturday afternoon. You’ll just have to look out for a queue of Desi Software Engineers outside.

There are also Sunday markets which are quite fun – But not sure about the quality of products there. Last time I’d got a watch from one of these markets and presented it to Dad with a lot of fanfare. But within 3 months it went Kaput! Dad took it to an HMT showroom and they put in an HMT machine ; it still works – proving the adage” Phir bhi dil hai Hindustani!!!!” If you are not at Primark on a weekend, there is quite a lot to see here in London. Here's one truly cosmopolitan city with people who speak around 300 different languages trying to speak English in 500 different accents! And if you are in a train; you might notice that each face in the opposite row has a different hue. History, Culture, Art – Museums, Palaces, Art Galleries... This is the place for all these and a quizzer’s delight with many place names actually having contributed to the English Language. (I could write reams on this but I wonder if you’ll be interested ;-)) Entry is free in several museums but don’t think of buying the souvenirs if you love your wallet. It won’t look too good with a burnt hole in it. I swear on my per-diem !



(Ever had a funny experience coping with life onsite? Do write in the comments section...)

Harry and the Magic Broom

Often it happens that me, aspiring Business Consultant in Bangalore turns into a very bumbling baby-sitter once I reach home in Cochin. My sister’s kids ensure that I keep myself fit chasing them and retrieve the myriad toys which lie around the house. A wailing two-something once forced me to hunt for the yellow tennis-ball in the space below the staircase…
I didn’t find the tennis ball ……………but instead there it sat; like Zidane after the World cup Finals match; the erstwhile star of the household. Our old Eureka Forbes vacuum cleaner


I still remember the day when it came home one day 15 odd years ago....
The door opened revealing the Eureka Forbes Man. White shirt, blue trousers and ..."A striped TIE"!! I hadn’t seen anyone in a tie except in movies!!!! And there was a snazzy motorbike parked behind him in the yard
I’m "Harry" ! he said; (Wow! "Not Hari, nor Harish; but Harry! Pure Hollywood!!!) And he would be demonstrating to us "the vacuum cleaner" a new wonder gizmo deemed to render housemaids obsolete.
He unzipped his black bag and revealed the long white-and-red contraption with a crumpled looking tube. Also out came a couple more of other futuristic looking tubes with weird shaped nozzles and brushes in the end. The entire family stood open-mouth in rapt-attention. With steely determination, the man began assembling the entire device as confidently as Rambo assembling his bazooka.
"Where can I plug this in" he asked.. Reverentially we showed him the plug point.
Rambo was ready now. He lifted a socks clad foot to switch on the machine… A deft click and a helicopter-like-whirring sound filled the room. Our man got to work. He ran the brush at the end of the tube on the mosaic floor; on the walls; the window-sill, behind the curtains and carefully shaved the chin of the Kathakali figure on the wall. We stayed quiet; and even my chatterbox-sister didn’t dare to breathe lest it disturbed his concentration. Then, at the end of around 5 minutes he once again lifted his sock-clad foot.. Another deft click and the whirring stopped.
We were all looking at him expectantly…..
Our man seemed satisfied by the effort and asked us to gather around. And we did. He clicked another button and head-section open and the top section of the contraption sprang open.
He held the now opened device by the sides and lifted it as if it was the Holy Grail itself. He invited us to take a look inside it. Each of us looked in and …GASPED!! Never had I seen such a repository of filth in the world. A strategically placed paper bag inside the device held a hell lot of dust, cobwebs, bangle pieces and even a 50 paise coin which had rolled under the book shelf months back.
Jeez ! Were we living in the midst of such dirt and never even knew about it? Dad remarked that we were paying the maid for nothing and Mom couldn’t agree more. (I pocketed the coin in between the confusion).
Harry now launched into a soliloquy. He talked of how we home-dwellers were ignorant of the dirt that pervaded the house. Entire "Hum Aap Ke Hain Kaun" size joint families of germs and bacteria were staying at our home and we did not even realize it!
Suddenly he turned to my little sis and asked "Don’t you often get attacks of cold and have sniffling all the time?"
"No!!!" She answered looking bewildered.
"NO??????????, don’t lie, I heard you sniffle a couple of times; don’t you often catch a cold??? Tell me the truth!! He demanded"
My sis wilted under the pressure. "Yes, sometimes; I catch a cold!"
"See??" He exclaimed once again triumphantly. "The kids are getting diseases because of the dust and dirt in the house. Bacteria, Viruses, Amoebas!! And look at that book-shelf there. Its got termites and …"Silver Fish"
"Silverfish??" Now that sounded cool. I always wanted a Goldfish ; but I never realized we already had Silverfish at home. "Silverfish??" I asked expectantly. Dad mentioned the Malayalam equivalent of the name and it didn’t sound so glamorous anymore....
(Disclaimer Silverfish is not related to Silverine in any way).
He continued" These pasts and micro-organisms really affect everything; it even affects the brain cells of little boys. …
For example…"
He turned to me "What was the rank you got in the last School Onam Examination?" Now, that was below the belt.
I kept my head low.."I was 17th…. I think"
"Aaha!! There you have it" he exclaimed turning to Mom. If the house is kept free of bacteria you can expect him to be at least First every time.
That was the clincher!!! Mom would now lobby with Dad to buy the Vacuum Cleaner. Her colleagues were somehow all uniformly blessed with extremely bright and gifted progeny. This awesome set of child prodigies invariably scored obscenely high marks in everything especially Math... And their mothers apparently had no lunch time topic but the awe-inspiring academic adventures of these enfant terribles. Obviously my Mom had an embarrassing time. But now, she had the answer. It was those miserable set of micro-organisms inhabiting the household which was playing havoc with my Maths marks!
Which parents would like to toy with the future of their kids? What is mere 4,000 bucks compared to that? Luckily Harry had a voucher we could sign and he casually mentioned that vacuum cleaner prices were going up after the budget. It was now or never. Dad signed the voucher and wrote a cheque. Harry promised to deliver the Vacuum cleaner in a couple of days
Harry’s entire performance had been magical, years before his magical namesake.
"How much do you get paid?" Dad asked him in jest. "Would like to send him (he nodded at me) to your company for a job". That moment I would have been more than glad. Wear a tie, zip around on a motorbike…Man, I’d love that!! (Unlike most boys of my age, my ambitions were decidedly Yuppy-ish; I was never inclined to be a pilot nor fire-fighter! )
.
They delivered the machine as promised. By virtue of the divine authority bestowed on him on being the Head of the Family" ; Dad was the unanimous choice for operating it. Under our watchful eyes, he assembled the device almost as confidently just as Harry did and plugged it in.
We held our breath as he switched it on. This was the moment of truth! And then….…the whirring started! Dad looked relieved. He vacuumed the Living Room and as was to become the ritual; we all gathered around to open the cover and look at the paper bag inside………And it never disappointed. There was the expected collection of dirt and dust; to which we said "uggghhhh" in unision.
I caught the "Vacuuming Bug" soon. From Disappear-from-home-at-the-mention-of-housework-boy; I metamorphosed into a Enthusiastic-Vacuumizer boy. I vacuumed my room with devotion. The shelf, under the bed and dirty sneakers. I even used the nozzle to give a nose job to the Michael Jackson poster (we didn’t have too many idolize-able icons those days, you see). I fought with my sis to vacuum the dining room. We’d gleefully scoop up broken bits of glass with the nozzle and sometimes even oops, knock down a glass so that we could suck it up with a vacuum cleaner!
"Hasta-la-vista baby" I 'd tell a spider scurrying from his erstwhile "webite" before it got sucked into the vacuum cleaner nozzle.
This device was just too awesome! We were debating whether to give the pink slip to the maid-servant but Mom was sensible enough to retain her and just alter her Job Description to cooking. Afterall; the vacuum cleaner could do almost anything but cook! We even once used its blower function and paint to create abstract paintings. We cut those up and sent them to people as Christmas cards
Despite all those ways in which the vacuum cleaner revolutionized our household, somewhere down the line; things changed. I noticed that my sister didn’t fight with me anymore to vacuum the dining room. She was becoming increasingly magnanimous in that aspect (which was quite unlike her). The lack of competition made the task of vacuuming rather unchallenging.
Sensing the shortage and lack of enthusiasm of volunteers, Mom now devised a routine where one of us vacuums the room and the maid wipes the floor later. Giving the maid the Vacuum cleaner for operation would have been unthinkable earlier; but later for want of volunteers- she was entrusted the device with detailed instructions for use. Well, she had however not been convinced about the benefits of technology as she had missed Harry’s spiel. Hence she still preferred her trustworthy broom (a Nimbus 2000 if I remember right; or was it a Firebolt? ;-) ) and used to leave the vacuum cleaner in the corridor.
After a couple of incidents where people tripped over the vacuum cleaner in the corridor ; mom took the contraption; zipped it up in the bag it came in & put it in the space below the stairs to be used only once a month.This became once in a couple of months soon and later - once in half an year.And there it sits -dusty dirty and forgotten.Guess it still works though. But you have to dust it with a broom first before touching it :-)

"Weight"er Rants

Time stands still………every moment that I am with you !
Time stands still …………when I look into your dark brown eyes !
……….And time definitely stands still ......when I’m on the damn treadmill trying to shed those extra pounds !!!
The indicator shows that I’ve been running for 2 min 45 secs before i look away ; after an eternity of huffing and puffing I look at it again .....and still it only shows 2 min 49 secs! Would you believe it ?
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I’ve been at this for a few days now ! Ok, there’s a wedding* around the corner ;-) and I’m supposed to look my best ; which unfortunately spells THIN !!
So every morning; at the break of dawn (ok make it the break of dawn in….say Europe ;-)) coz its usually 9:00 am by the time I wake ) I haul myself to the gym and try the torturous work-out routine. (It helps that I’ve an afternoon shift at work)
The first day I went, I discovered that the gym was on the second floor. I climbed up all the way (huff-puff) ; and decided that it was enough for the day and went home!!!After about a month; once again ego been hurt from the weight barbs I went for my second day of gymming. Been trying to be regular since that……………
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I get down from the tread mill and decide to do a few ab crunches…I think to myself that that I’ve to do at least 100 crunches a day to regain those flat abs "slightly" rounded off by beer through all these years..
So I start at it gritting my teeth .. Nnnggggggffffhhh. up ; hold! whooooosh; huffff Slam down! Again nggggggffffhhh up!! Schwarznegger stares down condescendingly at me from the wall … (This guy's poster is a part of standard statutory equipment for all gyms in the world) "Well boss" I mentally tell him " I don’t mean competition here; I don’t exactly want to be the Governor Of California ; but maybe just slim enough to avoid the jubilant declaration of the relatives as they see me" Hey, see how much weight he has put on??"
Terminator is flanked by Stallone and he reminds me of the steely determination of Rocky and the way he goes about his training .Steely determination!!!!Thats what I’d need..
I suddenly think nothing could be as inspiring as listening to "Eye of The Tiger" (Rocky Theme) right away. I could picturize myself as Rocky Balboa sprinting up the hills and throwing 500 kg punches at the punching bag; if only I could just listen to it
But what do I have here?
Ladka badaa anjaana hai, (the speakers blare at frequency 91 FM)
I go nggggggffffhhh. up….
Sapna hai sach hai fasaana hai,
whooooosh; huffff slam down
A haa yeh pagla
Nggggggffffhhh. up….
Bilkul naa badlaa
Whooooosh; huffff , slam down and I decide that I cant get up anymore !!
From that relaxed position I decide to observe the folks around me….you can be discreet watching people if you have a wall mirror which reflects everyone around. At 10 am in the morning; the gym is not too crowded and it’s the usual suspects forming the motley group.
Well, as expected there’s that dude who works out for 5 minutes and spends the next half an hour flexing his non-existent muscles; making faces at the mirror and simultaneously parting his hair different ways. And there’s the regular bored-housewives-club of 3 who all lie down on the exercise mats grabbing that frame thingies used for situps and then mostly gossip about their mother-in-laws. (They’re also my sworn enemies who do not tolerate any change of music from the Bollywood soft romantic ones which suit their exercise routine but not mine…) And the rather horizontally challenged aunty who hogs the treadmill but does not look like she’ll be losing a milligram to show for her efforts. Not even if she’s at it for a 100 years. I've to learn determination from her! And there’s the bespectacled software guy who only does one exercise- lifts at the Lift machine; no particular reason for the affinity for it apart from the fact that it is the best spot to watch TV from.
And of course, like in every gym in the world there are the couple of gym rats (as in mall rats) ; the real musclebound studs who think they own the gym, who take turns admiring their own and then their buddies’ biceps and then walk around as if they’ve got tennis balls under their armpits!
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I do a few more crunches and then collapse again in agony. I start my thinking process again. If they can call handicapped people "Differently able" cant they call "not-so-well-built" people as "Differently muscled" ??
(That’s a comforting thought; but how do I propagate this wonderful idea?)
I decide to do a few pull ups..I stand on the platform to grab the horizontal bar 9ft from ground and kick away the stool like a desperado about to hang himself. I manage 15 pull ups at one go; not bad at all- enough for the day.Took one more look at the medieval torture instruments around which pass as gym gear.
Must be getting there; I think as I step on the weighing machine. I mentally command the needle to stay in the 70s. (Note: Set low targets to avoid disappointment)
Thought of a good retort to my friend who exclaims every time he meets me
"Man !!!! you’ve put on weight!!"
"Yeah boss" I’d say "Didn’t you know??In my next movie I’m supposed to play a slightly overweight stressed out executive. I ‘m working towards looking the part"
Or as my cousin replies to the same question "You know ; you’ve to build up mass to build up muscle.i’ve almost completed building up mass. Once thru’ I’ll start building up muscle"
Not bad, eh??
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Note: * Wedding- Yeah its mine and its next month :-))! Read all about how it happened, in my my next post "Bloggi Vedi Vici". I know its been lots of time since I’ve blogged. Lots of developments have happened since my last post which i guess was quite a long time ago. One, which led to the wedding mentioned above ;-) Also won a Ford Ikon in the Brand Equity Quiz and became a mini celebrity. And last but not the least; i am moving to a new job . Quite eventful time, you could say..
Hope to post more frequently! Keep visiting and do leave ur comments

"Phoney" Tales

I was absolutely aghast !!

From 800 odd I was way down to 55 ! The sales guy at the counter had the countenance of a Buddha which countered my rising Blood Pressure.“I’m very sorry sir , but your phonebook cannot be retrieved”The elation at owning a Sleek Black Motorazr V3 evaporated at that very moment. I had lost all the phone numbers in my mobile and without backup. Now that feels like a Van Damme kick in the solar plexus. Last time I remember a similar feeling when after I had built castles in the air about buying a car/ flat/ (no harm in dreaming,eh?) with the bonus due in a few weeks;; but when I counted the zeros in the slip I realized that it might just about pay the Electricity billTransferring phone numbers from an old phone to a new one is an easy enough procedure.

(Ok this sounds like that puzzle with 2 jars of 7 litre & 9 litre capacity which has to be filled using a bucket of 1 litre capacity)

Take an old phone with 800 odd numbers capacity ; and a new one of similar capacity; but what you use is a SIM Card of 150 phone numbers capacity.

Step 1. Copy as much data in the old phone onto the SIM card.
Step 2: Copy verything on the SIM onto the new phone.
Step 3: Erase the SIM card of all data to accommodate more numbers rom the old phone.
Step 4: Insert the empty SIM once again into the old phone and all the remaining phone numbers are copied.
Step 5: Repeat as any times depending on the popularity of the phone owner (ahem) which translates itself to the number of contact numbers in the phone.
Step 6: All numbers are now in the new phone- Fully loaded and ready to flaunt

What could possible go wrong?EVERYTHING!!! As per Murphy’s Law.It happened after stage 5 when all the numbers had been moved to the new phone and those in the old phone were deleted to keep track………………The new phone simply did not switch on!!The Sales guy tried charging the mobile but as we know artificial respiration does not always work in certain cases."Sorry sir, the chip is corrupted. The data is all gone !!" I think I have a ray of hope” Thank God I have all the numbers in the SIM …”Quite callously he pricked that hope balloon too “Sorry sir,your SIM has just some 55 numbers ; Your old phone had some 800.Sorry, but I’ve deleted all those from it, hehehe”

“Hehehe???“, i was goin grrrr........ rather

I was given a new handset which switched on and the SIM was inserted. I scrolled thru the phonebook and tried to find who was missing. Family, friends? None of the names came up …Once I had lost my Office Identity card and had faced a severe identity crisis. But this was worse.Suddenly felt so cut-off from the world. And didn’t really know who were the few who were there. Sometimes you have too generic first names like Rajesh, Arun, Praveen, Anju, Manju etc and do not recall who exactly it is in a phonebook unless you add some specification. (apologies to all Rajeshs, Aruns, Praveens, Anjus & Manjus I know)

I tried to think logically…(well that’s something like Sehwag trying to play defensive) Who were these 800 odd people I knew? Or was it something like 200 people with 3 numbers each? Still doesn’t add up!The judgemental side of my personality was laughing at my predicament all the time “Serves you right for having all phone numbers on the mobile and not taking a backup. So many times you had the chance to write it all down ; but did you??? Lazy %#$%# !!! You thought you could always scroll and call, scroll n call….Dont remember even the numbers you call everyday, do you? And after everything that has happened to your friends who rely on the scroll mechanism, you still didn't learn, did you? I remembered what he was referring to ...“
I remembered the lazy Saturday morning long ago in Mumbai when my pal V dialed the nearby Udupi hotel Landmark. (Yeah in Mumbai you can dial and home deliver anything- even Breakfast!! )And of course as it happened in such stories he dialed “Landlord “ instead of Landmark .

The conversation went such …Landlord: “HelloMy pal V: “Haan, Do Masala dosa, ek Onion Uthappam; ek Vada aur ek Chikkoo Milkshake”Landlord: “Hello, Yeh kaun baat kar rahe hai?”My pal V: “Haa likh le , 43, Sindhuvadi , Ghatkoper (West) se baat kar rahaa hoon ,Kyaa pin code bhi chahiye kyaa??? Last time jaise late kiya to paisa nahi degaa !!”As the landlord stayed in the first floor of the same building V’s ; he also happened to have the same address !!Landlord: (Angry n irritated ) Haa yeh MERA address hai, aap kaun ???My pal V (also irritated): Kaun matlab?? aap order likhaa ki nahin??After a very pregnant pause ; realization struck like the thunderbolt on Harry Potter’s forehead !!!

“Chal jaane de, mein apne aap khaana banaa letaa hoon!! “ He stammered and hung up………

Guess the landlord might have figured out the culprit; he had been having suspicions about V for some time. When another pal N opened the door and walked into the house after a haircut; V exclaimed loudly“Arre !!! baal kaat ke bahut sexy ho ke aa rahe ho?“and at the same time saw the landlord’s wife behind just climbing the stairs returning from the beauty parlour and giving him quite a glare..Well,at least he was still better off than another pal Amit who was hosting an extended home party. The booze ran out even when the revellers were just getting into the groove. Amit claimed to have the situation under control. “I’ll home deliver some more booze” (once again does it happen anywhere else but in Mumbai.that you can homedeliver booze at 11pm)

He dialled Balaji Wines ……………..

Wineshop owner: “ Haan Amit ?Amit (After a few drinks he didn’t realize the impossibility of the

Wineshopwallah knowing his name) : Half bottle RC, one Kingfisher Strong, one Fosters ….

Wineshop owner:: Yeah Amit, seems like you are having a good time. But this is BALAJI !!! Good night and have a nice weekend ..(Hangs up the phone)

Our man was appalled at the lack of customer service ; but was rather surprised at the excellent English spoken by the Wineshop owner. He checked the number once again...and froze as all the effects of booze drained out of his system !!!

He had reached his very teetotaller BOSS "Balaji Venketachalam" on his mobile (with caller id of course)!!!He had the number stored as “Balaji” and the Wine shop was “Balaji Wines“

Of course Amit did nt stick around in the same company till the next appraisal cycle and always ensured he worked for bosses who did not sound like Wineshops !!Guess i've digressed too much from the topic. Well update is that i've mailed all the friends and those relatives of mine who have heard of email. I have rebuilt most of my phonebook from scratch. I'm determined to have a phonebook backup this time; mebbe will get one of those pen drivesLike my US returned cousin confesses to me ; "I just feel like sueing someone but don’t know who!!!!"Can I sue Motorola for the phone which effectively shredded my phonebook? Can I sue the sales guy who did the transfer exercise? Should I sue Garuda Mall for housing the shop?Or should i sue myself for not having a phonebook backup?Let me know at flaashgordon@gmail.com. Also incase you know me and you are wondering why i'm not calling you ; please do mail at the above id..

Now here is something i always hoped i will be able to say one day and that is “And a Merry Christmas to All my Readers“ !!

(Update : Have copied all the numbers in my phone to my PC. Feeling so tech-savvy now. Thank God for technology!!Hope my PC doesnt crash and i lose my phone at the same time!)

Blue-n-white-Dynamite !!

After procrastinating for almost an year, one Saturday morning I woke up and got around to folding and rearranging the scattered bundles of clothes in my wardrobe shelf. There they were… Old faded t-shirts, Shirts with frayed collars, jeans from the college days that don’t fit anymore but waiting in a futile hope that someday I ‘ll be able to get into them again (and be able to get out too ;-)) I philosophized that rummaging through old clothes can be quite akin to looking thru an old photo album. A faded B-School t-shirt, triggered the avalanche of the B-School memories. I couldn’t give it away to the kacchrawallah coz it might dilute the brand equity of my institute. (Once in B-school someone had donated a similar T-shirt to the vada pav guy outside the college and he used to wear it proudly and regularly. I hear that many potential juniors were scared away by the placement prospects of the institute seeing an "alumni" gainfully employed in the Hospitality industry. I also heard that they all then went and joined IIPM where he was probably from ;-))))

As I rummaged further I found a single widowed black glove; a remnant of my first UK trip. And I remembered using it to hold a chilled beer can in chillier weather . I could’ve donated it to Michael Jackson if it was white heheh!! Was smiling to myself at the thought when I saw something else ….And froze!

There it was. Blue with Checks. My dreaded unlucky shirt!

Fla(a)shback!

Mumbai, May 2001 Fresh out of B school with dreams of setting the corporate world on fire I’d just joined my first job. And had instead found out that it’s just “a part" of me which was perpetually on fire and that any attempted arson of the corporate world would have to wait a few years…

Most of my Management training was now utilized in doing a Cost-Benefit Analysis on various means of reaching office For example I could take a rick all the way which would work quite expensive on a daily basis, bus-rick-bus routine was cheaper but took a longer time, else could take bus-bus which would be the cheapest option but it was such a pain and take an eternity!

And so reluctantly I thought of resurrecting my partially camouflaged mo’bike (camouflage was due to the dust cover which helped it blend into the surroundings). Were it Cochin my bike would have been the primary logical option for going from point A to B. But not so in in Mumbai…at least not for me.The bike was often the last option to be resorted to unless its for the short distances. Cops were at every turn and my KL registered bike somehow acted like a magnet for them. But that day I thought I’ll risk it.

And that was the first time I put on my Shoppers Stop-fresh new blue check shirt……….

The rain gods were probably waiting for me to get out that they could have me in their crosshairs. I was ambushed by the unseasonal rain which had me drenched in a matter of few seconds. In a few moments the road was left slushy and slippery. Couldn’t see anything thru my glasses anymore and I was debating speeding up to reach office sooner or do the un-macho thing of taking shelter at a shop. A truck in front stopped suddenly so I braked too just avoiding a pothole..

Skidddddddddd…My bike went sliding ! Without any explanation whatsoever! My face hit the divider and my legs got pinned under the bike. I slowly got up dazed and tried to assess the damage. A cut in the side of my mouth and a few painful bruises on my knees and elbows. I counted my teeth and found to my satisfaction that the numbers matched prior data. The bike had its neck turned and was looking at me accusingly at a ghastly angle. And on the blue checks pattern of my shirt there appeared a red streak of blood….

There was a Clinic right there on the side of the road and an attendant was right there to help…He led me into the clinic where I wondered whether they had planted the pothole there as a strategy for Business Development...

A few stitches on my face (a large strip of bandage prompting queries such as………."Hey wot happened to your face? Lovebite eh?Heheheh" and spending a fortune on repairing the bike later I was back at work in a couple of days. It was some time before I got back my shirt tho’…

Mumbai, June 2001: I wore my shirt to office the day it came back from the drycleaners. That was an unforgettable day in my fledging career. The day when the hitherto cordial rapport with my manager soured beyond repair. A mistake in one of the manual processes snowballed into a major issue which kept on getting escalated. And as I learnt; a B-School fresh executive is always a convenient scapegoat. So the Manager blamed it on me . Well, they do say Geminians can’t ever take the blame for anything. And I pointed out the inherent deficiencies of the entire process. Wrong strategy! And I thought that the corporate world wouldn’t be resistant to amazing path-breaking new ideas. Maybe I suggested them at an inopportune moment. When I came out of the conference room discussing the issue I could foresee that my appraisal form was not to be a very pleasant to look at. Of course unlike in the medieval times where differences are sort out by a duel of swords; in the corporate world it is in the confines of conference rooms during the appraisal season.

Soon I saw a scary trend emerging. Something nasty would happen whenever I wore the shirt. Something used to go wrong. This could be no coincidence. My rational mind could never accept a link between those curious incidents and the shirt but fact remained that it was a common factor.

Cochin, December 2001: It was supposed to be a reunion we were all waiting for. Meeting of my once inseparable college gang. "The Archies" (maybe I’ll write more about the characters in another post) Well I hated the name"The Archies"as all the better characters were already taken and I was the not- so- glamorous Dilton. It didn’t help that I sported black-rimmed glasses in those days!

I was on leave for a few days in Cochin. Hadn’t taken my entire wardrobe home and as someone had recently said that the shirt looked good on me I just had to be seen in it.

Somehow this didn’t work out as planned. Big Ethel had relatives along, Betty had not turned up, Jughead contacted Archie and did not exactly give the right information about the meeting place. Only Reggie was mobile-enabled and I was the only Management Graduate with enough professional training to manage the scenario. But one management grad did not suffice. A miscommunication resulted in one of us waiting at a spot for an hour and stormed off after the same. The much awaited re-union turned into a major fiasco……

Delhi, April 2004: The US Embassy! The hallowed portals where an approval stamp would make or break a life. And that’s where I was on the 12^th of the month. Technically it was the first day of my new job in India’s Silicon Valley. But the project involving a Process Migration, I was to go to New York and I was there at the Delhi US Embassy for the same.

That morning in Bangalore I had been in a dilemma. Half my stuff had not arrived from my hitherto abode Mumbai and I was to travel by the morning to Delhi for the Visa. I couldn’t find a clean/ironed shirt to wear except for.. u guessed it …a bit faded but still looking good. Mr. Blue-and-White checks.

Now none from my organization ever had an issue with the US Visa. The brand name was considered good enough. I debated wearing a crumpled Tshirt or my unlucky shirt. My rational side took over. ….I buttoned on my blue-n-white..

…………………………………………………………………………………………

The Visa officer looked grave

"So you are going to New York for training. How long have you been with this company?"

"Well, uhhh I joined on 12 April "

"That is today !!!! You joined today?? How can you try for a visa when you haven’t worked with this company for even 4 hours?"

Before my shocked eyes he stamped my passport. "Rejected"

" But..uhhhh excuse me, we are to be trained in NY "

"Sorry, I’m not here to negotiate…next please"

Went back and mailed the friends in Yankee land that all plans for the reunion at Miami Beach will have to be shelved for the time being. And for one last time the shirt was laundered, neatly ironed and permanently confined to the dark recesses of my wardrobe……..It never saw the light of day again

Epilogue: I finished restacking the clothes-shelf. Had packed a few shirts and t-shirts still in good condition in a separate polythene cover. Presented it to the guy who washes all the cars in the neighborhood. He looked especially pleased about a certain-blue-checks-shirt among them which looked to be good condition. ….

Wot happened to him? Well as far as I know his business is booming as he does a good job. Nothing particularly seems to bother him

Superstitious? who me? …noway !!

Pot-Boiler

And so I stood there inspecting the carnage ; the knife in my hand was conspicuously dripping red. I could see my fingerprints all over the handle........
It was too late now!! Not that I had wanted to do it , but the deed had to be done. There were noises from the next room; howls of pain, of horror and absolute disgust...I called out but there was no reply…. Perhaps my feeble voice was drowned out by sources more powerful!! I could not just let it be. Had to do something about it. And so I went over there; knife in hand…
I saw him down there. He half turned around; as I came up behind him.He saw the knife in my hand. Tears streamed down his face as he looked up at me.…………………………………………………!!


And so I asked my roomie " Bugger, I’m done cutting the tomatoes; have u done the onions???
" Yeah, just through" he handed over the plate of cut onions. He then took another swig of the beer and offered it to me.
" Doesn’t look like Arsenal will win this one; can you believe Henry missed so many clear chances........."
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Well, people- sorry for the anti-climax ; this was a Sunday evening scene 3 years after had I started working and moved out of the hostel. It had been a long journey till then…. And since then too..
In the hostel (read about it in my previous post http://o3.indiatimes.com/jonagil/archive/2005/04/22/102554.aspx ) there was no need to cook or rather it was like no opportunity to light a fire- let it be for food, cigarettes or arson-it was a grave crime leading to expulsion. Stoves were banned and though they say you can fry an egg using the back of an electric iron ; I didn’t want to try that and later walk around wearing clothes that smelled like scrambled eggs. Especially in a Gujju college ! Anyway all good things come to an end; my MBA got over and I had to move out of the hostel and look for alternate accommodation..
Took a flat in Kandivli with a first set of roomies who were not too proficient in cooking. One had his fiancée staying nearby and hence would return every night only after dinner. The other was an "incomplete evolution" Neanderthal who did not believe in cooking particularly. He would have happily have uncooked bacon or raw eggs straight out of the refrigerator. Some mornings when he actually decided to try toasting bread I used to wake up dreaming that I was a Jew in Auschwitz and just got herded into the gas chamber.
Later on, I moved to another flat where I had a roomie who was a Hotel Management graduate. The best thing about him was that if persuaded with Scotch and some Pink Floyd he would even make excellent gourmet Chicken-au-gratin. Anyway once a lucky girl hooked this cook (don’t know whether he cooks still) ; he moved out and I was robbed of both a roommate and cook….
And so I moved to another flat in Borivli this time with a mallu pal. And so Mumbai being the melting pot of cultures I decided to get a melting pot (or rather a frying pan) myself. And a gas stove, with the necessary utensils…
I wanted to try rice-my staple food; so got a cooker; after the first few attempts where either I had to have teeth-challenging go-natural semi-cooked rice and some other times when the maid had to scrape the burnt remnants of what was rice off the cooker- I learnt to make rice which looked smelled and tasted edible.
That was just the beginning. Soon I could make everything. Well let me clarify I could make anything with tomatoes n onions. For me it was simple- Take any of eggs, fish, prawns, (mom used to send by courier these 2 in pickled format) or even cauliflower (well I liked cauliflower but I had to first butcher it into pieces. The sheer cruelty of it made me stay non-veg :-))). Put it into the pan with with tomatoes n onions. Add some chill powder n go easy on salt because if you add too much you cant do anything about it but the reverse is compensate-able. If the resultant concoction becomes too spicy, just add ketchup; if its bland, have another drink to numb your senses! I tried it on myself and my roomie too. You would be wondering what happened to him. He survived it !!! And lives to this day with most faculties intact. And guess what? He even blogs!
Armed with this confidence of being able to cook I went to London on a project. Where I found cooking an entirely different ball game…. For starters there was this wierd microwave oven, which I couldn’t quite comprehend. And the damn contraption did not come with a manual. A friend once put a raw egg inside the microwave expecting a boiled egg in 2 minutes. Accordingly; she took out the egg after 5 min and was admiring it in her hand when BANG! It exploded!!!! All over her face! Absolutely inexplicably! I gave theories like maybe the supermarket had stocked dinosaur eggs from Jurassic times or maybe Harry Potter had pointed a wand and charmed it with an "Ovum Explodum" egg-exploding hex on it. Her friends told her that it improved her complexion considerably; (now all of you female readers please don’t try this at home) she was reported to be completely off anything involving eggs for a few months after this….
Wary of microwaves I decided to try some cooking on the cooking range which had a heating element instead of fire.. After some investigation I figured out which was on and which was off. And once it turned red it meant you could heat food on it. So one evening I put something on the stove and went over to the living room with a beer in hand contemplating on the wide variety of TV shows we were deprived of back home.. And then an eerie noise filled the apartment- something which sounded like a hovering flying saucer or like Godzilla in pain. In a few seconds I heard a knock on the door amidst the din. I opened the door slowly expecting to find a little green martian. Instead there stood the apartment caretaker who informed me not too kindly that my smoke detector (which was not quite calibrated to account for Indian Cooking) had triggered off the fire alarm and woke up the apartment complex. Thank god it was not nowadays. I would have instead stared into a team of London Police Squad who would have proceeded to shoot me rightaway without further ado for being a suspected bomber. Anyway after this unfortunate incident , when anyone of us started cooking it was mandatory to have someone tall, cupping the smoke detector through out the process.and to have all the windows open even if all were freezing inside.
Thankfully in Bangalore life is much simpler; God’s own cuisine from God’s own country is so widely available that my cooking exploits are not many or too frequent…Maybe the neighbors are destined to be lucky or maybe I was just a flaash in the pan!
Bon Appetit!
(Hope you liked this one. Am still managing just one post a month..Trying to do better than that. Anyway do leave a comment and mail in if you'd like any of my recipes at flaashgordon@gmail.com . Also put in a note if u'd like me to notify you when i have a new post
btw Was inspired by Silverine's post “ “ Teaching a guy to cook...