Word Sketches

And as the world says 'Happy New Year'

2012-01-02T12:33:00.000Z

And as the world says 'Happy New Year' to each other...our facebook, twitter and every other social networking page is spammed with similar sounding wishes - some cleverly worded, others reading like its been lifted off a Hallmark card - its time for another ritual..

What do I resolve to do in 2012? I had written a similar post in 2011 too...Last year's post was a tad filmi...Guess that must be because I was home alone in frozen Brighton with little for company than movies...This year, back in India smothered by invites to bring in the New Year with friends, I felt much cherished..wanted and appreciated.

So the year started well...As usual, my parents wanted it to be the most smashing year to date in our lives - my sisters and mine and in a way theirs too, for we bask in the glory of our loved ones, don't we? And post script - they said once the wishes were over, it would be great if you gave (un)holy matrimony some good consideration too...That's the big bold point on their 2012 agenda..

Ok, let's not deviate, back to the point..So what's on my list..someone on my facebook list wished his friends saying "I hope your troubles this year lasts as long as your resolutions". Wonder why resolutions are much maligned and deemed as those that need not be adhered to. Not sure whether it is symptomatic of behavioural OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, for those wondering) but having goals and deadlines and feeling them whoooosh by me gives me a weird thrill, just like how in school I was one of those nerds, who got an adrenaline rush as I read my exam question papers even if the answers didn't live up to the implied brilliance in the former! But I digress again...

So considering 2012 is going to be my 33rd year on the planet, I have decided it is time to get my Bucket List out of the mothballs - youth and the feeling of having a lot of time to get to the boxes on the whimsical list earlier is what got it into mothballs in the first place. For those, who haven't made their yet, follow the link I have pasted into the Bucket List and you can go add some of yours to the thousands who have done just that before you..

So On Journomuse's Bucket List:

1. I want to add at least three countries to the fifteen I have been to so far. If I can push that figure to five, then that will be a performance that exceeds all expectations.

2. I want the motivation and will to write at least three chapters of a book that has so far been hatched only in the head - it isn't like a book that is already taking shape secretly on my laptop. As of now, it only exists in shared conversations between my friends and I. Not a word has been committed anywhere to this project.

3. I want to devote at least ten hours to something that is selfless - something where I am a nameless, faceless individual making a tiny ripple in a massive ocean called good samaritan. If we need our society to be pretty, we need to pretty ourselves up too, not just learn about what is true beauty.

From a ten-point list, I have brought it down to a few 'realisable' wishes. I do not want my Resolutions 2012 to be as short or short-lived as my troubles. In fact, I want them to haunt me through the year, whoosh around me, torment me enough to force me to do it.

And as the world says 'Happy New Year' in numerous styles and ways, I say, create your bucket-list, live a little, love a lot and let's make this world a better place to live in, shall we?

Much love,

Tackling An Assault - Physical,Verbal or Emotional

2011-12-16T09:35:00.000Z

Being born a woman in India has its own fabulous set of advantages - but when have we ever harped on the advantages when you can whinge about the disadvantages?

I fancy myself as fiercely independent and capable of taking care of myself. But years of being told that as a woman, I need to be more wary than were I a boy has somewhere left its tell-tale marks on my psyche. It isn't debilitating, but there is a niggle when you find yourself in unknown territory - somewhere at the back of my head a feeling of inadequacy I'm not a man.

Maybe it's a sum-total of our lives- my small-city upbringing ( You can't call Kochi small town, can you?) dictated that I was home before 7, dress codes of what could be worn and what shouldn't even be attempted was unspoken ( can you imagine that in the late 90s, very few girls in my class wore sleeveless kurtas while taking the bus to college, and jeans was like an occasional indulgence with oversized shirts borrowed from our brothers), I wasn't seen loitering anywhere near the male-dominated watering holes of the city ( Point to be noted - its only recently that lounges and pubs have appeared, long after I left the city. Till then all that existed where those multi-coloured, garish bars that you wouldn't even turn and look at), went for movies even with family early enough to be back home by 8.30!

So what was the lesson inherent in all this? Its a big bad world out there, you have to take care of yourself when alone and be inconspicuous and part of a group when with family so as to not draw unwarranted attention to yourself. Why? Because you could never trust the intentions of the unseen man out there - he has not been told to fence his thoughts and intentions to women of his circle - just about anyone is fair game. Our ideas of morality and permissibility came circumscribed - there was even an unspoken code on which men from the family qualified as safe escorts on evenings out.

That was about growing up, When I moved out of Kochi, first to study and then due to work, I realised that the big bad world my parents protected my life from was in fact, more sly in unseen ways.

The smiling stranger who was your colleague could turn out to be your stalker as my friend found out - for over sixteen years, she has been at the butt of his stalking - messages, marriage proposals, threats, dirty innuendos - you name it, she has seen it all. The landlord who takes unholy interest in the comings and goings into your apartment by asking neighbours to 'keep an eye out'. The anonymous 'well-wisher' that my cousin has is a compulsive mailer, the spouse, the boss and family and even a few of the family members are on the receiving end of messages that 'reveal' how promotions have been achieved so fast, so high, while leaving hardworking people like the 'wellwisher' on the fringes, unappreciated and unseen.

Every day seems to require you to wear a mantle and a shining armour - the armour shined not your specification but that of the society around you. Why do we have to constantly present certificates of being good and therefore warrant immunity from having to live a life strictly curtailed so as to avoid these kind of harassment? How can others get away with passing random judgements and enjoy the salacious thrill of malicious gossip sticking on to our personas like pesky post-its?

We speak of equality, but mentally we need to be treated as equals - you throw mud, I throw a mountain back at you. Beware! And there are thousands out there. Strangely, I think my generation (in the Indian context) is at the cusp of once-restricted always unsure upbringing and an all-permitted, no holds barred adulthood.

What it leaves in its wake is a duality - of existence, thought and action. I want to rise above it, be able to debate why things are the way they are and how to tackle issues that are not of my creation nor my responsibility. How can I be held culpable?

An Abandoned Blog: Wanderings, Musings

2011-12-12T17:02:00.000Z

It is not that I have nothing to write anymore...I got lost in finding what I wanted to do, but forgot that unless you kept your online journal, inspiration does not fall like a coconut on your head ( Newton was lucky..and thank god, it was an apple!)

In Kerala, the state I am from, there are no apple orchards, we have coconut groves. If I were to sit under the dubious shade provided by one of them and wracked my brains, I'd possibly end up with a concussion and no Inspiration..Ok, on that rather dumb PJ-ish word sketch..here is a quick update..

The blog has moved from the picturesque locales of Brighton, UK to the whiney hustle and bustle of Mumbai..Why whiney? Because I'm two years older than I was when I last fantasised about the warmth and the flavours of India while I braved my first snow and winter in the UK. Now that I'm back to sweaty, earthy home turf - the charm of nostalgia has palled considerably.

My blogging community is also likely to have altered completely. I'm not sure who reads me anymore, though I see a lot of activity on my visitor's pages. Do give a shout out, if you are there and reading this...We need to familiarise ourselves with each other over again..

Regular musings and postings will follow...haven't decided what the nature of the posts will be..But I don't like working on multiple drafts before posting on the journal...

So its going to be an impromptu ride! Saddle on, my cycle is rickety and the journey will be long, but let's have fun..

Tips to Good Writing

2011-05-08T14:35:00.001+01:00

Found this extremely entertaining compilation and felt this is a must-share....While teaching young trainees to write good broadcast copy, wish I had these 25 tips to make my instructions succinct.

Better late than never!

25 Non-Random Things About Writing Short

by Roy Peter Clark

1. Keep a journal where you practice short writing.

2. Practice short writing on small surfaces:  post-it notes, index cards, the palm of your hand.

3. A list of 25 is NOT an example of short writing: It’s long writing with 25 short parts -– which is cool.

4. The short bits make a long list more readable, in part because they generate white space, which pleases the eye.

5. Obey Strunk & White: “Omit needless words.”

6. Beware: The infinite space on the Internet creates aerated prose.

7. The shorter the passage, the greater the value of each word.

8. Obey Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch: “Murder your darlings.”

9. That said, every short passage should contain one gold coin, a reward for the reader.

10. Obey Donald Murray: “Brevity comes from selection, not compression.”

11. Obey Chip Scanlan: “Focus, focus, focus.”

12. Imagine a short piece from the get-go. Conceive a sonnet, not an epic.

13. Cut the weaker elements:  adverbs, passive constructions, strings of prepositional phrases, puffy Latinate words.

14. The more powerful the message, the shorter the sentence: “Jesus wept.”

15. Don’t just “dump” short messages: revise, polish, proof-read everything.

16. Try your hand at short literary forms: the haiku or the couplet.

17. Read, study, and collect great examples of short writing, everything from the diaries of Samuel Pepys to the Tweets of your favorite Twits.

18. The best place for an important word in a short passage is at the END.

19. Begin the story as close to the end as possible.

20. Food for thought: Study the prose in fortune cookies and on Valentine candy hearts.

21. Cut big, then small. Prune the dead branches before you shake out the dead leaves.

22. Obey Mark Twain: You may need more time, not less, to write something good and short.

23. Study and discuss this editorial: “They say only the good die young. Spanish dictator Francisco Franco died last night at the age of 83. Seems about right.”

24. Write a mission statement for your short writing. Keep it short.

25.  Treat all short forms of journalism –- headline, caption, blurb, blog post –- as literary genres.

To Sir With Love

2011-03-03T08:56:00.001Z

Years ago in school, a lesson in the English reader, 'To Sir With Love' introduced me to ER Braithwaite - the teacher I searched for among the numerous who I encountered over the first twenty two years of my academic life - the time from pre-school to a masters degree in journalism that is. ER Braithwaite set a benchmark - of a teacher who allowed freedom -free thought, free expression and above all - one who did not homogenise the heterogenous community of students that he taught.

Through school and later college, I was known for my precociousness - not the ill-mannered variety, mind you, but the desire to question what is normally followed as rote, to eke the extra bit out of lessons. I wonder how many students can vouch like me that I still remember the lessons learnt in school - I can still quote poems from the Std 3 reader or joke around about the ways in which I tried simplifying differentiation and calculating the trajectory of a projectile - the latter part with little success.

But the precocious me was also a puppy - a teacher's puppy - easily influenced by teachers who loved their topics, who were able to impart that love for their subject to students. Teachers who stood out because they made their subjects come alive using just a blackboard, a couple of chalks and some well-aimed dusters at errant mischief-makers in the backbenches.

Two English teachers left their mark on me while in school. The first one was a lady named Ranjini Varma - I wonder where she is now. She had innovative games in those free periods that she would have once the lessons for the semester were completed. For instance, imagine a teacher goading students to stretch the limits of their imagination and vocabulary by giving us an emotion or a word and asking us to co-relate it with something tangible. So those who related 'soft' to 'sponge' would get a smile, while the one student I remember who said a 'baby's cheek' got a dreamy look from her and I could feel the power of imagination.

Yet another was Indira R Menon, the gentlest teacher I knew - who time and again made me compete with myself to improve my command and fluency over handling what was essentially a foreign language. The love she inculcated in me saw me ditch the science stream that every semi-gifted student in my era was pre-destined to enroll for and announce that I was going to major in English. Thankfully, long suffering parents knew better than to dissuade me and so began my life-long love affair with the language that would mould my career and personality.

Broadcast journalism was an accident - asked to make a choice between the different streams on offer at my college, I gravitated towards the medium that seemed to have a bigger power over classes and masses alike. And it was there that I met the third teacher - Joseph Pinto - one who preferred Joe over Sir, informality over a formal association. Joe taught us copy writing and sub-editing in the first year of my post-graduation. His reputation preceded him, he made fans of his students through his militant style of teaching. Those fans,who could later be only called 'converts'. So 'word of mouth' was that a wrong step in Joe's classes and he would shred you to bits.

In the first couple of classes, I sat quietly, a couple of benches from the back - my preferred seat through my academic life- gauging him. What he taught me wasn't in all honesty anything I hadn't studied during my degree in communicative english. But it was how he taught it that made the impact. The constant testing of our abilities, literally throwing us challenges and seeing who rose up to it. He hated superfluous usages, hated unnecessary words, worshipped the simple style of journalistic story telling that wove 5Ws and the single H. The lessons learnt in those years came in handy years later, when I was training young trainees in the art of copywriting.

Over the years, since college, Joe and I lost touch - for while in college, I was never one of those who made a conscious effort to get into a teacher's good book. And so it was but normal, that there wasn't an exchange of email ids or the promise to stay in touch. I have seen very little of Pune since 2001 - the year I left Symbiosis and moved to begin my career with Aaj Tak.

Years later, I think in 2009, when Facebook had become a rage, I received a friend invite from a Joseph Pinto - the name rang a bell but the recall wasn't instant. You don't expect your teachers to send you a friend invite on facebook, do you? It was when I saw my Symbiosis seniors and classmates on his long and fast increasing list of friends that I made the connect. Joe was getting back in touch with me and I wondered if he remembered who I was. Turns out all it took to jog his memory was a description of where I sat in class. Strange isn't it, considering that we were not the only batch he taught, but one notch in a series of academic years and thousands of eager faced journalism trainees that passed through Symbiosis' classroom.

To date, he meticulously reads most of what I write- is unforgiving with loose usages, meticulous with criticism and effusive when he likes something that he reads. What more can you ask for in a teacher? He's my ER Braithwaite and as he celebrates his 60th birthday on Sunday, I wanted him to know the role he played in my life. That's the gift he sought from his students, that's the least I can offer him.

I can't be in Pune on Saturday as he holds court with his wife and daughter over tea and biscuits. I am sure a number of his students - old and new will weave their way to the Pinto household to be with him. I can't be one of them, but I don't want Joe to be in any doubt that my wish for him is that he continues to inspire many more students to discover their individuality and pursue their convictions.

Here's raising a toast to you, Joe - To Sir With Love.

New Year..New Resolutions, New Musings?

2011-01-02T18:02:00.001Z

Happy New Year Bloggies...

The holiday season for me was about returning to my old love - films. A snug duvet, a cup of hot chocolate and some good films and I think I can survive without friends or food - ok that's a gross exaggeration, but this love needed a gross exaggeration to drive in the magnitude.

So I revisited Tara where Scarlett grew up (Gone with the Wind), also travelled along country roads in Clint Eastwood's beat up truck to meet Meryl Streep (Bridges of Madison County), chuckled hard and joined Amelie mentally as she went about dropping little drops of goodness in the lives of those around her..

That set me thinking..in every movie I saw a bit of myself - without sounding terribly self-indulgent, I hazard to ask..Is it just me or isnt this the way women watch films? Identifying and empathising with characters they like and then juxtaposing their life experiences on these characters and sighing with the same pathos?

Why does it feel like its mandatory to identify with strong women characters in films that you like? Are you in a sense elevating yourself into a glamorous avataar, enjoying seeing yourself portrayed by someone pretty and always unruffled? Or is it a way of admitting to things that your mundane lives don't let you admit to?

I think living and loving on the big screen helps select and dwell on just those things you'd rather see or focus on. The rest is all left in the sub-text, unread and un-pondered over.

Otherwise why is to so dreadful to imagine the ideal couples in the celluloid world suffering their partner's snores, drools, bad breath? Why don't their struggles with reality be as mundane as tummies starting to plop and flop out in under a week after it was tucked in by months of strict diet and exercise or losing a battle against baldness?

Who was it that called films a mode of escapism? Or is it? Doesn't it also alternately inspire and show you a new direction, a new route to get to the root of your problems if you are able to put it into perspective?

It does for me, because I'm the heroine of my life and I end up getting inspired by my heroines..I wait to hear from you before the verdict is passed...

PS: How many of you have New Year Resolutions? Wanna know mine - I want to act in a play or a street play or something where I train my largely paralysed facial muscles to perform on cue!!! Some resolution isnt it??!!

INTROSPECT, INSPECT, QUESTION, DON'T FOLLOW

2010-11-25T11:55:00.000Z

I had to come back, to sit with you and discuss an issue quite close to my heart. Consider this a heart to heart between us - my title might suggest that I'm being preachy. Trust me I am not. Once again, I'm trying to be the insider, introspecting with the perspective of an outsider and wondering where the Change can begin from.

I began my career as a broadcast journalist in January 2001. It was the golden age for broadcast journalism. The power of television was what lured me to journalism - not the lure of journalism to television. While many of my peers and friends to date, consider it an inferior medium populated by rhetorical preachers or dumb bimbettes, I still believe Television as a medium is a strong vehicle for views and ideas.

History apart, the reason why 2001 is important is because over the next 4 years, there was some competitive journalism that followed. Good stories, strong reportage and the coming of age of a number of regional faces - till then only Prannoy Roy and his first bunch of followers had any television recall. News breaks and notching up an exclusive - be it with a visiting cricket captain or even with a film star was counted as a feather in the reporters cap. Those little thrills of climbing up the reporting ladder seem almost like a farce in today's times when Sonia Gandhi's hospitalisation due to a mild fever is breaking news, Hrithik Roshan offering a rose to someone waiting outside his house as a publicity gimmick for his new film is broadcast live!I think primarily it is the lack of strong, gutsy editors with the vision and the courage to make the economics work according to their plans and not vice versa is the biggest bane of television. Individual benchmarks of reporters are like drops in the ocean, you either fit in or ship out. What is needed is a broader editorial culture that does not require a reporter to compromise theirs or their channel's stature by stooping to any lows for the sake of a sound bite, an exclusive story or even some kickbacks in cash or kind from acting as conduits between the deal makers and their signatories.

I strongly believe the Audience cannot sit in judgement of shoddy television and tsk tsk about the state of affairs. If there is a drop in intelligent programming, the viewers have to share blame for laziness creeping into working styles. Viewers of prime time news love rabble rousing, opinionated partisan debates. I have often pondered why when it is merely high on rhetoric and very very low on information and measured analysis. The aam aadmi gets a high out of being part of the crowd that punches down the weak link in the debate,of being one of those in a faceless mob that chanted 'Yes Yes Yes' when a big bully with the power of majority opinion on his side bloodied up a weaker opponent.

News shows and debates are now performances, with journalists exiting out of studios with smirks on their faces and asking a fawning set of fans " Sahi tha na?" Fans and their adoring opinions are cultivated and once a comfort zone is reached - journalists would rather not explore out of their comfort zone. If an Editor A has worked his way to earning the reputation of being a 'nationalistic' then you can be sure that 3 days out of 5 of the week there will be a topic that assures you a jingoistic crusade in the name of nationalism. The 'discerning' junta claim they are aware of the trap he lays by giving a nationalistic twist to every event that is remotely applicable, but come prime time, the remotes automatically tune in to that. My question is Why?

Excellent programming on Indian television have had to wrap up because the TRPs ( Television Rating Points) weren't high enough. At most editorial meetings in most channels across the country today, stories that do not address 'the target audience' directly are not even touched with a barge pole, irrespective of whether it is a story that the nation needs to know. When the audience has so much power in its hands, is it right to put the blame on the nonsense flooding your tv screens merely on the manufacturers? Customisation has become the buzzword of every commercial venture - marketing decides the editorial thrust thanks to the lack of enough media ventures that don't rate its success or reputation on the basis of advertising money it pulls in.

Journalists with the fattest paycheques in the industry today are not the best ones - they are the ones you - the audience made into brands by word of mouth and endorsement. They emerged as phenomenons because of you - the audience. So introspect, inspect and question if your choices didn't ultimately create the monsters that you are now so keen to disown.

It is not enough to say I have never watched any of these shows or that I have total contempt for the people who I'm now glad have been proven to have clay feet. You cannot conveniently link and de-link yourself to the faceless mass called Indian audience. When it comes to sharing responsibility, there is no absolution.

We are responsible for the rot in journalism, the rot in our entertainment where saas-bahus-and traditions that are not only obsolete but despicable are given a free rein at prime time and looking at the bigger picture - the rampant corruption in every sphere of our society!

The funny thing about India is everyone lives in a glasshouse, so now we have begun throwing pebbles at each others' homes so that the protest is recorded - but no one wants these bastions broken or have to take the pain of rebuilding it.

Introspect, Inspect, Question..and Please don't just follow.

TIME FOR A BREAK

2010-11-03T15:23:00.000Z

I suddenly realised the refrain that 'People its been a while since I last posted' has been turned into a cliche..but honestly I think it is time I took a break, soul searched and ruminated over whether this blog needs to be revamped and the issues I talk about turned a little more general..less like a personal diary and more about things I am currently working with and dealing with. I am currently inundated with work, which leaves me with little time to do justice to my Word Sketches..

So I guess in all fairness, I must take a break, recoup, reassess and re-strategise.
Hope some of you will stop by time and again to check up on me as I will on my favourite bloggers and blog posts...:)

and as always, feel free to write to me...I would want to be part of your blogger lives as I can...

for now, adios amigos

Q-wiiii-k Update

2010-10-16T11:04:00.002+01:00

A quick hello to all those who have missed my blog or my updates:

It just made me feel warm to begin that way, though I wonder if there was more than a handful who actually noticed that I haven't posted in a while.

My life is currently a blur - I must admit a happy blur, but blur all the same!

Four days of the week are spent in the busy bustling London, gaining some experience at a couple of leading organisation, the rest three days of the week, in the city that's come to become my home away from home - Brighton. Each Thursday afternoon, when I take the train back to Brighton, leaving the noise and rush of London behind, I feel at peace. That lasts exactly for the remaining hours of the day for in Brighton too, my life is choc-a-bloc.

The leisure to 'stand and stare' like Wordsworth had , well, I no longer have it. The Masters is over and in the time before I set sail back for India, there are miles to go...and the Woods in England are lovely, dark and deep. Poetry being liberally cross quoted with Poetic License...

For anyone, reading this, there is no method to this madness...It is just one of those happy posts - to let all of you know, I'm happy and kicking, just pressed for time to come up with some brilliant, thought provoking post -(though I can't remember the last time I wrote one..;)

But but but..there is another little news I wanted to share with you...I'm back to journalism - after about a year's blissful slumber..My byline might be popping up in a number of magazines - for those who do keep a track of it, that is...I'd keep mentioning my favourite pieces here, time and again..Do have a look and let me know..the opinions and suggestions of all of you are very dear to me and I look forward to it..

For now, here's the latest piece that I wrote for OPEN...On the Nobel Prize for Medicine 2010 winner Prof.Robert Edwards...

http://www.openthemagazine.com/article/international/a-fertile-mindpoint

I look forward to hearing from you....

Lots of love and keep me in your prayers,

P.S Many wrote back saying the link hasn't worked..:)

So here goes, a copy paste job...

A Fertile Mind
Robert Edwards’ Nobel Prize speaks not only of his genius, but also of how well test tube babies have been received worldwide. It has taken time, and when faced with early opposition to his work, it helped that he never lost his sense of humour.

BY Deepthy Menon

Dr Mike Macnamee is a busy man, juggling day-to-day affairs of the Bourn Hall Clinic even as he travels across the world, spreading the message of their pioneering work in In-Vitro Fertilisation (IVF). Last Sunday held personal significance for him. After a busy trip across India, he was back in England and enroute to a meeting with his mentor- turned-colleague-turned-friend, Professor Robert Edwards, the man often referred to as the ‘Father of IVF’.

While travelling to the care facility where Professor Edwards now spends his retired life, Dr Macnamee can foresee what will happen. First, he says, will be a warm congratulatory hug, followed by a recap of how the news of the professor’s Nobel Prize has been received across the world. Then, he’s sure, Bob will want to take some time recounting the early days of the Bourn Hill Clinic with Dr Patrick Steptoe, back when IVF techniques were hardly heard of.

For Dr Macnamee, Professor Edwards is ‘Bob’, the man who recruited him over 27 years ago. Meeting Professor Edwards and Dr Patrick Steptoe, the two responsible for the birth of the world’s first test-tube baby, proved to be the biggest turning point of his career. “It was a fantastic opportunity for me,” he says, “I was a young research scientist at that time, working in the theoretical fields of reproduction—it was a real opportunity to do the work first-hand with humans. After four years, I began to understand that the research I was doing in terms of clinical research was probably more important for the future of many families than my scientific research.”

Macnamee grows talkative as he recalls his initial years with his mentor: “Bob was truly inspirational for everybody who worked with him. He has a brilliant mind. It is very difficult to describe him. He was a man of extreme intellect, and yet had the ability to communicate with everybody in their own language. He does enjoy people hugely. Everybody admired and respected him, if not loved him. For a fundamental research scientist to go all the way to collaborate [with a doctor] for a clinical treatment that was robust and delivered good results—that was phenomenal.”

It was actually a chance meeting in 1968 between the gynaecologist Patrick Steptoe and Robert Edwards, who was then a research fellow at the Department of Physiology at Cambridge, that led to the collaboration. One that has changed the lives of millions across the world. Professor Edwards had created the first blastocyst in 1968, and had succeeded in human test-tube fertilisation by 1970. However, it wasn’t until eight years later that their research and trials resulted in a healthy pregnancy leading to the birth of the world’s first ever ‘test-tube baby’, Louise Brown, in July 1978.

In his press statement after the announcement of the Nobel Prize, Professor Edwards describes one of his final meetings with his by-then-seriously-ill partner, Dr Steptoe. He distinctly recalls the thrill of relaying the news that 1,000 babies had been born at their clinic since their first successful ‘baby’. ‘I’ll never forget the look of joy in his eyes. Steptoe and I were deeply affected by the desperation felt by couples who so wanted to have children. The most important thing in life is having a child,’ he said, ‘Nothing is more special than a child.’

Charismatic and inspiring are words that most of his friends, colleagues and students commonly use while describing Professor Edwards. “He is charismatic, strong-willed and tenacious,” says Dr Al Yuzpe, a renowned Vancouver-based IVF specialist who has known him for over four decades, “He says what he thinks. For example, I heard him chastise the American IVF medical community for allowing the multiple pregnancy rate to soar to astronomical levels by replacing multiple embryos in order to achieve high pregnancy rates. He said, ‘You are behaving like cowboys.’ As a result, there is now a great move to replace fewer embryos in an attempt to reduce the risk of multiple pregnancies.”

The reaction of his family to the news of his award has been rather muted, with their refusing to go public with their private celebration of a recognition that many feel has been ‘a long time coming’. His wife Ruth released a statement shortly after the announcement, expressing their delight in the prestigious award. Dr Macnamee fills me in on the little celebration that the family had when they visited Professor Edwards on the day of the citation. “I was told he was delighted,” he says, “After all, it is a singular honour which is received by very few people. However, Bob had received a slightly lesser honour two years ago when he had a UK postage stamp released of him—that is a very rare thing to have. This is the final recognition. It is long overdue.”

“As a person he always found time to talk to patients about what was happening in the laboratory, and rejoiced when each IVF baby was born. He took great personal pleasure in the news of each birth,” says Dr Thomas Mathews, Bourn Hall Clinic’s medical director. Perhaps that’s why his staff and colleagues fondly remember the special celebration they had organised two years ago, when Bourn Hall recorded the birth of the 10,000th baby at their clinic.

“We invited a baby from every year of Bourn Hall back to the clinic. So we had 30 different age children, starting with Louise Brown to the latest child. Bob was visibly overjoyed to plant a tree to commemorate the event, 30 years after setting up the IVF clinic,” adds Dr Macnamee. Trees hold a special place in Professor Edwards’ heart, and his green fingers are legendary too. “We had been working together for a very long time when he once took me to his house. He backed his car into his field and then revealed that he had planted some 5,000 trees, by himself, in the five acres of fields that he had. That was truly remarkable. He knew every single root and branch, every single part of that small forest he’d planted. He knew when he planted them, how big they would grow, and also how they will look in 20 years—-that, to me, summed up his vision.”

Professor Martin Johnson, who teaches at Cambridge and was one of Professor Edwards’ first research students, concurs with Dr Macnamee’s assessment. “He was a man much ahead of his time in IVF. His publications and lectures on ethics in science and the role of regulation also placed him way ahead of others. His achievements are not just over four million babies worldwide born through assisted reproductive technology, but also the way that he transformed the whole approach to research and care in reproductive medicine and gynaecology. It is very sad that his colleagues Patrick Steptoe and Jean Purdy aren’t alive to share this prize with him.”

For Professor Edwards, the Nobel recognition might be one that arrived a decade too late. But he remains popular among his friends for his humility, which they say comes from the confidence of great intellect. So, in any situation, he could find something that made him smile. His rather sharp sense of humour won him many fans as well.

“I once asked him what he thought of human cloning. His reply was, ‘Al, I’ve never met anyone worth cloning,’” reminisces Dr Al Yuzpe. It was perhaps this trademark humour and the belief in his work that kept Professor Edwards going despite fierce criticism and opposition from many quarters, including the Vatican. Today, honoured so highly late in life, Professor Edwards must surely savour his vindication.

Its a Year!!! Grins and Groans..

2010-10-05T19:55:00.000+01:00

It's autumn in England..that reminds me it is over a year since I uprooted myself - or must I say temporarily transplanted myself to the land of our colonisers...

Hmm..that somehow seems like a weird statement now, a year here has made me appreciate a lot many good things this country has taught me. Even the food that I have much maligned in a number of posts over the past year, I am suddenly feeling gracious towards that too..

Let me make a quick top-of-the mind count of all things old and new that I rediscovered in this year in Britain.

If any of you would like to look back at your year ( a couple of months ahead of the New Year to ensure that the damned tag of resolutions or reminiscence isn't an unnecessary burden)I'd love to turn this post into a tag. I don't know if anyone would be keen to do it or if enough people would read this blog to keep the tag on, but whoever reads this and feels predisposed to list out their top 12 grins or groans - consider yourself TAGGED!!!

1. GRIN AFTER GROAN - I have befriended the washing machine and learnt not to turn all my whites into pinks or a darker colour by conveniently forgetting to sort out the only thing that could have bled its colour.

2. GROAN AFTER GRIN - I have learnt that being independent is not exactly the great, euphoric feeling, it is often written to be - try lugging your weekly shopping up 50 stairs

3. GROAN AFTER GROAN - The lard that I was sure I will completely shed continues to latch on to me adamantly despite half-hearted attempts to shake it off

4. GRIN AFTER GROAN - Great gang of international friends with some mean culinary tricks up their sleeves that made the year a gastronomically profitable year ( however that GRIN was wiped out by GROANS from point3)

5. GRIN AFTER GRIN - England darshan - travelling on a student card, on what is considered as dirt cheap in England terms but prettttty expensive with a heavy sigh by Indian rupee rates..the last clause notwithstanding, there have been great trips and great times

6. GROAN AFTER GROAN - The cumbersome and sometimes irritating habit of automatically converting pounds into rupee and rupee into pounds, just compounds the feeling of Student Poverty...

7. GRIN AFTER GROAN - Discovering instant curries and gravy that can instantly transform dinner..increased culinary repertoire quite a bit - helping me expand my menu from European yumm-capitals to the little pocket boroughs of South East Asia

8. GROAN AFTER GRIN - Proximity to London from Brighton brought such a big grin on my face in the first couple of months..and then it struck me that Southern Railways that normally promises great tickets and discounts normally have some catch to their prices on days when I sorely need a cheap ticket.

9. GROAN AFTER GROAN - Having to fold and re-fold my retail ambitions to fit into my tiny purse. Pounds don't stretch enough to allow price tags to become irrelevant. I even tried shutting one eye, imagining that I saw the price tag wrong and peeking at it through the other eye - that by the way, doesnt fudge or smudge numbers!!

10. GRIN AFTER GRIN - Wine is dirt cheap if you were to compare the prices of those good bottles of red and white for which you uncomplainingly dish out a few five hundreds..

11. GRIN AFTER GRIN - Realising the true worth of self in a crisis - staying truly away from family and friends help you assess yourself objectively. It gives you a good measure of how you react to situations - individually without having the safety net of near and dear ones or the familiar locales of the cities of your country for an added boost.

12. GROAN OR GRIN?!!! - The year away from home, far far away from family and the comforts of being pampered and looked after - but the learning curve - do I want to trade that in? I guess not!!

I'd say my year has been more about GRINS than GROANS..if I do groan, it is to ensure that my grins don't lull me into a zone where the value of a grin is forgotten..:)

I'm looking forward to who accepts this tag. If you do, don't forget to leave me a message. I want to read what you guys come up with...

In anticipation...

The Hunt for Graffiti

2010-09-30T22:01:00.001+01:00

Some of you know that I'm madly fascinated by art. Tried my hand at painting for a while, now I have brushes and an easel that stare at me and a mad urge to paint something, but the hands just don't do my bidding.

That is when I discovered Graffiti Art. Not the kind that deface all our public monuments and urinals and buses and benches, not the kind that reminds you that Raj (Hearts) Minal, twenty years after they broke up..this is fun, colourful, totally zany and something I'm itching to do. Just that I don't know if the wrists that don't shake while wielding a brush, feel wary about glorious freehand across huge spaces.

Someday when I build my own place, I think I will have my own graffitti wall.. I saw some amazing ones in Amsterdam and Paris. Some were posted in my Europe travelogue.

I just wonder how Graffiti artists let others wash away their creativity when they run out of walls to paint on...Perhaps its lack of permanence again shows the boldness of the artist, the free spiritedness to let their art get swallowed by time and whims of others, unlike those paintings that get preserved for generations for people to see.

Wonder if a Van Gogh and Matisse could do Graffiti...I'm sure Rafaeli and Michaelangelo could - painting glorious scenes on chapels and fresco art is a glorified form of graffiti, is it not? Or is saying that blasphemous to the Gods of Arts?

I think freehand in art is a divine skill, some day graffiti too would be more lauded. For now, my tribute to the numerous unknown kids who gave pleasure to my eyes and fodder for my camera..

Mom Knows Best!!!

2010-09-27T16:11:00.000+01:00

Everytime I travel through England by train, there are always interesting people to observe and eavesdrop on...Remember the last time I wrote about people I met on the train to London?

My trip back to Brighton from Leicester gave me new characters for a new post. A mother and son - who got in from Leicester (like me) on route St.Pancras in London.

So when did I first notice her- On the Leicester railway platform. She had a voice few could ignore...grating,harsh and loud enough not to require a microphone. A faux animal print jacket in a sickening colour that would make a leopard blush out its spots and eye make-up loud enough to put her loud voice to shame.

The little one standing next to her had mischief written all over his face! The number of scratches and nicks on his little blonde face gave out his favourite past times. He stood next to his MooooM and the couple of suitcases strewn around them. There were some hiccups with the train I was scheduled to take, so I put my 'spy-eavesing' expedition on the mental backburner. Getting to St.Pancras to catch the underground to Victoria to make it to my Brighton connection was more important.

But once the train rolled on to the platform and I was safely inside and baggage stowed away, the moooom and son were forgotten as I switched on my music and dived back into the book I was reading. Not for long, though...

The grating voice made herself heard over the din made by my music. Mama had chosen the seats just after mine, so I couldn't see her, but that wasn't necessary was it..Her voice did the trick. So there she was, trying to tell her distracted 4-ish year old that they had to be thankful to generous Sue, who had packed them a snack and some napkins and some plastic cutlery and a drink for little Rhys ( atleast thats what the brat's name sounded like). The little one immediately parroted, "Thank you, Sue". I wondered if it was for the benefit of the rest of us in the coach, and as I craned my neck to check if I can glimpse the exchange, I spied a couple of other necks stretching out of their seats in similar states of curiosity.

Now Rhys is your average little 4 year old charming monkey, climbing over seats, trying to get an upside down view of the coach aisle and every time he'd manage to get himself into a weird pose, a leopard skin hand would come snaking out and go "WHACCCK"...the next ten minutes would inevitably be howling and screaming. Imagine that spread out in 10 minute intervals! A "bully sermon" from the Mom set to the cacophony of Rhys' lung powered wails had many others reaching for their headsets, while I tried raising the volume of the music already set to blaring.

Now there was one constant routine that caught my attention - One sharp slap across his arms, followed by a howl of pain from the little one, followed by what I figure is an angry punch from him. To this the Mom remarks " You hit me and I punch you back, I'm your mother!" Sounded strange and petty coming from an adult, especially so in a country where beating a child isn't really encouraged.

Now the brat seemed to have been habituated to the constant whacks from moooom. In no time, he was back to his monkey ways, the streaks of tears still on his face forgotten. When the ticket checker came by, he asked if he could have a ticket. The lady asked him where he wanted to go and he said where daddy is. Rhys insisted he wanted a ticket so that he could travel by himself and leave his mom back on the train. The ticket checker laughed again and left and the Mom began loudly berating Rhys - just how could he have told her that he wants to leave her back? Hear that in that tone of hers and you'd want to personally help the boy shove her off the train. I dug my nose right back into my book and tried to drown their voices..

It took only two minutes before the entire coach was standing up and trying to check if the child was being murdered. He was wailing at the top of his lungs, claiming he was being choked, while the mother continued to wrestle him into a bulky scarf, that he kept pulling off his neck. And then came the punch line, "Stay still, Rhys, or I might just end up choking you. Trust me, you need the scarf, I'm the Mom, I know best!". She couldn't be bothered that she was being watched by the whole coach! As we sat down, the bald guy sitting next to me muttered,"You can't fight that logic, can you?". The so-far expressionless face of the Chinese girl sitting opposite me showed some signs of irritation and discomfort at the overtly public show between the mom and son.

As I got down at St. Pancras, I saw the Mooooom roughly shoving him into his pram and buckle him up despite his wails, before jerkily walking away.

Wonder what made me post this exchange. I guess the incident lingers because I have come to expect a different variety of parenting during this year in England. Children are usually treated as young adults here, asked their preferences, allowed to take their own decisions.But then again,I wonder if I judged the mom too harshly because she had a grating voice and a sense of dressing that revolted me? It can't be easy to handle a mischievous brat all by herself, can it?

The ever polite British travelling crowd didn't make a noise about the intense discomfort to the other travellers from the loud conversations, accompanying wails and the abuse on display. That's British politeness, I guess!

Europe - Point and Shoot - Paris Je T'aime and I AMsterdaaaaam

2010-09-20T21:39:00.000+01:00

Given a choice between Paris and Amsterdam, I think I'd be happier to revisit Amsterdam. It is less pretentious, people are more fun and more importantly - they ALL speak English and don't turn up their snooty French noses at you because you can't say more than Merci Beaucoup! Also Amsterdam is cosier, tinier, less dirtier...I could go on and on.

These are however not reason enough to not enjoy Paris for what it is worth. There are definitely smaller, cosier and less expensive cities to holiday in than Paris, but never make the mistake of not including Paris atleast once in your European journey. The bistros, the monuments, the museums - history lives and rests here - much like London. Though between London and Paris, I'd still choose London and bear a bad sandwich than eat well amidst French snootiness.

So in the last of my three part series, I'm going to put together some of my favourite pictures which is meant to serve as memory cards of must-visit places if you are going with just a couple of days to spend in these places..

Call it touristy, call it "Ohhh, that's just soo predictable", but you can't go to Paris and not watch Eiffel Tower lit up. It beckons you from far, though it must also be said that by day, it looks like any other microwave tower across the world!

Don't forget to walk down the Champs-Elysees that takes you from the Arc de Triomphe down...I have a dumb touristy shot of the Arc, so instead I thought I'd guide you with this picture..:)

Don't forget the stroll down the Seine. Paris is prettiest by the banks of the Seine, go further in and the dirt and filth and the grime of cosmopolitan life will assault you like any other city, I guess!

The Louvre - must go atleast to assuage your curiosity about Mona Lisa. As many would have told you before there are far many more impressive paintings and displays to see at the Louvre. However, its a very impressive complex, if you have any interest in architecture or museums or even if you don't have interest in any of this, don't miss one darshan.

Did you know that Notre Dame was the official landmark for Paris till the Eiffel Tower came along and stole its thunder? But I think I prefer the Sacre Couer to Notre Dame, although must say, entry is FREE...:)

That's Sacre Coeur atop the Montmartre. The view of Paris, once you have climbed all those steps is glorious. As beautiful as seeing it from the top of Eiffel Tower and less expensive...And if you have actually made your way to the top, go around the side towards the Artists Corner in Montmartre.

I was so in awe of the work displayed there that I asked someone who did a lot of Degas-esque work to take me as an intern and pay me with a painting of his..I promised to clean his brushes and prime his canvasses - he laughed like a Frenchman and said '

I don't understand you' in English!!!

On the climb downhill, don't miss some of the most amazing grafitti art along Montmartre...This is when I met the Tramp...

At the base of Montmartre is Moulin Rouge - the windmill made so famous by Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman starrer film of the same name..

If you have any interest in art whatsoever, even if you skip Louvre ( by the way, when the French say it, the 'r' is silent) DON'T MISS Musee D'Orsay...I spent about 5 hours with two audio guides ( coz the battery of the first one died on me!!) alone in there rediscovering Monet and Seurat and Courbet and Degas

Also remember, when you are crossing over across the Seine, don't miss this sight...These are locks which is supposed to 'LOCK IN YOUR LOVE'..You write your names and seal the lock and throw the keys into the Seine..Now no one in the City of Lovers cared to answer my question as to whether there was a professional industry of divers around to retrieve keys if anyone wanted to 'Unlock' the Love.

Oh...and I think by now, I have shown you all the best parts of Amsterdam that we explored. Couldn't make it to the Van Gogh or Rembrandt museum though Musee D'Orsay soothed a lot of my disappointment..However, we girls didn't miss the Sex Museum. What's the point of visiting Amsterdam if you didn't pay a visit to one of their biggest tourist draws?

Also, don't miss a Canal Cruise...This I think is the best way to discover Amsterdam. While we were in Amsterdam, it poured and how..this is a view of the St.Nicholas church from the glass-ceiling of our boat by dusk.

That's me...signing off...Well, not exactly me..but the image I'd like to leave you with..:)

Europe - Point and Shoot - Food Gyan

2010-09-17T12:44:00.001+01:00

While at the University of Sussex, I had the chance to meet a number of Europeans. Mostly, the discussions would veer towards food. Need I say, Brit bashing, then becomes the norm? Well Brit bashing, I must roughly define, is a game of one up-manship where you come up with the lousiest examples of British cuisines. Using vile adjectives don’t win you any points, but if you manage to elicit a shudder in remembrance from one or more members of the group, then your example was successful.
So there, I have set the context...We started our two city Europe adventure with little expectations...When you race to Gatwick at 4.30 in the morning to catch a flight, food isn’t foremost on the mind.

Food Funda(FF) 1: If you choose wisely, then each meal can make you feel like you died and went to heaven..Even before we caught the train to Amsterdam Centraal from Schipol Airport, we had our first taste of heaven – Stropwaffels..So what are they? Tiny, crispy discs of waffles with loads of sugar and butter in it – with or without chocolate and other fillings. Felt like a taste of heaven( a view that I kept amending every half a day as we had a new meal, till by the end, I wasn’t even inspired to get a packet of stropwaffels back home to UK with me!)

F F2: It is better if you aren’t a vegetarian in Europe, for it limits your food-orgasms drastically. But if you travel with friends who eat anything that does not talk back or bite them, then you will be able to at least report on how good the food is! In Amsterdam, the check-in times are usually around 2PM, which meant that we had to while quite some time away in other places.

FF3: I wouldn’t suggest you walk into a ‘coffeeshop’ the first thing in the morning. If you do, you might not walk out for the rest of the day. Plan your trips to the coffeeshop, would be my wise advice. So after chucking a couple of ‘wholesome breakfast’ options at coffeeshops, we finally walked into a cafe that served us some wholesome food indeed...I twisted my tongue over ordering a chicken schnitzel sandwich( try it, try it casually and see if it does not go schnizhhhul, snitszhul and stuff..or maybe I was in sleep-deprived semi-coma!) but the world righted itself, after the first cup of a great cappuccino and the sandwich.

FF 4: Amsterdam is great for food. Especially when you arrive here from the UK, the food feels delicious and under-priced. Never thought I’d say that about any place in Europe. But then, Paris began punching massive holes into my Euro wallet. The only consolation was, I was paying good money for some great food!

FF 5: We followed our brunch with a hearty snooze and then began planning our food stops even as we tried to find our way across Amsterdam. We ended up at a Bagel chain ( I forgot the name – it was a clever one) that we girls thought was a Quaint Cafe discovered by us. We hadn’t gone two streets down after having some yummy bagels with exotic cream cheese and one sweet one ( apple and cinnamon bagel with butter and chocolate sprinkles) when we noticed just another similarly ‘quaint cafe’. The realisation hurt, but what the heck, the stomachs were singing with pleasure. The hot chocolate with cream (seen here along with a fruit explosion) also helped ease the hurt!

FF 6: Travelling to Spain didn’t materialise, but we had some gorgeous Spanish Tapas. Tapas is typical Spanish fare which is served in small portion. So you might need about 6 dishes to feel kind of close to satiating your hunger. If you ever get to do it right, don’t miss the chance. And boy, did we do our meal right or not...A jug of Sangria –that is red wine with orange and apple rinds and a dash of orange juice to make it cocktailly – set the mood. Some of this yummy bread dunked in olive oil, with the tapas – ahhh...another slice of heaven. And between the three of us, the meal was about 42 euros only!!! In the UK, you’d easily shell out that amount for a meal for two without the wine and I’d not take wagers on the food.

FF 7: If you are ever in Amsterdam, don’t say no to their breads or stuffed pastries. The Dutch bake like a dream and when you pay under 1 Euro for most of these concoctions, you feel like you are getting great value for money. However, a Europe trip straight out of India’s cheap food prices might bring on a mini heart attack at the cost of everything in this part of the world!

FF 8: On one of our padayatras through the myriad –straats along the canal, we had seen a tiny shop called the Pancake Factory. A little searching online revealed that it was the most popular destination for all kinds of pancakes, crepes and what not. So we kept aside a considerable amount of time on the last day in Amsterdam for sampling their fare. Travelling with good friends make your food journeys cheaper. Between the three of us, we ordered up all the house specialities – pommefritjes (remember I told you about that in the last post?) with chocolate and cream and honey and mandarins and a savoury pancake with chicken and cheese. We had to wait for our seats and for our orders to be taken. But it was worth the wait, I say!

FF 9 : The stereotype about Parisienne food was created because there were enough people who endorsed it. We joined that rapidly increasing group. The Indian girl who travelled with me – a hardcore carnivore said she’d died and gone to heaven after her first encounter with a French steak. So much so that she willingly offered herself for a high cholesterol death by ordering different versions of the steak at the various meals in Paris. Must I say much about the wine and cheese? Though I must admit here, that we had by then started going cheap with our selections as the wallet began getting lighter faster than we anticipated.

FF 10: Don’t eat by the eateries near the Eiffel Tower if you are the kind to feel the Euros pinch. Save your hunger for the smaller, lesser known bistros along Montmartre regions. The food is equally luscious – my personal favourites – a salad with grilled goat’s cheese on tiny squares of toasts and a divine dressing and a chicken leg with French fries dunked in a glorious mushroom sauce cooked with wine. It set us off by about 20 Euros every meal – the food and wine together, but you wouldn’t regret it!

FF 11: In France, also remember to try the chocolate éclairs and the simple croissants for breakfast with a dash of butter and some jams. The French, I think say some secret chant, as they cook their food. It just refuses to turn out bad!! Ohhh..and did I mention the simple crepes at roadside eateries? They seem like our dosa stalls – they are available just about everywhere...While you are at it, order the one with the Nutella and banana..and tell me if you saw heaven too?!! J
I’m now back to English realities and sandwiches with no salt or pepper. The last baguette that I had packed from Paris before boarding my bus – I remembered how I tried to make it last longer by taking smaller nibbles. The bread alone would have been worth the 5 Euros I paid!!

Europe - Point and Shoot - Travel Fundas

2010-09-16T14:36:00.002+01:00

Now I have already told you that this is a travellogue....Like any true heroine of their own drama, I too want a shot at 'something different' like Maggi tomato ketchup....The more I thought of a syntax..the more it appeared like a souffle gone wrong after the promise of a Michellin effort...

So then, I decided to just let be...and here's what has been decided...Till the day that I run out of anything more to say ( and that's saying something) or I'm really bored trying to eke out that last little nugget out of this fun holiday - I shall try to post a bit of something or the other about different things...

Today is Travel Fundas...

The Schengen guys at the VFS didn't like the way my teeth were set or the totally black ensemble that I had on when I went for my scheduled appointment to apply for a visa...I can't think of another reason why they privately laughed at my application for multiple entry with atleast a week's duration for each visit and sent me home a visa stamped for one entry for the duration of 4 days...Yes you heard me right, 4 MEASLY DAYS..

The truth is I have never been treated so shabbily before by any country where I applied for a visa. So since I hadn't anticipated that the EU really didn't care whether I shelled out more Euros to keep their economy afloat, I had gone the whole hog and booked my tickets and accommodation. The initial plan was a girlie trip Amsterdam-Paris and Madrid for 6.5 days. Easyjet made offers that lured, so we succumbed. Little were we to know that only the American in our gang of three ( henceforth she is Ms.GPS - had it not been for her GPS on the iPhone, we would have had some episodes of LOST to tape) made it to all three places on the itinerary. The other Indian was sent back to UK after the 3rd day, while I got 4 days!!!

In hindsight however, the holiday was a great success...How many of you can claim to have gone on a holiday where you travelled in a plane, a train, routine interactions with a cycle and a boat and then followed it up with a bus and a ship?? Well, I had all that and more in just 4 days...

We got to Amsterdam by Easyjet..and not KLM. Book in advance and you can get tickets for 20 pounds also..Ours was one of those cheap tickets that would not have been sufficient for the air hostess of our flight get home after it in a cab! Do we care as long as we had a deal? Hell, no!!

From the Schipol Airport to the Amsterdam Centraal Train Station is about a 20 minute train ride. That is if you can figure out whether you are on the right platform!! We nearly began our journey to Eindhoven before we had the sense to get the headphones of a young guy to confirm whether we were going to Amsterdam. He looked at us with a weird expression and went Duhhhhh, No!!

So Travel Funda 1(TF 1): Asking for confirmations isn't bad in Dutch land, but asking for directions might land you in the hands of some over zealous samaritan who might just set you off on a merry trip to nowhere.( I say out of experience of finding my way from Harlemmerstraat to the Anne Frank museum - which happened to be just about 2 and a half streets away, but we took 3 hours to figure that) Btw, the Dutch wait for a hapless tourist to stand by a traffic light with a spread map to come forward and try to help them. A definite change from those London lads, I tell you!

Once in Amsterdam city, forget any form of transportation. That's my TF 2 - Walking is not just a way to discover this city, but great to burn off all those yummy Dutch treats like pommefritjes (tiny pancakes smothered in chocolate or cream or any other sin you can think of!!) or stropwaffels!!! If you'd rather rent a cycle, there are many. Walking only becomes a pain when you suddenly see a kamikaze biker heading straight for you as you try to cross the road...

However, my eye was set on this beauty!! There wasn't the owner around or I'd have charmed them into giving me a spin on this for sure!

TF 3 : Don't miss out on the canal cruises along the different canal routes of Amsterdam. And its just between 8-10 euros. The city seems like an architectural wonder precariously balanced along the waterside, there are also these houses to ogle at...And no, before you think its because they are too poor to afford homes on firm ground, here's the reality check - these houseboats can cost you anywhere from 300,000 Euros upwards..And I got my zeros right in that figure!

TF 4: There are also trams for those lazy to walk, but I'd just say Shame on you..You miss so much!!!Ditto for Paris. Except for taking the Metro to traverse the larger distances, the thought of not walking up and down wherever reduces the charm of a holiday. Also refer to TF2 about burning the lard!

TF 5: Travelling from Amsterdam to Paris by train - Highly recommended - this way you cross through many places like Antwerp, Rotterdam and Brussels. All you see of these cities might be what you see from the train window, but then there's some fun in saying, 'Oh, I'd travelled to Paris from Amsterdam via blah blah blah cities.' Pompousness sometimes is deliciously enjoyable! If you book early by Eurostar, you can get some really cheap deals in the vicinity of 30 pounds.

TF 6: Never bother to cancel an Easyjet ticket when you find that you can't make it. For one, you will waste most of the balance on your phone trying to get through an elusive executive. And if you do, then there could be the chance that they charge you 25 pounds to cancel a ticket that cost you 20 pounds. Avoid insult on financial injury. Just zip it and bear the loss!

TF 7: Disappointment and Desperation are great travel companions if Luck is added into the mix..So when the Spain leg fell flat, I began cheaper 'Return Home' searches. One such one led me to a bus option. If you don't mind an 8 hour bus journey, then travelling by bus from Paris to London - highly recommended. For Indians, used to khataras and buses with asbestos sheets for seats, these are high luxury Volvo buses. Moreover, you get to travel by the ferry across from Calais to Dover. I don't know about you, but after reading about the Dover to Calais ferry ride in a short story back in school, this idea of travelling from one country to another by ferry was appealing. The Ferry is good fun, serves Food (English not French, so don't be too hopeful) and gets you from Calais to Dover in an hour and a bit.

TF 8: However, ensure you have enough time to find the bus stop, because like in my case, the address was bang in the middle of Rue de Maubeuge that curved and dipped like it felt like. And even people at the Paris Gare Du Nord Railway station don't usually know that the Rue de Maubeuge is in reality the little side street that runs by the left side of the station premises!! Can you beat that? When I couldn't locate door No. 83, I remembered asking two policemen in a car in the street nearby. For one, they were stumped by my non-French question and more importantly, they had no clue where the address was..imagine seeking their help if a murder were to happen at 83??

If travelling cheap and safe is what you are looking to do, remember to come back here for my cheap tricks to make your Euros stretch...There are many more fundas coming up - from accommodation to food to living it up!

Merci Beaucoup!! :)

Europe - Point and Shoot!!!

2010-09-15T14:45:00.000+01:00

It's been a pretty long while since I blogged..The last month has been traumatic...I wrote atleast about 17000 words that were whittled down to about 15000...And no, I didn't get a book contract...Nor did what I was writing give me as much satisfaction as blogging.. But then, the holy dissertation to ensure that you complete your MA ( that can conveniently also be redubbed D-shit-ations) had to be given priority..

So I was cut off from the blogosphere...hearing sad news in passing, hardly able to read much or even share the fun that I have had amidst d-shit-ation rants...

I have so much to share...so much to discuss..so here's the plan..beginning today, for the next one week or maybe less ( I'm yet to divide my stuff yet..) I shall have a travellogue series..Little snippets from here and there with of course photographs...

Amsterdam and Paris will be the two cities on the menu...and these will be short pieces, focussing on different aspects..food, fun and for sure the places of interest...I don't want to sound like a 'Welcome to Amsterdam, Glad to take you around' tour guide. So primarily in the next couple of days, I'll tell you what I saw and what I observed..What I did for fun and what I 'unfortunately' didn't do! 

It's been a long time since I heard from you all...So do drop a line, if you think its a good idea for a series...Your questions and comments can make this exercise interactive and fun for both of us..:) 

This series will be called Europe - Point and Shoot...:) 

Things Left Unsaid, Incomplete

2010-08-02T23:49:00.000+01:00

I write to seal holes...vacuum that needs to be filled with words or occasionally when the burden of thoughts become too heavy for the mind, unburdening is sometimes relief, other times necessary...Poetry has never been effortless for me..But some words left by the wayside beg to be pasted somewhere, kept pressed between pages...preserved for memories are precious, they are signposts of a life well lived, well loved.

She says:

On a cold windy blistered summer morn,

a cup of tea, handful of memories,

Some golden oldies, some untarnished love,

along a path, i like this solitude,

Dropping off parcels of love, on the way,
standing to sip some, smiling away others..
i live..i love..i let live...

He responds:

You live, you dont let know unless you tell

You tell because you want to let know

You think you let live because you live and let know

i know because you tell

i live because i know

i die when i dont know

you let me live by letting me know

you tell me cos you know

i live wanting to know

but

you dont know that ive died several deaths because

i dont know things i wish i knew.

i. you, i, you, i, you....

life is beyond it...but i wish i will know what to do with this knowledge before you knew that i cease to exist no more.

Have they taken Royal Admiration Tea-oo Far?

2010-07-28T20:02:00.000+01:00

I had been planning to tell you about this place before I left for India. I visited this place a couple of days before I lugged my bags halfway across the world to India. So there we were - the Chinese Chatpati, Finnish Femme Fatale, the Mexican Mambo No.1 and the Indian Idiot - out like the Brits to try 'a spot of tea' with the Royalty.

Now, the average Brit might be not too posh or gushy about their royalty, but inside every Brit git there is a heart that beats for the Royalty. I mean, think about it, why else would they pay thousands of pounds every year to maintain the Queen and her brood? Would a couple of extra pounds less on their crippling taxes have not been preferable? Not really, if you are a Brit, it seems. The mandatory curtsy by men and women at the Wimbledon are the best reminders of that, for me...

We had been planning this for a while, let me tell you. It all began with a discussion across a crowded University pub about this 'awfully pretentious' place, where if you weren't dressed right and didn't know how to hold a teacup right, you could be refused to be served and thrown out!!! Chinese Chatpati knew someone who had been told to unpark herself from the hardly comfortable chair and leave..Kind of like Fit in or Ship out Mate!!

Now Finn Fatale and Indian Idiot found this snortably funny. So we tested our repertoire of funny sounds and found that between us, we had a good collection. Mexican Mambo is the only guy in our class who is always willing for any spot of fun, even when it comes in the form of tea. The idea was to go there and irritate the crap out of the management if possible after sitting down for tea and see if we would be thrown out.

There we were, on a weekday, expecting to be the only people in Brighton with the idea of having tea at 2PM in the afternoon. From the outside and inside too, it looked as kitschy as Chinese Chatpati had said.

First glitch - No entry till 3PM, for there was a private bunny party on. We thought it would be in honour of the christening of someone's child, turns out it was a hen party. Women dressed for their girlfriend like bunnies..I thought it sounded kinky, and funnily that too in a tearoom!! We had little chance but to head elsewhere to spend some time till the tearoom could take in 'non-party' guests. At 3PM we were told, no entry till 3.30PM by a totally drunk bunny. A punch was folded back without being delivered, we decided to stick on, so much wait justified a teaful completion, didn't it?

At 3.30, we barged in, unmindful of the rude bunnies, ready to barbeque them alive if they even tried to move their whiskers. Sat down, right next to the windows. And that's when the kitschiness of the place hit us. Not a spot without some tacky or crazy Royal reminder of Britain's blue bloods.

This is when the second rude shock was delivered - the tearoom had changed management. We could snort and point our pinkies till our heart desired, there wasn't anyone to tick us off for our heathen behaviour, apparently. Deflated, we settled down to behave like ladies and have tea...ohhh..and the Mexican Mambo to be politically correct...

The Menu... Felt like we were invited for tea with the Royals themselves - Princess Anne tea and what not...What you think you will get is drastically different from what you get. The English tea service turned out in chipped cheap china teapots hidden behind gaudy tea cosies. Unmatched tea cups and plates must have been supposed to demonstrate quaint British charm. I'll refrain from commenting.

The scones with clotted cream and marmalade is supposed to make up for all the shortcomings in British cuisine in other departments. Unfortunately, I was served scones baked about a week in advance of our visit, the tea was too weak to even be protested against. ( I refuse to believe that it is my inbred Masala Chai snobbery)

Poor Finn Fatale opted for sa'wiches over scones, only to find that it was made of pasty white store-bought bread lathered on tar thick with butter and sweet chutney. Chinese Chatpati quietly stoically sipped her tea, while I think Mexican Mambo was the most accepting of the situation. He had a simple question - what do you expect from a 12-pound service? The cheap Indian idiot said quite a lot more..Why in India in 12 pounds I could get you some fine tea and better service at the Tea Centre!!

Then he laid down the killer line - but would you have had so much pictures to make up for the bad tea? True that...while we quietly paid up, we all said that to each other. Atleast we took a million pictures - Paisa vasool...We didn't get a chance to be thrown out or the satisfaction of having tea with the royalty. Hmmm..some cheap thrills are never meant to be.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotted Mind

2010-07-22T11:05:00.000+01:00

It's been awhile since I came here myself, time to dust out the cobwebs formed due to disuse. More importantly, make some noise and resettle myself so that I don't feel like an alien in my own space.

I have come armed with a pail and gardening gloves to weed out the straggler creepers that have set up home in this little sanctuary of mine. I guess I must blame the monsoons in India, it makes such a wonderful breeding ground for anything unwanted..

My very very black laptop bag that was left unused in my room after I landed in Kochi, turned a unholy shade of sickly gray in just a week. I didn't need microscopic vision to see monsoon fungus spreading all across it..

Kochi seemed to grow old in the months that I had been away. Strangely I have never felt that when I visited from Mumbai or other cities where I lived for most part of my adult life. I wonder if I sound like a rambler. Hear me out. There's something poignant about going back to your hometown that have always been coloured in with your fond memories. 

The problem is the disenchantment is sharper. The city not only has to make peace with crumbling infrastructure but also the heavy burden of living up to our expectations. As I made my way to the Marine Drive and the Boat Jetty in Kochi, I wondered how I never noticed how rundown it had become over the years. 

The tall buildings look ugly and squat, the colour run off in channels, leaving mildewed trails. Those 'big showrooms' with 'impressive stuff' look like figments of my imagination. The swanky malls and brands apart, little supermarket chains like Varkeys that gave Kochi its maiden taste of having the choice to decide your product preferences was all about, lay deserted. Heard they are shutting down. Many shops that I frequented as a child are no more. They either gave up the space for road widening or folded up as people queued up at newer shops. 

The Children's Park and Subhash Park of my weekend memories look like emaciated old ladies, unable to keep their spine straight, overrun with weeds. I saw kids still swinging on rusty swings, parents standing by uncomfortably, for the concrete benches had green puddles of stagnated water. The main attraction - the 'huge fountain' at the entrance looks like a sorry runt of an excuse. Ma used to sit there, waiting for us - children - to exhaust ourselves, before letting us make a mess of cone icecreams - dribbling it all over the pretty frocks. Now I look at those ugly orange cones and I cannot fathom how I thought they were 'the bestest in the world!' 

Did my city grow old or did I grow out of it? It reeks of uncaring authorities and no sense of civic pride in keeping it pretty. Where do the taxes go? I have seen 20 monsoons there before I upped and left. Did I never notice the apathy or has it just creeped in now? 

Maybe a city goes to seed just like our personal spaces go to seed. Disuse, abandonment, uncared for existence - black words but maybe my memory is at fault here. When I sit miles away, I see only the things I want to see, remember it the way that is convenient for me. The rest are tossed into the drawer of things I don't need. I don't know when my city found its way into that drawer. 

What's the point of this lament? Perhaps, I should begin the weeding and the clearing of cobwebs in my head first. Let's begin here. Clean up my little cyberspace apartment, light up some candles and mull it over.. Moreover, the famed English summer is in hiding, its dreary and cold. Maybe that's adding grist to the 'rumination' mills. :)  

Oh Why, Oh Why?!!

2010-07-09T16:13:00.002+01:00

So I have been tagged again...The Analyst ensures that I don't feel left out, a lone ranger in the blogosphere. I first saw this tag on The IndianHomeMaker's blog. I followed it on several blogs that I follow pretty regularly. I wasn't sure if I had much to write. But once I started writing, it was fun...

My Sins Against Gender Stereotypes are primarily a set of questions - I'm open to debate, ..A sensible point is always welcome, I don't entertain rants..Some are confessions, others are points I ponder over..

1. I have sinned against concepts of feminine allure - I like strong manly colognes over subtle whiffs of girly fragrances for myself. Thankfully there seem to be enough perfumes made for woMen like me..

2. I don't think that my prototype was fashioned out of Adam's spare rib...It gives me no happiness to hear that, just makes me unbearably argumentative.

3. Feminism is not a dirty word - I hate that gender stereotype of an outspoken woman being branded as a bra-burning feminist. Having an opinion has nothing to do with the decision to wear a bra or abandoning it altogether

4. Why do girls have to grow up to be like their mothers? Moms out there, take no offense, you rock - but why stereotype moms as 'homely' and then take the insult a step further by creating suffocating moulds for their daughters to fit in or be labelled 'rebels'?

5. Why does an unmarried Indian woman over 28 have to answer the World and His Uncle why she isn't married yet? Why is remaining choosy at 30 plus seen as a sign of 'sour grapes' or a desperate excuse for masking faults?

6. Why do 'Man among Men' have to have booming voices and/or be Tall, Dark and Handsome?

7. Who said being emotional is a feminine attribute? What is a masculine and feminine attribute? Most of my macho cousins 'cry like girls', while the girls are 'as brash as boys'..damn stereotypes..

8. Why do men who enjoy cooking and knitting rather than watching football while guzzling down pints of beer have to always hope that their friends will give them 'the benefit of the doubt' over their masculinity? Does it have to be asserted by having a girlfriend in tow?

9. Continuing from point 8, why do girls who are more passionate about sports than girlie frills have to suffer the tag of either being dubbed tomboys or pseudos trying to desperately fit in with their guy buddies?

10. Why does God have to be a Man, and why, oh why do people have to shake their head so vigorously in agreement when someone claims that God must be a Man? Can't he be an Elephant for all we really care? Does making him a Man solve the mystery over how the earth evolved or what's currently happening here? Conversely, Why blame Men for everything going wrong? ;)

( Another stereotyped peeve - So who said women are bad drivers? That men drive better?)

The Smell of Home...Truly

2010-07-03T14:37:00.000+01:00

Visiting Kerala during the Monsoons is always a pleasure...The lush green colours of my state always warms my heart. Two days ago, I revisited my mom's village in Thrissur. Can't call Triprayar a village anymore. This time I couldn't take any pictures...But reposting the pictures I took on my last trip there...

A trip through Kerala....to Malabar, my dad's land and a stop by in Triprayar...my mother's little dot on the map...seen through my Kodak lens.. Just testing my camera.... first pointed towards the sky...then downwards... The hyacinths floating across the river....painting even the river green, they hurry along with the currents but the glide is oh- so- beautiful....and when the purple flowers make an appearance, its prettier... You know you have reached Triprayar when you cross 'This little bridge over our own little Kwai' and across you see the majestic Triprayar temple....I sat on the steps of the temple, feeding the fishes....its called Meen oottu...one of my favourite rituals unique to the temple here.

When I was a child, I had  fond memories of fishes... that came to nibble on the rice being  dropped....Tiny little squiggles they were then...then you could stand  on the lowest step and feel the fishes nibble on your feet as you  dropped the little bits of rice...Now they are huge fat little monsters  and there is even a little bar that prevents you from walking till the  last steps....I couldn't capture the fishes but see the rumble of the  waters as they flap their fins... And then I got distracted  by the view across the river.....My dad dreams of building a little  house by the river here...Now so do I...nestled among the coconut  groves...with the gentle breeze and sunny skies...And the break over....our  car chugs on....destination: Arakkuparambu in Perinthalmanna in the  picturesque and forest covered Malappuram district of Kerala..Along the way...at all the  temples visited, I once again saw an art, they say is dying...typically  Kerala - the temple art is practised by trained local artists who used  only vegetable dyes to produce this....in most temples, the centuries  old art lies mold ridden and ruined...neglected..unfortunately  photography is not allowed inside the sanctum sanctorum where I have  seen some of the best works... The journey continues,  northwards....Malabar is a blur as we speed along...But the greens change  hue...its deeper, the contrasts starker...the terrain gets hilly...and  as we climb up one and go down the others, I realise why this is God's  favourite nook in the whole universe...his own land....

The  Sunlight streams through foliage, painting some green, yet others  greener..while the thickets embrace darkness.... Thats a little abode  created for snake gods...another kerala touch...the sarpakkavu at Dad's  tharavadu temple.. Behind the sarppakavu are  rubber trees....where little drops of white rubber go drip drip into  little coconut shells all year long...  The little green  lane...off the oft trodden track..  Anywhere you turn and  press the shutter, you find a frame...  Red bricks....the little  building blocks of memories for any true blue Mallu... after incessant  rains, the ground had turned slippery....the green of the moss in stark  contrast to the weather-stained red bricks...  And just as I turned the  corner...there far below, nearly half a hill down lay a pond...Even as my feet tickled to  dip my feet into it, came my father's nostalgic description....'When I  was a child these steps used to lead to the coldest pond in the whole  universe...' That little child is now 63 years old, but the enthusiasm  in his voice - ageless. It was my first trip to dad's  land....discovering a little patch of the soil...lush, steeped in  history..  

This is Going to Hurt Just a Little Bit!!!!

2010-07-01T08:10:00.001+01:00

My bucket of woes overfloweth. Got here just in time for my dentist to begin his protracted and may I add, calculated rape of my gravely endangered set of 32..(Not sure I have 32 anymore!!)

Every sitting that I go to him for, he finds new things wrong with my teeth. So in two sittings, I am halfway through a root canal, the mandatory gum cleaning and an assorted number of fillings. Every time, he suggests a new procedure, I console myself - imagine shelling out pounds. In the money, I would have had to shell out to my UK dentist ( who would have taken longer to grant me an audience as well) I can buy a dentist and his practice in Kochi..

After chuckling over my vivid description of what transpires on the dentist's chair ( stop imagining wicked things - he does everything with his dentist wife looking over his shoulder :) my friend e-mailed me this poem. I had read it sometime when I was in school but had forgotten about it,till she reminded me of it.

Reproducing it for all those who have been on the dentist's chair or know how lousy it feels. Psych Babbler, you for one, are in my thoughts..:)

This Is Going To Hurt Just A Little Bit by Ogden Nash

One thing I like less than most things is sitting in a dentist chair with my mouth wide open.

And that I will never have to do it again is a hope that I am against hope hopen.

Because some tortures are physical and some are mental,

But the one that is both is dental.

It is hard to be self-possessed

With your jaw digging into your chest.

So hard to retain your calm

When your fingernails are making serious alterations in your life line or love line or some other important line in your palm;

So hard to give your usual effect of cheery benignity

When you know your position is one of the two or three in life most lacking in dignity.

And your mouth is like a section of road that is being worked on.

And it is all cluttered up with stone crushers and concrete mixers and drills and steam rollers and there isn’t a nerve in your head thatyou aren’t being irked on.

Oh, some people are unfortunate enough to be strung up by thumbs.

And others have things done to their gums,

And your teeth are supposed to be being polished,

But you have reason to believe they are being demolished.

And the circumstance that adds most to your terror

Is that it’s all done with a mirror,

Because the dentist may be a bear, or as the Romans used to say, only they were referring to a feminine bear when they said it, an ursa,

But all the same how can you be sure when he takes his crowbar in one hand and mirror in the other he won’t get mixed up, the way you do when you try to tie a bow tie with the aid of a mirror, and forget that left is right and vice versa?

And then at last he says That will be all; but it isn’t because he then coats your mouth from cellar to roof

With something that I suspect is generally used to put a shine on a horse’s hoof.

And you totter to your feet and think. Well it’s all over now and afterall it was only this once.

And he says come back in three months.

And this, O Fate, is I think the most vicious circle that thou ever sentest,

That Man has to go continually to the dentist to keep his teeth in good condition

when the chief reason he wants his teeth in good condition

is so that he won’t have to go to the dentist.

It Happens Only in India!!

2010-06-28T16:21:00.001+01:00

Spend a few months away from home and suddenly you see things you were accustomed to, in a new light. No, this isn't 'Bloody India' syndrome. I can't stand being here anymore sort of rant. No, instead I believe it is us who need to introspect about what we always champion as our cultural superiority. It's time we kept the championing zeal aside and took a second look..

When I got to England, I was uncomfortable acknowledging random strangers saying a cheery 'Hello' or 'Good Morning'. The first thought in a doubting Indian mind is 'What vested interest do they have in saying it?'. I have never cracked a smile at random people while in India, 'We don't want to be thought of as loony, do we?'. Men are highly likely to take it as a come-on, while women would just give a frozen stare back in cold rejection. Why can't this be just a basic civility? One that is such a polite, trusting gesture. It takes no time, but puts a smile on the face, doesn't it? I do it as a matter of course now. The shuttle driver who drove us from the Mumbai airport to the aircraft had a stunned look in his face as I walked out thanking him - wonder if I imagined it or if he thought I had passed a snide remark as I was leaving.

My biggest grouse with people here would perhaps be their need to extract the last ounce out of the money they spend. See it this way, why else would people make such a hue and cry about queuing up to board their flights. As soon as the boarding announcement to Mumbai was made at the Heathrow airport, my Indian fellow passengers showed their true colours. It was a scamper to be the first to board the flight. Could it be the remnants of having to fight for the best seats in Deccan Airways that make people forget they have allotted seats and that the plane won't leave without them? Jet Airways made repeated announcements to ensure people remained seated till boarding began batch by batch. They perhaps forgot they were dealing with Indians. Dutyfree shopping bags jostled with hand baggage ensuring that no one could cut ahead of them, so there formed two lines. Repeated announcements for a single file to be formed fell on deaf ears. Ditto at Mumbai airport too. Boarding call announcements to various cities saw mad scrambles as early as 3.30 AM - as if there was a SALE on inside the plane. No one bothers to check if much time is actually lost in queuing up. I see more time, energy and effort wasted in trying to get ahead of the others. The only thing I see people getting out of jostling others rudely and edging themselves, one-step-at-a-time ahead is the mental satisfaction of having eked out the best value for the money spent by getting in first. After all, doesn't the plane get everyone to the destination at the same time?

Getting out of the airport, I noticed something else, that funnily never bothered me before. Maybe these days, I consider honking horns very rude. Time to report another pet peeve. If your car has to be eased out, you see another car blocking your exit while the passenger loads up his baggage, what do you do? Honk your horn continuously, making life miserable for you and them and anyone else in the vicinity? Does that actually make them stop and move their car and let you move on? Not really, right? Then why the wasted effort? Aren't a great deal of the traffic jams we see here caused because everyone tries to squeeze past - regardless of whether your attempt is inconveniencing fifty others behind you.

It's time we learnt some grace, some consideration for the other person. People who do it as an accepted gesture abroad, turn into heartless natives the moment they breathe in the Indian air. Yes, it might set us back by a couple of minutes, but won't you be in a better frame of mind, better disposition for having done a good deed for a stranger you will never meet again. Why is this culture missing? Will we ever learn? We pick up so many convenient Western customs, why not their civility?

Travails of a Lonely Traveller

2010-06-27T02:23:00.003+01:00

I am sore. I have huge bruises on my arms and my neck and shoulders feel like I have been carrying boulders for the best part of two days. I am grumpy, irritated and sleepless. Recognise the symptoms? It is jet lag compounded by my first experience of travelling home alone from England.

So there I was in summery Falmer counting down days to my happy homecoming in rainy Kochi.

Every day, I added a little bit extra to my bulging suitcase. Not much, I figured, definitely not more than the weight limit allowed for students – a good 46 kgs. Now what didn’t penetrate through my thick skull is that I needed to be less worried about the permitted weight limit and more about how I was going to carry it all.

The roads in the UK might be ideal for rolling suitcases, but unaffordable private transport means that you have to walk long distances lugging a 30 kilo suitcase, a 15 kilo backpack with your heavy laptop in it and a bulging ladies handbag that I positively couldn’t have made light.

And Uncle Murphy who made those weird laws, loves me a lot. So he ensured that he kept peeking over my shoulders throughout my trip to India. For starters, I miscalculated the time required to walk downhill with the listed luggage towards the station. What is normally a 15 minute trek turned into a 25 minute painful progress. Barely made the train to Brighton for the connecting one to London. I had forgotten to check if there was enough time between the two trains. So I had just 5 minutes to take my luggage out of the Brighton train and waddle towards the one headed to London.

At London began the next ordeal. There was a tube strike on – typical of London public transport, but why on the day I was travelling. More delays. By the time I changed lines and got to Heathrow, I could feel my left hand threatening to drop off. The right one had a purplish bruise developing – I haven’t figured when I picked that up yet. The Indian queues were as usual pretty pretty long. So by the time, I checked in my luggage and headed for security check, I was already late.

London airports have become notoriously fancy about security checks. So despite depositing all my lotions and potions in transparent plastic bags, I was one of the unfortunate few who had to stand silently as the security personnel sorted through my toiletries and laptop bag…Aaargh..more time lost..so the much praised Heathrow Dutyfree shopping experience mocked me as I rushed to the boarding gates.

A Heathrow-Mumbai-Kochi trip that begins at 9.30am, lands at a highly inconvenient 11.30 PM India time in Mumbai. Though my friends were on hand to help me while away some time, by 3.30 on Saturday morning, I was a grumpy grouch. The flight to Kochi was at 5.30AM, landing there about 7.15 in the morning. What are the chances that you land in Kerala on the day of a hartal? Pretty high. Thankfully, my ever reliable Dad was at hand to cut short the torture in my torturous journey home. What would I do without him??

A journey spread roughly over two days – the pet peeves that my grumpy, tired and bruised body and mind has about the travails of UK-India travel…that’s episode two.

More on Brazilian Jhatkas and Matkas

2010-06-21T19:00:00.001+01:00

A couple of months ago, I'd written this post called 'Indian' Bahu, Brazilian Beefcake and Bollywood Jhatkas (click here to to read that post, if you haven't) Strangely enough, that post seems to have been read pretty widely ( a fact I got to know thanks to Feedjit - the comments on that page are far and few to warrant such a claim)

The other day, I finally I got my flatmate L to send me the link to a lovely montage of all the Bollywood songs she knew. The way she says it, its Kadjrareeeee, Kadjrareeee...and a host of others. To my glee, this link came with the scenes from the Brazilian soap the songs were picturised on. I found it hilarious.

Point to Remember: None of the actors are Indians, they are all Brazilians who speak shuddh Portuguese. India is still the land of exotica and of course the Kama Sutra. When you watch the clip, notice the exaggerated jhatkas and matkas and of course our own special Sharmila Tagore eye makeup with a Brazilian twist.

I also chanced upon a figure skating team from the US performing an Indian number on the ice skating rink. They won the championship with this performance. While many of my friends critically claimed that their movements looked grotesque, I couldn't help wondering how difficult it must have been to choreograph such a piece to Indian music and try to pull something like that off. India suddenly seems to be the flavour everywhere.In a sense, expanding Indian soft power across the world.

Like the English laud our attempts to speak their language with our own style and quirks, I guess we must give the foreigners a chance to try out our dance and music, cuisine and culture in their style.

Live and Let Live, What Say?