The Freespirit

Rome-ing about...

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Sun, 27 Dec 2015 07:33:00 +0000

This has been a special year for my family as my parents celebrated their 40^th wedding anniversary and my dad just turned 70! To mark these milestones, my parents planned a trip to Rome in November. As they started planning the trip, my sister and I got involved in their discussions “to help”. Fast forward a few weeks, and what started off as a romantic trip for two turned into an epic week long family reunion of 7, in the heart of Italy which now included my sister and I, my husband and his parents!

While that sounds like a formula for misadventure, it ended up being one of the best vacations we’ve taken as a family, filled with food, laughter, wine and fun!

Since it turned out to be such an amazing trip, I’m sharing a semi-travelogue with tips and suggestions if you are planning on a family vacation to Rome.

Welcome to Roma!

Step 1: Accommodation

When you are traveling with a group as big as ours, and trying to stick to a budget, Airbnb has the best options. I spent an entire day researching Rome’s various neighbourhoods and zeroed in on Trastevere. I found a great 2-bed room apartment with enough beds to sleep 7 people, conveniently located 5 mins from the Trastevere metro station, with a supermarket across the street and various cafes and restaurants in the vicinity.

When you are traveling in a large group, a fully stocked apartment works out to be the most affordable. The supermarket was a lifesaver as we stocked up groceries for the entire week as soon as we arrived. My mother and mother-in-law brought various Indian spices and pre-made mixes that we could use to prepare simple meals with locally bought groceries. MIL even carried a little pressure cooker to make rice! (When I emailed the host of the Airbnb apartment to ask if they had a rice cooker, the guy’s puzzled response was – ‘What’s a rice cooker? In Italy we cook rice in a pot!’)

Step 2: Itinerary

Rome is one giant museum. Everywhere you look, you are sure to find ruins of some kind. With its rich (and violent) history, there is something for everyone – palaces, churches, ancient Roman temples, museums, art, sculpture, food, shopping, sights...the choices are endless.

I was given the responsibility of putting together an itinerary that would allow us to maximise the week. After going through a combination of Google, TripAdvisor and conversations with others who have been to Rome, I decided our trip should include visits to Florence and Pisa. I put together a plan, which worked out great for us, and I would recommend to anyone planning a week’s holiday in Rome and wants to see surrounding areas.

Here’s my recommended itinerary for your Roman Holiday.

Day 1 – Rome

Day 2 – Vatican & other neighbourhoods in Rome

Day 3 & 4 – Florence

Day 5 – Pisa

Day 6 – Rome

Step 3: Sights

As an avid traveler, the one trick I use to get a feel of the city is to take a walking tour with a local guide. When you are faced with overwhelming choices and do not have the patience to research your top picks, sign up for a free walking tour. All major cities offer walking tours (free and paid). The free tours are led often by students and other passionate locals who make substantial tips from these tours and are happy to share a piece of their city with visitors.

When I travel on my own or with my husband, my first choice is a free tour, where you join other tourists and take a 3-4 hour walk around the city at a comfortable pace, checking out the major landmarks and listening to the guide tell stories about them. The tip varies from 10-20 Euros depending on how good your guide is.

Given the size of my group and the senior citizens involved, I decided the free tour wouldn’t work for us in Rome and decided to book a paid private tour instead.

TripAdvisor came to the rescue again and I zeroed in on Walking Tours of Rome with Lara. (WTRL)

WTRL offers some fantastic options with carefully curated sights. We chose a walking tour of Downtown Rome, which includes a 3-hour stroll through the cobblestoned back streets of the historic centre of ancient Rome for our first day.

My parents pose in front of the Spanish Steps, Downtown Rome

On the second day, we went on the Vatican Tour, which includes a tour of the Vatican Museums, St.Peter’s Basilica and the Sistine Chapel.

I would have liked to go on the Best of Rome tour, which covers all the major sights of this historic city in one day, but takes around 8 hours to complete. Since my group included 4 people over the age of 60, I realized an 8-hour walking tour was simply not going to work.

We visited Rome in the end of November, just as the weather gets cooler and the rains start to make an appearance. Luckily, the rains didn’t disrupt our holiday too much, except on one day, most of which we spent inside the Vatican Museums.

There's so much to see in Rome and simply not enough time or days. Based on everything that I saw, here are my top 4 picks in Rome:

1) Coliseum

The magnificent ancient Roman amphitheater is truly an architectural wonder. Completed in 80 AD under the Flavian dynasty, the Coliseum in its heydays could hold up to 80,000 spectators. Remember those Gladiator contests from the Russell Crowe movie? Those things used to take place in this very Coliseum. The ancient Romans also used it for other forms of entertainment including theatrical performances and public executions! It went out of use in the early medieval era (at least for entertainment purposes) and fell into ruin over the centuries from damage caused by earthquakes and stone-robbers.

A Panorama of the Coliseum and its surroundings in the evening light

Interior of the Coliseum

Despite being thousands of years old and in ruins, the Coliseum is certainly one of the most iconic symbols of ancient imperial Rome. A €25 million restoration of the Coliseum is underway and we saw tarps covering construction sites in various parts of the amphitheater.

2) Vatican City

Everyone knows this today as the seat of Pope Francis and the Catholic Church, as well as the smallest independent city-state in the world. But not many are aware, that at the time of the Roman Republic, the Vatican was an uninhabited marsh on the west bank of the Tiber river across the city of Rome. Interestingly, long before the arrival of Christianity, the area was considered sacred and a shrine dedicated to the Phrygian Goddess Cybele was present there and in use, even while Emperor Constantin built the original St.Peter’s Basilica nearby.

St.Peter's Square where the Pope gives audience

Our guide Linda from WTRL is by far the most amazing tour guide I have come across. She is a brilliant storyteller and has this wonderful animated way of describing events and people from a bygone era. Whether she is talking about how Michelangelo came to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel or describing the significance of a painting or a statue, you feel like she was there when it happened and she is relaying a first-hand account of events, complete with hand gestures, facial expressions and tone of voice!

Traveller Tips:

a) The Vatican Museums are HUGE. If you don’t want to get stuck standing in a long queue, buy the tickets online for the date and time of visit and save yourself and everyone time and energy.

b) You’ll be lost and confused without a guide. The Vatican does offer audio guides to help you figure out what you are looking at, but there is SO MUCH to look at, it is pretty much impossible to know what should take priority.

Art and Sculptures in the Vatican Museums

Thanks to Linda, who had a clear agenda and took us decisively through the museums from sculptures to paintings, stopping at all the important ones, and explaining the story behind them, we managed to see all the major highlights. Even then it took us nearly 3 hours and according to Linda, the equivalent of 4KM of walking.

c) You are not allowed to speak or take pictures inside the Sistine Chapel. The guards are constantly reminding you of that and will physically stop you from taking pictures if they catch you. It is a sacred place and one deserving of appropriate respect.

The first photo is the balcony from which the Pope gives his audience. The rest are from inside St.Peter's Basilica

We were awestruck by the beauty of Michelangelo’s paintings on the ceiling. Linda told us the interesting story of how Michelangelo came to paint the ceiling. Apparently he never considered himself a good painter. His first love was sculpture and that's what he focused his time and efforts on. When Pope Julius II invited him to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, he is supposed to have balked. But, one doesn't turn down a request from the Pope, however celebrated an artist, and Michelangelo reluctantly accepted the commission. He spent the next 4 years of his life perched on scaffolding creating the masterpiece that he has come to be so closely identified with. The irony is that he was so miserable during the project and the physical toll it took on him, he even wrote a poem about it and concluded - "I am not in the right place; I am not a painter."

Swiss Guards outside the Pope's private residence

3) Trevi Fountain and its surrounding area

The Trevi Fountain has made an appearance in a number of movies, the most iconic and earliest is, of course, Roman Holiday. Legend has it that a young girl led thirsty Roman soldiers 13km from the city of Rome to a source of pure water back in 19 BC. This discovery led to the construction of an aqueduct, which served Rome for over 400 years! Today, tourists come from all over the world and throw coins into the Fountain, which is supposed to help them return to Rome in the future.

Image courtesy: Italian Notes

My sister and I are happy with our coin throwing and hope to go back to Rome!

More than 3000 Euros are collected in the fountain every day and the city uses it to support a supermarket for the poor and needy. The fountain had just reopened a few weeks before our visit, after being closed for more than a year for restoration. The crowds made it pretty much impossible to get a proper photograph with the entire, dramatic structure of the fountain. Those little dark blobs in the photo above are coins at the floor of the fountain.

I personally enjoyed strolling through the Trevi neighborhood with its narrow, cobblestoned alleys and beautiful old buildings. One you are tired of the tourists around the Trevi Fountain, head a few blocks away to the Palazzo del Quirinale and the piazza near it. The wide, open space with a view is a relief from the crowds, and the palazzo is beautiful. Admire the guards as they go about their business in spiffy uniforms.

Traveller Tip: In all the major tourist areas you will find people dressed in costumes, offering to take photos with you for a fee. If you try to take their picture surreptitiously, they get really upset, especially the painted characters. The most common costumed fellas are the gladiators, dressed in full gear including helmet and sword. The husband and I decided to get a picture with them and after we got our photos, they demanded 20 Euro per person. We were taken aback....we thought it was 20 for our pictures together. We don't speak any Italian and these were big guys, we decided to let it go and not get into an argument. A minute later, we told our guide Laura who had been busy answering some questions for my parents and had missed this encounter. Laura got visibly furious and demanded to know which 'gladiators' had pulled the con on us. Pint-sized Laura walked to them and let loose a stream of Italian, at the end of which, the guys returned one 20 Euro note to her!

4) Piazza di Campidoglio

Designed by Michaelangelo, this beautiful square is laid out between two summits of the Capitoline Hill, the most important of Rome’s fabled seven hills.

The Campidoglio Square with its intriguing trapezoidal design on a gloomy, rainy day

We went there on a cold, rainy, windy day, which also was our last full day in Rome. The location was suggested by a professional photographer I hired to take group pictures of the family. Given the rarity of all of us coming together in one place after a really long time, I wanted to make sure we got some good professional shots taken of the family.

Since it was our last day in Rome, the rain and the wind were not going to stop us from getting out and maximizing our limited time.

A view of the Rome skyline and Vatican at a distance from top of the square

Emperor Charles V was planning to visit Rome and the Capitoline Hill was in a derelict state. Pope Paul III asked Michelangelo to design a new square fit to receive the Emperor.

Michelangelo created an ambitious plan, which included the Cordonate, the grandiose, slow rising staircase that leads from the bottom of the Capitoline Hill to the piazza, and redesign of the existing buildings around the square. Construction of the square started in 1546, but only the staircase at the entrance of the Palazzo Senatorio was realized when Michelangelo died in 1564.

The family reunites at the Cordonate

Must see: The statue of Emperor Marcus Aurelius and the Capitoline Museum.

Local Transport

I recommend taking the metro rail, which is super easy and cheap. If you are in a group and have older people who may find it difficult to navigate through the metro system, Uber offers a Van option (for big groups) as well as a Uber Tour option, which is basically a two and a half hour, 100 Euro scenic car ride through the city.

We didn’t experience the UberTour, but we did take the Uber Van on most days, simply because it was convenient in the near freezing, cold weather. Pricier, but when you have decided to invest in having a good trip and making sure everyone is comfortable and not stressed out with logistics, those few extra euros are totally worth it.

We did take the metro train back from the Coliseum one day since the station was right across the road and it was pretty easy. Trams and buses are the other popular mode of affordable local transport.

Inter-city travel

Domenico and Laura, our Airbnb hosts were amazingly informative and provided us with train schedules and recommendations. The fast train from Rome central to Florence takes about an hour and 30 minutes and there’s one every few hours. The regular train takes around 3 hours.

We were able to book tickets online for the fast train for the next day through the Italia Rail website. Trains that begin with the word ‘frecce’ are the fast trains.

From Florence to Pisa, there’s a train every few minutes and takes less than an hour. We booked another charming apartment in the heart of Florence, right by the historic Ponte Vecchio arch bridge that has been around since the medieval ages. We spent a day and a half strolling through the streets of Florence (which requires an entire post dedicated to it) and took the train to Pisa after storing our luggage in the train station’s left luggage locker. That left us free to get to Pisa and back without lugging our things, in the course of one afternoon.

A replica of the statue of David by Michelangelo in Florence

Basilica of Saint Mary of the Flower, Florence

Florence at night

Ideally, a trip to Florence should be combined with a visit to the Tuscan countryside. A number of tour operators offer half and full day tours that start at Florence and go to Siena, Chianti, Pisa and back. Since we had limited time and the tour we wanted didn’t have any open spots for that day, we decided to spend most of our time exploring the streets and museums of Florence and designated a 4 hour round trip to Pisa to just see the Leaning Tower and get back.

I saw the Leaning Tower and went - Eh? That's not very tall!

A note of caution: Trains in Italy will get delayed. Every single train journey we took between the three cities was delayed by between a few minutes to a few hours! Announcements at the station are only in Italian and it isn’t easy to find information booths.

We had a bit of a misadventure on our way back from Pisa to Florence. We had booked a return trip on the second last train from Florence to Rome, confident that we will be back in Florence with enough time.

Someone jumped on the train track that our train was supposed to take to enter the Firenze Santa Maria Novella station (Central Florence) and the tracks were blocked. Many trains were delayed (except the ones going to Rome, as our luck would have it). We got stuck waiting in the train 10 minutes outside Florence for more than an hour, missed our connecting train and barely made the last train to Rome. By the time we got back to our apartment in Rome that night, everyone was exhausted and travelled out!

Lesson to other tourists in Italy – Don’t plan a timed itinerary of any sort if you plan to travel by the Italian trains!

Food

Everyone in our group, except my sister, is vegetarian. While this has posed a challenge in the past when traveling in Europe, in Italy an abundance of vegetarian options are available (and not just pizzas or Penne Arabiatta!). I highly recommend eating at an authentic Italian Trattoria. These are rustic, family style establishments where old local family recipes are cooked in the kitchen by an elderly Italian woman. Wine is served in a decanter, service is casual, food is delicious and plentiful and you get a taste of the real Italy.

While many restaurants today claim to be running Trattoria style establishments, the genuine Trattorias have dwindled in numbers. We were lucky to eat some terrific Tuscan style vegetarian food in Trattoria Mama Anna (Mama Anna’s Eatery) in Florence, a hole in the wall place near the Pento Vecchio. Mama Anna, a portly Italian grandma spoke all of 3 words in English but served us the most delicious Tuscan family food which included soups, risotto, lasagne, gnocchi and several other dishes I can’t remember now. Because Tuscany is traditionally an agricultural society formed on the foundation of wholesome, delicious produce, a bounty of vegetarian delicacies are on offer.

And it was time to say Ciao…

I’ve barely skimmed the surface of everything we did and saw during this trip. And we only just about touched all the usual touristy spots. There is so much more to Rome and so much more to Italy. A week is honestly not enough. A week just gets your started. To experience Italy, you have to immerse yourself in Italy.

Flying through the Sky : My Skydiving Experience

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Sun, 20 Dec 2015 01:46:00 +0000

Have you ever wondered what it's like to fly? To soar above the clouds and get a bird's eye view of the world below, as you feel the wind on your face...

My husband, an avid skydiver had described the feeling so many times, that I knew I wanted to experience it for myself. But each time we made plans to book me a slot at the skydiving place about 50 miles from where we live, either the weather was uncooperative or they just didn't have a free slot for when I wanted it.

Then fate took us on a trip to Zurich for a week in the summer and as I was researching places to explore in and around Zurich, there it was tucked away between the recommendation for a chocolate factory and a waterfall, a place to skydive near Lake Lucerne, about an hour's drive from Zurich.

Among the many things Switzerland is blessed with, natural beauty tops the list. Once the idea of jumping off a plane above a picturesque Swiss village on a perfect, sunny day took form in my head, it continued to grow and take the shape of a bird just itching to spread its wings and fly. We called the place and managed to score 3 spots for the next day and off we went, the husband and I, accompanied by his cousin who had just moved to Zurich, to get a taste of the Swiss countryside from high above.

We rented a car and programmed in the address for Paraclub Beromunster in Neudorf in the Lucerne region. The hour long journey took us to a lush green picture postcard village and the address on the GPS landed us right in the middle of a farm! A real Swiss farm with large cows grazing lazily, little Swiss kids playing with a wheelbarrow and narrow country roads with fenced meadows on either side and not a sign of a plane or a hangar or anything resembling adventure sports!

After one confusing phone call to Paraclub with instructions to follow the only main road in Neudorf (no detours or turns into farmland) till we come across a signboard clearly marked with the name of the club, we found ourselves backing up on the narrow country road, as a tractor with a puzzled looking farmer went by on the adjacent crossroad. Eventually, we got back on the main road (the only main road in the village of Neudorf, pop. 1196) while Lady Google protested noisily on the GPS about how off we were from our destination and followed the road till we saw little planes flying overhead and came across the signboard as promised!

Once at the club, we saw dozens of people in blue flying suits milling about, talking to the instructors, lying down on the grass, packing and unpacking parachutes and small planes landed and took off barely 100 feet from where we were! A sudden movement in the sky caught my eye and I looked up to see a guy floating down in a parachute with the instructor strapped to his back. That suddenly made it real for me.

Holy Cow! I was here and I was going to jump off a plane and dive into nothingness. We quickly got ourselves registered and changed into the flying suits and introduced to our tandem instructors. Beginners can only jump with an experienced instructor strapped to them. (You need to go through 7 levels of Accelerated Freefall which includes some 25 jumps and completion of certain review items before getting certified to jump solo.)

My instructor Tom was this super funny guy who kept trying to scare me by saying this was his first dive as a tandem instructor and I should wish him luck. But nothing could dampen by excitement. Tom went through the safety procedure and instructions on how to hold my arms and legs as we jump off the plane, what to do when he taps me on the shoulder (one tap on the shoulder to open your arms. Second to brings arms to chest as the parachute opens. Knees bent for landing). At 4000 meters with the wind howling and the helmet strapped around your ear, you can't hear a word of anything being said.

Finally, it was time for the three of us to get on the plane with our instructors and head up into the blue, blue sky! Thanks to my husband's repeated 'briefing' I was expecting the fear to kick in as I climbed into the little plane. I surprised myself as all I felt was the adrenalin coursing through my body and not a shred of fear!

As the plane gained height Tom kept cracking jokes and Stelio, another instructor who had a GoPro camera strapped to his helmet to record my flight kept shoving the camera to my face trying to capture my expression as we prepared to jump.

'Sit on my lap', says Tom, being a bit too familiar for a man who just met me! But that’s how he can strap his harness with mine and we are bound in tandem.

At last, we were at the 4000-meter altitude and ready to jump. I was mentally prepared to jump face down and feel my stomach drop the way it does on a roller coaster. I was the first in line to jump. Stelio perched himself half outside the door, holding on to what seemed like the wing of the plane, to make sure he can record me jumping out.

And suddenly it was time. No going back. Whoosh…into the abyss below…..

But wait….why wasn’t I seeing the greenery below? Why was everything blue and white? The force of the wind had turned us upside down as we jumped, so I was now facing up towards the plane, instead of looking down at what was below. I panicked, flailing my arms trying to hold on to something…anything...but luckily that’s why they have the instructor jump in tandem with you so that you don’t do something silly mid-air! Tom was clearly an expert, and within seconds he had us facing down and suddenly I was flying.

My arms were spread wide, the cold blast of wind whips my face with an unexpected force, and I was weightless. I’m spinning, body and mind, a few thousand meters above ground, every nerve in my being is on fire. Stelio was right in front of me, his helmet camera recording every moment of my flight and he grabbed my hands and started whooping, urging me to smile for the camera!

We laughed like a bunch of crazy people, spinning back and forth in a free fall for what felt like a long time, but was only 15 seconds and then it was time to let go. Stelio moved away, and Tom deployed the parachute and we were now floating above the edge of the beautiful Lake Luzerne with tiny houses and farms dotting the lush green landscape. Tom asks if I wanted to spin around and I decline. I just want to take it all in.

That's Lake Luzerne from ground level...now try to imagine what it was like to see it from up there!

How do I explain what I felt in those few precious minutes…. It’s freedom, it’s intoxicating, it’s an out of body experience, it’s enough to mess with your mind.

Soon, the familiar airfield comes into view with tiny people waving at us, and we sweep into land gracelessly on our asses (apparently the best way to land and avoid injuring your knees).

Here's the video that Stelio handed to me about 20 minutes after we landed and I was still buzzing from the adrenaline.

After years of talking about it, and several false starts, it took a trip to Switzerland in my 37th year to get on a plane, strap myself to a strange man, fly up 4000 meters and jump out of it into a free fall and live to tell the tale!

Apathy and Empathy: Stranded in Istanbul, Saved by a Stranger

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Wed, 02 Dec 2015 01:18:00 +0000

I posted this originally on my Facebook, sitting in a coffee shop in Istanbul airport at 6 AM after a harrowing experience, which ended with something that truly restored my faith in humanity, especially at a time when intolerance and fear-mongering is turning many people's brains into mush!

I was flying back from London to San Francisco through Istanbul on Turkish Airlines. I left London at 10.30 PM last night and arrived in Istanbul at 4 AM and have an 8 hour lay over before my connection to SFO. I wanted to take advantage of this and arranged to meet with friends who live here, for breakfast. Having visited Istanbul several times in the past, I have come to love this city and its very friendly people. But this morning, some of that changed.

Turkey allows people with an Indian passport who hold a valid US visa to get a visa on arrival. Having been here a few times in the past, I knew this to be a pretty straightforward process at passport control. However, in the one year since I last visited, a new e-visa machine has been introduced which prints out the visa document after you input your details and pay the $43 fee.

Thinking what an efficient system this is, I proceeded to use the machine and fill up all the required information. How mistaken I was! At the payment page, I tried using my debit card and my payment was declined. I didn't have any other card with me, as just before I left the US two weeks ago, I lost my wallet and hence only have a temporary emergency debit card issued by Bank of America the day I was flying out.

I tried the card 3 times and each time the payment was declined. I went to a counter clearly marked Visa where a lone bored looking guy sat watching TV. I explained the problem to him and asked for help. He says, sorry, go to information desk.

I walk around trying to find the info desk and finally spot a tiny desk with another lone, bored guy. Turns out he doesn't speak a word of English but he uses a translation app on his phone to communicate. After a fruitless 15 min conversation with him using sign language and this blessed app, I figure out he is not the info desk guy but just a security guard temporarily using the desk. He finally points me to another counter marked 'document check desk'. I go there and repeat my story and this time I am told - 'Go to Turkish Airlines, they will help you.'

I go find a Turkish Airlines transfer desk and try to explain the situation only to be faced with a very rude agent who doesn't care and clearly couldn't be bothered. She pretty much behaved like I had the plague and couldn't wait to get away from me.

I walked all the way back to the visa desk guy and extremely politely apologize for disturbing ~~his TV watching~~ him again and explained that I have been given the run around and can't find anyone to help. This time he says - Try Turkish airlines office on this side (pointing to a different direction). You can pay cash there and they can use their system to generate the visa.

Another long walk and this Turkish Airlines agent looks baffled when I explain what the visa guy told me. He says - 'sorry, can't do anything. I can give you voucher for free breakfast at the lounge!'

By this time, I am frustrated! I decline his offer of the voucher and lug myself back to the visa desk. It's been an hour since this saga started and I have been walking up and down the airport with no real help from anyone. Lack of sleep, frustration, anger, the early morning hour and the fatigue have my nerves on the edge already and this time when I ask the visa guy to please help me out by accepting cash, I can hear my voice breaking and my eyes threatening to spill over with tears!

The utterly useless and unhelpful visa guy says, "sorry, India passport, e-visa only. No cash".

I asked him what if I didn't have a connection to the US and Istanbul was my final destination, would I be deported? Or just sit around in the airport like Tom Hanks in that movie!

He simply doesn't care and goes back to his TV. This time, there was another passenger near the visa desk who had just successfully received his e-visa and he had witnessed my entire encounter. He asked me hesitantly in broken English if he could help.

From his accent, I could make out he was from the Middle East. He initially thought I didn't have any money for my visa and started to offer me cash. I explained my situation to him and he immediately offered to walk the 100 meters back to the e-visa machine and use his credit card. I was genuinely surprised and truly grateful to him and walked back to the machine. This time, as I filled out all the information, he patiently waited and at the payment page, used his credit card which went through immediately. A few seconds later, my visa document was printed.

The relief and the kindness of this complete stranger after all the apathy I had encountered from the Turkish staff at the airport was so overwhelming, I am embarrassed to admit I burst into tears! If it wasn't culturally inappropriate I would have hugged the guy in gratitude.

I only had $20 bills and tried to give him 3 of them since I didn't have $43.75 in exact change. He refused to accept it! After some cajoling he took only $40 and was about to walk away (probably afraid of the scene I was causing with my teary face). I asked him for his name and where he was from. Moutem (probably not the correct spelling) from Saudi Arabia.

Before today, my opinion of Saudi men came from books (anyone read Princess?) and the media, which was obviously not very flattering. Today, Moutem from Saudi just shattered that image and taught me an important lesson on the dangers of preconceived notion. And he restored my faith in humanity and in the goodness of strangers at a time when the world needs more of it.

Shukran Habibi! Inshallah, one day I will pay this kindness forward.

New Orleans Diary:Cities of the Dead

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Sat, 09 Aug 2014 11:26:00 +0000

If you are a history buff and have a thing for crazy stories and anecdotes, New Orleans is the perfect place to visit. War, culture, food, paranormal, voodoo....you name it, they got stories around it. At some point, fact and fiction intermingle and history becomes a collection of fascinating stories that are told and retold by tour guides, horse carriage drivers, pedicab riders and bartenders!

My husband M and I spent an amazing week in this very unique city and fell in love with everything the city had to offer. Steeped in a history of influences from Europe, the Caribbean, Africa and beyond, it's home to a truly unique melting pot of culture, food and music. We heard new stories every day and went back at night to google more information (at least I did!). We were hooked!

One such story revolves around how the city honours its dead. In New Orleans they don't bury their dearly departed six feet under, but in mausoleum like tombs above the ground. And to understand the reason behind this practice, we need to go back in time to the time NOLA (New Orleans, Louisiana) was founded. It was nothing but a muddy swamp with some wooden shacks by the Mississippi river when the French claimed it. The entire city was built on swampland. Most of the city is 7 feet below sea level and the French Quarter is a towering 2 feet above sea level! So the water table is pretty high.

So, when the family of early settlers tried to bury Uncle Harry in a coffin below ground, they couldn't dig too deep without making a soggy, watery mess. Initially they tried to keep him down with stone slabs, but the city is also prone to frequent rainstorms, hurricanes and flooding. That means, one rainstorm later, the rising water table would literally pop the coffin out from below ground and Uncle Harry came floating by to the doorstep to say hello from the beyond.

Taking inspiration from their European colonisers, where interring the dead in vaults was a common practice, they started building above ground tombs to place the coffins. This is where it gets interesting. Entire families are buried in one tomb. What happens is that a family buys a plot to build their tomb and this is passed down through the generations. When a family member passes on, he is placed in a coffin and interred in the vault and the vault is sealed shut. In the New Orleans heat, it doesn't take very long for bodies to decompose (they are literally baking in the vaults). One year and one day later, the vault is broken open and whatever little remains, is placed in a special burial bag and pushed to the back of the vault, from where it goes down a chute to the ground below. The coffin is then destroyed, and the vault is now ready for a newly deceased family member.

Over time the cemeteries, with elaborate sculptures and other decorative artwork embellishing the tombs, have come to come to resemble small villages, earning the nickname 'Cities of the Dead'.

Cities of the Dead: St.Louis Cemetery No.3

We visited St.Louis Cemetery No.3, one of the oldest cemeteries in the cities, near the French Quarter. Walking through the rows and rows of tombs is like taking a walk down history. We came across really old dilapidated tombs from the early 1800s that listed the names of the family members buried in there, with the last one placed there more than 50 years ago.

These vaults haven't seen new members in more than 50-60 years.

Names of family members buried are listed on the face of the vault.

This possibly means that either the lineage ended or the families have long moved away. Some tombs have a brass plate embedded in the ground in front of them that says 'perpetual care'. This means families have made arrangements with the archdiocese to take care of the tombs long after they cease to exist.

Our Tour guide Grant shows us the contrast between the new and the old

One tomb in particular caught my eye, because the last member buried in there was a victim of Hurricane Katarina in 2005.

The last family member in this vault was a victim of Katrina

There are 42 such cemeteries in New Orleans with many fascinating stories. Tour companies conduct detailed guided tours. Pirates, politicians, Voodoo Queens....they are all in there. We stopped by this one as part of our guided bike tour of the city. Our tour guide told us that on All Saints day, families show up here to celebrate their dead by cleaning the tombs, polishing the marble, placing fresh flowers and have full fledged picnics and parties around the tombs!

As the popular Cajun expression in New Orleans goes - 'Laissez les bons temps rouler' (Let the good times roll!)

Book Review: Asura, the tale of the vanquished

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Sun, 20 Jul 2014 13:12:00 +0000

For many thousands of years stories have been told and retold and the written word played no part in it. In fact in many different cultures, storytellers most often performed their stories, and with each performance shaped and reshaped the tales as they wished. Once the written word came about and books became widely available, stories got recorded in a standard format and gained value as somewhat of an original unit of knowledge.

English novelist Jeannette Winterson wrote in her memoir, 'When we tell a story, we exercise control, but in such a way to leave a gap, an opening. It is a version, but never a final one. And perhaps we hope that the silences will be heard by someone else, and the story can continue, can be retold."

Every Indian who grew up in India (and I guess readers in Thailand, Bali and other Hindu influenced cultures) knows the story of the Ramayana. The epic tale of good vs evil that has enthralled readers through the centuries and has been retold through the pages of history from the victor's point of view, each version glorifying his feats further. In the many retellings of the Ramayana, the basic premise never changes. Rama, the brave warrior prince slays Ravana, the demon king to avenge the kidnapping of his wife Sita and rescue her from the land of Lanka.

So when I came across 'Asura' by Anand Neelakantan that promised to tell the story from the perspective of the vanquished, essentially, the Ravanayana, the journey of Ravana, I was hooked.

The back of the book blurb was enough to get me excited and I bought it immediately at an airport bookstore earlier this year. The idea that Ravana, the villain had a story, one that justified his actions and that story had been lost over the centuries as the written word drowned out the voice of the vanquished, was fascinating!

"......as is the nature of the world, the good deeds of the victor would be exaggerated and the bad deeds obliterated from memory. And if the doings of the victor could not be justified by the prevailing moral codes of society, he would be elevated to godhood, for who could question a God?"

For various reasons, I ended up not starting on the book till just a few weeks ago. The opening chapter finds Ravana fallen on the battlefield of Lanka, having lost his army, his trusted generals and his sons, but not yet ready to leave his mortal body. He knows the end is near, jackals and rats are feeding on his body and that he has a tenuous hold on life. He is lying there reliving the life he led, but at no point regretting any of his actions. He only fears that his beloved Lanka is falling in the wrong hands and everything he has built will be destroyed.

So far so good. I couldn't wait to read more. And that's when it started to go south. With such a fantastic premise and the limitless possibility of deconstructing mythology in a logical way, the author embarked on a brave project, but ended up making a hash of the writing.

When I started the book, I expected to have understood the character of Ravana better by the end of it and perhaps even sympathised with him. What ended up happening though is Ravana is portrayed as a totally schizophrenic character. He starts off being arrogant and selfish and just as you begin to accept him that way, he is suddenly emotional and insightful, then just as swiftly he sounds like a silly court jester! I get the point that he is supposed to personify a man who embraces all nine human emotions (hence his portrayal as the ten-headed one in popular culture) but I am sure pretty sure there is a better way to developing his character than someone with crazy mood swings. I simply couldn't connect with his character or even visualise him, the way I normally do when reading a book.

The concept that all myths are machinations of ancient politicians and people came to believe what they found convenient and this was propagated further through numerous writings over time, is very clear. The research is fantastic and the busting of all the mythological elements into realistic events is refreshing. In this humanized version there are no gods or demons with magical powers. Devas and Asuras are clans as are the Vanaras, who are mockingly called monkey-men due to their mixed parentage. Ravana is not an exalted personage with ten heads but an ambitious, hot-blooded warrior who wants to rule.

The introduction of the character of Bhadra, as the voice of the common man is a brilliant touch. Through Bhadra's first person narration you can see that irrespective of who the ruler is, when politics and power play are involved, the common man is the loser.

{spoiler alert} The shocking revelation that Sita was in fact Ravana's daughter, abandoned as a baby by his generals when Ravana was taken prisoner in the battlefield, and he only kidnapped her to save her from what he believed would be a subjugated life as Rama's wife is a genius plot twist and that kept me going for a few more chapters. But the lack of any further development in that storyline of what he does to change her mind once he gets her back, leaves a gaping hole.

The awful, repetitive literary style that constantly rehashed the same arguments around the caste system and the class struggle, the lack of character development, the repeated anti-brahmin sentiments, the divisive north-south commentary, the strange, caustic sarcasm in unlikely scenarios, just totally put me off. I usually do my best to finish a book, however bad it is, even if I have to speed read and skip a few pages, but with this one, I just couldn't bring myself to go through to the end.

If you want an example of how a good idea can be destroyed by bad writing, then 'Asura: The tale of the vanquished' is the perfect specimen. I do hope though that someone else will take the same idea and characters and weave them into a more engaging tale.

My husband, the Mexicans and a social experiment

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Mon, 09 Jun 2014 04:46:00 +0000

Every so often we all come across stories of regular people doing something so genuinely nice that it seems extraordinary. It goes viral on Facebook and everyone is commenting on what a lovely thing he or she did. But how many of us would do something like that faced with the same situation/scenario.

This morning I woke up to a photograph of a young Mexican father with 2 adolescent daughters sent by my husband with the caption- new friends. I assumed they were people he bumped into during his daily hike in the San Ramon valley. But it turned out the story behind the photograph was far more interesting.

New Friends!

M was on his way to dinner at an Indian restaurant in a relatively upscale neighbourhood. Just as he was pulling into the parking lot he noticed this young family sitting at the sidewalk with a handwritten sign in front of them - 'Please help. About to get evicted. Need money for food and rent.'

Seeing the two young girls bothered him and he decided to go talk to them. Turned out they were illegal Mexican immigrants who barely spoke any English. The father was a house painter who had lost his job and had two other kids at home with his wife. The youngest was still breast feeding. He had been looking for work everywhere but no one wanted to employ an illegal. He came to this upscale area hoping desperately that people there with resources may be more amenable to helping.

How wrong he was!

Knowing my husband and his penchant for pushing the boundaries, in some ways I am not surprised at what he did next. He decided on a social experiment and sat down on the sidewalk with this family. With his light brown eyes and tan skin, he can easily pass for a Hispanic.To a passerby he would look like he's part of the group on the sidewalk looking for help. His purpose in sitting down was to try to talk to them to determine if this was a genuine case or a scam.

As he was talking to them, many people walked by, and while most just ignored them pretending they didn't exist, some who did look at them initially looked at them with pity, followed quickly by a withdrawal, replaced with skepticism. And with M sitting there on the sidewalk with them, the looks were directed at him too.

As a visibly affluent couple walked by, he decided to try something new. He called out to them and asked if they could help this family that couldn't speak English and needed assistance. The man walked right past as though he hadn't heard. The woman stopped, turned around, hesitated for a moment and the conflict of emotions was visible on her face. Eventually she shrugged apologetically and said, sorry I don't have any change.

Soon after, another young guy who looked like he could do with some help himself came over with some food and water for them! As M explained to me, "When you've suffered, you probably relate with another's suffering more."

By this time, M had decided he wanted to help them. He told them to wait and stepped away to try and reach me to discuss it. But it was very early morning in Malaysia and I was fast asleep. He texted a close friend in the US and explained the situation and asked him what he thought. His friend asked him how he knew it wasn't a scam. If I was awake I probably would have asked him the same thing.

He says it was instinct. The plight of illegal immigrants in the US is truly sad and whether the story of eviction was true or not, he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep that night with the faces of those two young girls looking at him with desperate hope.

So he found out what the rent was, walked to the ATM and withdrew the cash and gave it to the man.

Later when M was telling me about it, I was genuinely amazed with his social experiment. He could have handed the guy $10 and walked away. But he sat down with them, experienced what it felt like to be at the receiving end of piteous looks, and even scorn. And then handed over $600 to a complete stranger.

When I told him how inspired I was with what he did, he says, 'no biggie. It wasn't like I gave him my last dollar. I had some to spare.'

Then he starts talking to me about some Tom Cruise flick he was going to watch!

I couldn't stop thinking about what he'd done and whether I would have been able to do something similar. If I was being honest with myself, the answer is likely a no.

When M was done with the movie, he messaged me to tell me about it. But I wasn't interested in Tom Cruise and how he saved the world. I told him I couldn't stop thinking about his encounter with the Mexican family and what made him do what he did.

His answer:

"Despite all the crap that happens in the world, we're all helped by someone, sometime, that changes the course of our life. Its just a cycle. What's important is to allow ourselves to be touched by something. And that may become larger than ourselves.

Yes, it may be that he was scamming me. I'll never be sure. But sometimes you go with instinct and put some faith in it. That's what they do with religious faith etc. End of the day, it does you some good, if you do it for the right reasons. You get more out of this life. For some, that's art, for some, God, for some, nature."

I am not saying my husband is a saint. Far from it. But he surprises and amazes me in the most unexpected ways! And he inspires me to push my boundaries. More importantly, he makes me want to be a better person.

As for the Mexican family, I hope their luck changes soon, now that they've managed to buy a little bit of time. I know that their problem is not easily solvable and all that happened with M's gesture is possibly postponing the inevitable. But however fleetingly, they managed to get some relief and hopefully a little more time to find a long term solution.

As M told me, "The girls hugged me like only happy children can. And that's enough to let me know that I did the right thing."

And I fall in love with him all over again.

Book Review: Karna's Wife

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Sat, 05 Apr 2014 10:33:00 +0000

Like most Indian kids who grew up in the 80s, a significant part of my knowledge about the Mahabharat comes from a combination of Amar Chitra Katha comics and BR Chopra's magnum opus on Doordarshan every Sunday morning. This, coupled with stories my paternal grandfather told me every summer when I visited him, formed my understanding of this multi-layered epic, with its innumerous twists and turns that can give any Indian tele-serial a run for its money.

Over the years, I've comes across various retellings with its multiple tributaries creating a complex jigsaw puzzle. But in not one of these, have I come across Uruvi.

When I found Kavita Kane's book Karna's Wife, The Outcast Queen while browsing through an airport bookstore, I was intrigued. Karna, that tragic hero, the abandoned baby with the divine armour and earrings, brought up by the charioteer, the only archer to rival the skills of the mighty warrior Arjun, shunned all his life because of his perceived low-caste birth, spurned by Draupadi at her swayamvar, and the evil Duryodhan's bestie. Karna's character has always fascinated me, yet there is very little one knows about his personal life.

In this book, I found out for the first time that Karna was not just married, but actually had two wives. Vrushali, the first wife bore him 8 sons, all of who were killed in the Kurukshetra war, and Uruvi, the second wife bore him the son that went on to be a protege of the Pandavas, after the end of the war. This book is a partial retelling of the Mahabharat from the perspective of Uruvi, the princess of Pukeya who defied all norms to marry the man she fell in love with, the low-born Karna.

Through her eyes, I re-discovered the various characters of the Mahabharat in a way Amar Chitra Katha or BR Chopra never imagined! You take away the special effects that make rivers part and people fly; the technicolour patterns produced by the arrows and everything magical, and you find the flawed human beings on both sides of the war who form the crux of the story that has stood the test of a millenia.

Viewed from Uruvi's perspective, I started to wonder if Karna was a villainous hero or a heroic villain; if Arjun was just an arrogant prat and Yudhishtir, a weak, spineless man who didn't think twice before staking his wife in a game of dice. Draupadi, in particular was a revelation! At the end of it, I couldn't decide if she was just a bitch or a woman thrown into extraordinary circumstances, none of it her making and yet finding a way to survive and making the best of her situation. Queen mother Kunti was definitely a shock. Having only read about her as the virtuous and honorable queen whose sons adored and worshipped her, seen from Uruvi's point of view, she comes across as a selfish, manipulative woman who would go to any length to protect her five sons knowing fully well that it would mean the end of Karna, her illegitimate first born. Another shocking piece of information I learnt is about Kaurava Queen mother Gandhari. In this version, she is supposed to have wanted to abort her child (Duryodhana) when she found out Kunti gave birth first (to Yudishthir), thus making him the eldest prince and hence, first in line to the throne.

Despite being a kshatriya princess, Uruvi's marriage to Karna, the outcast, turns her into the outcast's queen. A strong, outspoken and intelligent woman, she finds herself an outcast not just in royal circles but also in Karna's household where his first wife Vrushali treats her with polite detachment and his foster-brother Shona (another character whose existence I knew nothing about) with suppressed hostility. Karna's foster parents, the charioteer Adiratha and his wife Radha don't have a clue what to make of a princess who has descended upon their household and just hold her in awe. However, it's her love for Karna and their love story that unfolds over the course of the book, that keeps her going. She is his strength, his confidante, his intellectual equal and the keeper of his conscience.

She knows that Karna's blind loyalty to Duryodhana will be his doom and she is also aware that Karna knows and understands this. To Karna, Duryodhana is the only man who gave him dignity and respect when everyone else rejected him as a 'sutaputra', a low-caste. That alone, according to Karna is deserving of his unreserved loyalty, despite his friend's less than moral principles.

The portrayal of the Kurukhsetra war in popular culture has always been that of the 'Dharma-Yuddha', the righteous war. This books allows the reader to see that often our interpretation of the text based on the desire to see things in black and white - Good vs Evil - is not necessarily the way it was written. The righteous war quickly degenerates into one where the rulebook is thrown out and both sides resort to unethical tactics in the run to victory-at-any-cost. The Pandavas and Lord Krishna himself use underhand methods in the killing of the main pillars of the Kaurava army-- Bhishma, Guru Dronacharya and the mighty Karna himself.

Towards the end of the book, I wanted to punch Kunti in the face. Her intervention could have quite possibly averted the bloody war that destroyed so many lives. Maybe that's a simplistic view of things, but that is the difference between a literary narrative and an emotional narrative.

You can't but help identify with Uruvi's growing frustration and her eventual acceptance of fate. It is not easy to pick an unknown character from an epic like the Mahabharat with its multitude of characters and attempt to retell a story that has nourished the Indian soul for years. Kavita Kane's book seeks to re-discover the Mahabharat as every man's tale, a poignant saga of dreams and ambition, of human relationships, jealousy and heroism, and above all, of human flaw.

Verdict: Get your copy right now!

35 & Single no more

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Sun, 09 Mar 2014 13:23:00 +0000

A few months, Argentinian filmmaker Paula Schargorodsky's New York Times documentary '35 & single' went viral on social media. It was on my Facebook newsfeed constantly, staring me in the face, as though challenging me to watch it, because hey...I was 35 and single. And when I eventually clicked through to watch what she had to say, Paula and I became the same person. We may have been on the opposite sides of the globe, but everything about her, from her gypsy lifestyle to watching her last single female friend getting married, to celebrating babies and being asked when she was going to settle down, were spot on!

The video struck a chord with me, just as I am sure it did with millions of other single women in their 30s waiting for their passionate love story. It infuriated me having to explain with maddening regularity why I was single. Being single is not an affliction and yet it seemed to be the one thing that worried a lot of people about me! 'Don't worry, it's not contagious', I've said in my head regularly.

Folks with greater wisdom than I came up with multiple terms to explain why I was single - too picky, too difficult, too intimidating, too assertive.....My mother even said I was delusional since I seemed to be waiting for a Bollywood hero!

There's an excellent list called Ten things your single friends are tired of hearing and I've been at the receiving end of every one of those for years! As Paula points out in her documentary, our society seems to believe that female freedom has an expiry date. I don't see anyone asking a single man in his 30s when he plans to settle down or encourage him to go on Match.com! Why then was it strange that I was single and uncoupled?

Of course I wanted to meet someone special. Relationships exist because being we want to love and be loved. We want someone to care about us, and we want to care for someone in a way no one else on Earth does.

I watched Shall We Dance many years ago, and while the movie was average, the scene that stayed with me is one where Susan Sarandon's character describes why people get married.

We need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet... I mean, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage, you're promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things... all of it, all of the time, every day. You're saying 'Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go un-witnessed because I will be your witness'."

Yes, I got lonely occasionally and hated having to come back to an empty apartment. Yes, I felt a pang when my female friends discussed husbands and babies and family vacations. But I had a great job, was well adjusted, independent, well travelled and easy on the eyes. Then why would I want to fake-laugh my way through life with a genuinely unfunny man only because 'it's time'?

I have always been acutely aware of the epic chasm between Good Enough and Truly Good. I wasn't looking for perfection, because I am real enough to know that would mean having to wait forever. At the same time, I didn't want to be the baby-hungry-ring-hunter.

Seven years ago, I wrote about fairy tales having created unreasonable expectations of men for millions of impressionable little girls. We grow up to quickly have the innocence kicked out of us as we realise there is no such thing as Prince Charming. I look back at what I wrote in 2007 about what I wanted....

I think I just want what everyone wants, whether they articulate it or not. I just want something real. I want to experience a series of joyful moments that I can't corrupt with my cynicism or somebody else's. And I want to share this series of joyful moments with somebody and have them feel it too.

I was simply looking for the one that had the potential to be a witness to my life. And I was willing to wait.

And suddenly, he showed up when I least expected it and he didn't think I was difficult or intimidating or picky. Was he perfect? Of course not. But neither am I. Did he sweep me off my feet? Nope, but he held me steady and kept me grounded. Do I know everything about him? Most certainly not. I like the idea of being surprised by him even years down the line.

Is this my happily ever after? I don't know what the future will bring and I don't want to fret over it either. But I do know that I want him by my side to deal with whatever it is that life throws at us. I find living in the moment a much more joyous experience than worrying about the great unknown. More importantly, I am excited about the future and glad that I signed up for the journey with him.

Journey2Roots - Descended from Royalty...sort of

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Tue, 31 Dec 2013 11:49:00 +0000

I have always been a history buff. Stories with historical settings, epic novels about a time gone by, tales from the distant past...I am endlessly fascinated by them. In 2007, during a conversation with my grand-uncle Subbu (my mom's uncle), I discovered that he had been working on researching his family tree with his cousin Murali and had confirmed a long rumoured factoid about one of our ancestors having been the Dewan of Thanjavur (Tanjore). Turns out this cousin had been working on the 'vamsavalli' (lineage/genealogy) for 30 years and had done an immense amount of research which resulted in him writing an article about his discoveries, going back 7 generations (for him) that had been doing the rounds of various branches of the family.

Grand Uncle Subbu sent me the article and I realised that for me, this tree went back 11 generations! I also found out that the primary reason for the article had been to highlight to the various branches of the family, the decaying state of the temple established by our ancestors in the village of Kadiramangalam, and to raise funds for its revival. The temple, dedicated to Lord Ganesha was known as the 'Vellai Pillaiyar' (White Ganesha) temple.

The village of Kadiramangalam in Tanjore had been given as a 'jagir' (grant) to my ancestors by a Maratha King. According to the research done by Mr.Murali, Uncle Subbu's cousin, he estimates this was possibly in the time of Serfoji II (1787 - 1832) who valued scholarship. The family tree in the article, goes back up 11 generations to a Ganapathy Subbaiyer, a great scholar and devotee of Lord Ganesha and his son Ramaswamy Iyer (I) was the Dewan in the court Tanjore's Maratha King.

Mr.Murali's grandfather had handwritten the first version of the family tree in Tamil sometime in the late '70s and the original is available till date with him. He sent us a more modern, e-version (image below).

A simpler genealogy in English....
1. Ganapathy Subbaiyer - The forebear
2. K. Ramaswamy Iyer, Dewan of Tanjore during Maratha days

3. Chinna Appu Iyer

4. Peria Rama Iyer

5. Krishna Iyer

6. K. Ramaswamy Iyer - My maternal grandmother's grandfather

Through my mother, I descend from No.6 after 4 generations.

Ever since my discovery of this aspect of my history, I have been wanting to visit Kadiramangalam. I even promised Uncle Subbu that we will go there together. That was in 2007. Life took over and nothing ever came of that promise.

Till November 2013, nearly 6 years later when I embarked on the 'Journey 2 Roots' trip with my parents. When Uncle Subbu found out we were going to Mayavaram, which is a 30 minute drive from Kadiramangalam, he decided to come along, even though he is 80!

(Part 1 of #journey2roots here.)

On the train journey from Bangalore to Mayavaram, Uncle Subbu gave me more details of what he remembered as a young boy, of Kadiramangalam, when his grandfather, K.Ramaswamy Iyer, BA, BL (not to be confused with the Dewan) still lived there with his brothers. Known as the Viswanathan Kovil street agraharam, it used to be at the centre of around 150+ houses. Over the years, the agraharam receded and the various descendants of Ramaswamy Iyer II left the village for bigger pastures and the house as well as the temple fell into disrepair.

A file photograph of K.Ramaswamy Iyer's house in 2004 from the article.
We couldn't find it during this trip and I suspect its long gone.

A priest who was also the caretaker of the family temple was living there till about ten years ago and the roof was already disintegrating at the time. During our trip, we couldn't locate it and I am pretty sure it's long gone.

Every temple in the Vedic tradition, houses the main deity in the sanctum sanctorum and that deity is fixed to a single spot and is called the Moola vigraha. Vedic tradition provides the option to have a smaller form of the main deity, known as the Utsava Murthi, that can be decorated and taken out in procession. The Utsava Murthi of the Vellai Pillayar temple is kept for safe keeping at the Hindu Religious and Charitable Endowments of the Tamilnadu Government. (There have been many cases of ancient idols being stolen from historic temples by thieves and other pilferators). Apparently, below the Utasava Moorthy are the words “Tiruvennainallur Vellai Pullayar” in Tamil. Tiruvennainallur was the ancient name of Kadiramangalam and it is believed that the original idol (moola vigraha) was consecrated by Sage Kamban, medieval Tamil Poet and author of the Tamil version of the Ramayana, who grew up in Thiruvennainallur and my ancestors built the temple over this idol.

When Mr.Murali reached out to the various branches of the family to raise funds for his ambitious revival project, I contributed as well. A 'mahakumbhabhishekam' was performed in 2008 and the temple was once more open.

A photograph of the idol from the
Maha Kumbhabhishekam
in 2008

After the Maha Kumbhabhishekam

Five years later, 3 generations of K.Ramaswamy Iyer's descendants-- my mom, my grand uncle and I, walked in his footsteps and visited the temple established by our forefathers. It's small, simple and relatively bare, with an inexplicable 'Shivaling' outside, but it's functional and people still seem to visit, though when we were there, the place was deserted.

Vellai Pillayar Temple, Kadiramangalam, 2003 (file photo from Mr.Murali's article)

Vellai Pillayar Temple, Kadiramangalam in Nov 2013

Clearly this Shivaling is important, but I couldn't understand why it was randomly placed outside by this tree.

While we were there, a bunch of kids from the huts across the street ran into the temple compound to gawk at us 'city people'. The little girl informed me that her name was G.Arti, though on her arm she had a henna tattoo that said Lavanya in Tamil. When I asked about that, she looked at me like I was a particularly slow child and told me it was her best friend's name. I was suitably chastised for not knowing the obvious and went on to tell her, that she shared her name with my sister. That sealed our friendship and she agreed to be photographed.

My parents with Uncle Subbu on steps at the entrance.
The kids from across the street decided to photo bomb this one

G.Arti, my new friend in Kadiramangalam, and my mom. Vellai Pillayar shrine behind us. And my dad's finger across the top of the camera lens!

Arti told us the priest was at the Vana Durga temple down the road, from where we had just come, which was a sister temple to this one. (Mr.Murali's article says Vana Durga is the Kula Deivam of the family while Vellai Pillayar is the Graha Deivam. With my limited knowledge of such things, I don't necessarily comprehend the difference). She also knowledgeably informed us that the white marble Ganesha idol was stolen many, many decades ago and while the current idol is made of black stone, the name 'Vellai Pillayar' stuck. Obviously, this story doesn't find a place in Mr.Murali's historical article and I have no idea if there is any truth to it, but a story is a story and all angles must be covered!

My mother's grandfather, R.Atmaraman Iyer, son of K.Ramaswamy Iyer left Kadiramangalam at some stage and lived in Nannilam, a village around 30km from Mayavaram with his wife Mangalam (known as Manni Paati to everyone). That's where my grandma and her siblings including Uncle Subbu were born.

Unfortunately, we couldn't visit Nannilam as part of this trip due to time constraints. Uncle Subbu had many stories about his father, who was apparently quite a colourful character in his time. My mom was supposedly his favorite grand child and Uncle Subbu told me how the old man, never known for his generosity, surprised everyone by bringing her little gifts whenever she visited. My mom remembers how ahead of his times he was, paying the neighbourhood kids to clean up his fields for every x amount of rubbish they collected. Manni Paati lived to a grand old age and I remember her only as the Paati in a madisar sari and very thick glasses, who took her teeth out every now and then, which freaked me out as a kid.

R.Atmaraman Iyer and his wife Mangalam, my great grand parents from Nannilam village (today a town in Thiruvarur district in Tamilnadu)

This journey to discover my roots has been quite an experience. I don't know what I expected when I set out on it. But seeing the kind of places my forebears came from, I am thankful for everything I have today. I wish, I knew more about their lives and the kind of people they were, because what little I know barely scratches the surface. With each new generation, we lose just a little bit more of the past, a history that has shaped the lives that we were eventually born into. I don't know if that helps us make better choices for the future, but I certainly know that this journey into history has given me perspective. And by documenting it, I hope it helps someone else one day, understand a little bit about how far they have come.

Journey2Roots - Mayavaram

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Sat, 30 Nov 2013 14:43:00 +0000

Deep in the heart of Tanjore district is the town of Mayiladuthurai, formerly known as Mayavaram or Mayuram. Growing up I had often heard the name of this town and had a vague idea that my father's family came from there. By the time I was old enough to recognise people, I knew only of my grandparents and various cousins in Chennai. Except for the rare reference to Mayavaram at family weddings, the place didn't mean anything to me.

Two years ago, my aunt who lives in the US, posted an album of photographs from her visit to India and this included a shot of a faded, moth eaten photograph of two young men in a chipped wooden frame on a wall. One of these young men was my father, the other his younger brother. The picture was probably taken in the late 60s....at least 50 years old. The wall was in an old village house in a tiny bylane called Pasupathy Agraharam in Mayavaram.

That got me curious. As far as I knew, no one in the family remained in Mayavaram anymore. So what was this photograph doing there? Turns out, the house once belonged to my great-grandmother Gowriamma and her brother, who was a well known veterinarian in Mayavaram and this is the house that my father and his brother grew up in. The house no longer belongs to anyone in the family but the current occupants knew all about the legend of the two brothers who were brought to live with their grandmother due to extenuating circumstances, and who went on overcome the limitations of their early life to make successful lives for themselves. The photograph held a place of pride in that house as these boys were known as the 'Heroes of Pasupathy Agraharam' and the occupants refused to part with the picture when my aunt asked for it.

I was fascinated. Clearly, Mayavaram was an important part of my father's history and I now wanted to know why. But it took another two years and a visit from my father to Malaysia before I got closer to the story. In August this year, my dad stopped by for a weekend before going to Singapore to deliver a lecture. As we got talking, he casually mentioned his plans to visit Mayavaram with my mother in November after giving a lecture at Annamalai University in Chidambaram and did I want to join in?

OF COURSE I WANTED TO JOIN IN!

My one opportunity to know more of the family history and where my dad really comes from. All I knew was that he'd had a hard life. He rarely ever spoke about his youth. From short conversations over the years, I knew that at one point, he lived in a mud hut with no electricity, walked long distances to his school and college because there was no money for bus fare, and if not for his brilliant academic record and mentoring by a professor at college, his life would have taken a very different course.

I was excited and yet nervous about this journey. I am a product of urban living and over the years have become accustomed to my creature comforts. Getting to Mayavaram required a 12 hour train journey from Bangalore and I hadn't been in an Indian train for a decade! And in a small town, hotels are at best 2 star! At the risk of sounding like a complete douche, this was playing at the back of my head as I boarded my flight from Kuala Lumpur to Bangalore. But, I am proud to report that I behaved myself and was suitably impressed to discover that the train had power sockets to charge mobile phones.

But this journey is not about my attempt at the simple life. It's about the discovery of my roots and understanding the series of events and circumstances that led to my being born in an environment vastly different from my father's and having the opportunities that he never had.

On this journey, I learnt so much more than I had bargained for. As we stepped off the train onto the Mayiladuthurai Station, it was like entering a different era. Time came to a standstill here a few decades ago.

And as we entered the town of Mayavaram (which is how my dad prefers to refer to it), I could see him mentally go back 60 years.

First stop - Gurumurthy Vidyalaya. My dad wanted to know if the primary school he studied in still existed. So, we drove and drove around landmarks faded in his memory and roads and buildings that didn't exist in his time and asked around till someone pointed us towards a road and asked us to take a left. As the car turned left, there it was, a signboard for the Gurumurthy Naduthilai Palli (middle school)

Still standing after all these years!

My dad was very sure the school would be long gone. He remembers it as a small, dilapidated govt run school back in the '50s with one classroom where all the kids sat on the floor. The dilapidated structure still stands, though there are newer additions, an extended yard and a yellow school bus. Unfortunately, the school was closed, it being a Saturday and we couldn't take a look inside.

From here, my dad told us, Pasupathy Agraharam was walking distance. But the once mud road is now laid with tar, and houses and newer structures have mushroomed along the way. Obviously, whatever shortcut he took to get to school 60 years ago, no longer exists! So, we got back into the car and decided to find the elusive Pasupathy Agraharam where his old schoolmate and neighbour Mr.Krishnamurthy, still lives!

Second Stop: Pasupathy Agraharam. Once again, we drove slowly past the area as my dad pointed out familiar places and recalled incidents from back in the day. Suddenly, we entered this really tiny, narrow lane, off the main road that connected to a parallel road and on this tiny lane stood an old man clearly waiting for someone. My dad has not seen Mr.Krishnamurthy since 1975, when he last visited Mayavaram with his new bride. It was my mother who suddenly said, "Isn't that Mr.Krishnamurthy?" It was! My mother had seen him once, in 1975 and she was able to recognise him, while my father looked on doubtfully!

The prodigal son returns!
Top left: The once mud road of Pasupathy Agraharam is now a tar road.
Top right: My dad meets his childhood friends Krishnamurthy (with wife) and Rajendran, who now owns the house he grew up in. Bottom left: The old lady is Rajam Mami from the neighboring house who knew my dad as a young boy. Bottom right : The tiny Pasupathy temple dedicated to Lord Shiva from where the Agraharam gets its name.

Note: Agraharam is the name given to the Brahmin Quarter of a heterogenous village or to any village inhabited by Brahmins. Agraharams have lines of houses on either side of the road and the temple to the village god at the centre, thus resembling a garland around the temple.

Pasupathy Agraharam had transformed drastically. It was no longer a random collection of tiny houses on a muddy path. During my father's time, he doesn't recall more than 15 or so houses there. Today, many of the old houses continue to stand, side by side with newer, more modern houses along a tar road that has been extended further. There are compound walls around all the houses and motorbikes dotting the lane. The Pasupathy temple itself was in the process of undergoing a transformation when we visited. As can be seen in the picture above, it's just a tiny shed with a sloping roof. But this is being renovated now and the deity has been temporarily moved to a hut nearby.

Top Left: The hut where the deity of Pasupathy is temporarily placed.
Rest of the images: random shots of the Pasupathy Agraharam, including a fallen tree trunk.

Gowriamma's house probably built in early 1900s or possibly earlier, still stands and has been bought over by my dad's childhood friend Mr.Rajendran's family, who lives across the road. This is what I was most excited about...probably even more than my dad. It was hard to imagine him as a little boy growing up in this old house, surrounded by rice fields at one time.

Appa can't believe the house still stands, almost exactly the way he remembers it. There was no electricity during his time and going to the bathroom required a trip to the rice fields behind the house. The fields are gone, and there is a tiny structure housing an outdoor lavatory. But otherwise, it's all pretty much the same.

Top left: Water storage
Top right: the traditional grinding stone used for making dosa and idli batter. This has survived from Gowriamma's time.
Bottom right: The storage room where all the knick knacks and treasured items would be stored
Bottom left: All the old village houses have this space for a lamp, known as the Ahal Villakku at the entrance to the living area.

While it looks ancient and crumbling, till a few months ago it was occupied by tenants, the same ones who had refused to part with the old photograph when my aunt asked for it. The photo now hangs in Mr.Rajendran's house.

Segar and Rajaraman, Circa 1960s.
The photo that started it all, for me.

Third stop: Swimming Pool! My dad and his friends then took us down the road to where they used to go swimming as boys. Gowriamma would shoo the boys off with a towel and tell them to get cleaned up. So they would go to the main road and jump off the bridge into the flowing river below. While the ledge from where they jumped off still exists, sadly the part of the river they jumped into is filthy with floating garbage. But the pond next to it looks relatively cleaner and this is where the boys learnt how to swim. I am not sure if anyone swims here anymore, though. When we were there, we found these ladies washing clothes by the steps.

Top: The ledge on the road from where they'd jump into the now filthy river.
Bottom: The pond that was the venue for many a swimming race

Fourth Stop: Temple. Later that evening, we visited the 1000+ year old Mayuranathar temple, believed to have been built by the Medieval Chola kings, from which the town derives its name. My dad remembers walking to the temple with his uncle and grand mother, all the way from Pasupathy Agraharam. Today, walking on these roads would be impossible with the flow of traffic in these narrow roads.

Temple elephant at the Mayuranathar Temple

Final Stop: Dinner. My dad was super excited about taking us to dinner at the Kaliyagudi hotel in the centre of town, which has been around since his time in Mayavaram. Apparently, its famous for its mouth watering array of dishes and there is always a long queue to get in. Back in the day it belonged to Mr.Sambasiva Iyer whose daughter Rukmini went to school with my dad in Grade 5. Ownership changed hands years ago, but the hype around the food was definitely worth it. Despite the waiting and the queueing, I can safely say, the softest, fluffiest idlis I have ever eaten in my life were at the Kaliyagudi hotel.

The Clock Tower at town centre. Kaliyagudi is just a few metres away.

My dad left Mayavaram when he was around 15, for Madras, where I found out during this trip, challenging times awaited him. The cruel twist of fate that left his father, my granddad, a cripple, which led to the mud hut, the lack of bus fare, and the arrival of his paternal grandma Lakshmi Paati into his life as his guardian angel. That's an entirely different story of its own. His brother stayed on in Mayavaram till he completed his college education at a nearby town.

Their friends Krishnamurthy and Rajendran have continued to live in Pasupathy Agraharam. They recounted stories from the old days, when the 2 brothers led the gang of boys and tutored them in maths and science and taught them to play cricket. Mr.Rajendran told me how he decided to study Chemistry for his Bachelor's degree because my father took Chemistry before him and he had no one else to guide him. This led him to influencing his son and his nephew to take Chemistry as well and now he has an extended family of Chemistry graduates all thanks to a chain reaction started by my dad.

I can't help but wonder how my father's life would have turned out if he had stayed on in Mayavaram. Or mine for that matter. This journey to discover my roots has helped me better understand where I come from and the trials and tribulations that led to shaping the life I was born into.

Visiting a century old house that was once the home of my ancestors has been both humbling and enlightening. I'll never know Gowriamma, but I am grateful for having got a glimpse into the household she ran and where she sheltered two young boys who had nowhere else to go.

The #journey2roots travelogue will continue in Part 2.

The Grandma with a Hat

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Mon, 21 Oct 2013 12:57:00 +0000

RIP, Thoppi Paati

An ancient faded photograph of a young girl in a hat came to determine the name that my grandmother came to be known by all her life. Thoppi Paati...that's what all her grandchildren called her. I was the eldest and I didn't know till I was well into my teens that she was named after the Goddess of Knowledge, Saraswathi. I don't think some of my younger cousins know this fact, till date. She was Thoppi (cap/hat in Tamil) Periamma/Athai/Mami and a multitude of other things to many people, but Saraswathi she was only in her passport as she travelled far and wide visiting children and grandchildren. Hong Kong, Singapore, Croatia, Venice, Abu Dhabi, Moscow, Delhi, Bangalore, Vijayawada...nothing was too far or too difficult.

I saw her last Diwali in Chennai, for the first time since my grandpa passed on, a year before. It was also the last time. Last week, she slipped away, literally, as she was getting into the car to go for her weekly medical check up. I found out only now how much she had suffered for 3 months before that with a persistent lung infection that required hospitalisation, protein deficiency that caused water retention and rashes on her legs and breathing difficulties requiring an oxygen tank to be stationed permanently at home. She slipped away with the same quiet dignity with which she had lived her life.

Where do I begin about a woman who was so many things to so many people? A math wizard, a brilliant cook, an avid reader, the backbone of a once large family, a deeply spiritual woman, but surprisingly open minded and practical for one who was nearly 80.

For one, Thoppi Paati was a woman born in the wrong era as far as I am concerned. If asked to describe the most striking aspect of her, I'd say it was her mastery of numbers. Anyone who knew her, especially in her later years, knew of her obsession with Sudoku and Kakuro and the ease with which she solved complex numerical puzzles. With my numeric dyslexia, this was a constant source of wonder to me. My mother inherited the same mathematical abilities, but the math gene completely skipped by me. Though, this made gift giving an easy task. All I had to do was ask for the most complex book of Sudoku puzzles in the bookstore and I was home free!

Married at 16, a mother to four children and running a household of nearly 20 at one time, there never was any time or opportunity for the pursuit of mathematics. My grandparents had been married for over 60 years! The last few years before my grandfather passed away, had been especially hard for her as he got increasingly ill and disoriented. I like to believe an escape into her Sudoku book was her stress buster.

The aroma of her onion sambaar, the melt-in-your-mouth feather light dosas, the fluffy idlis, the complex flavours of the aviyal, the numerous podis, delicious chutneys and the murukku, seedai will forever serve as a reminder of another trait I sadly did not inherit. A decade ago, I lived in Chennai for a little over a year next door to my grandparents and showed up at their place for breakfast and dinner. It was the perfect life!

What I did inherit from her is her love of reading. She was rarely found without a Tamil book or a magazine in her hand. Perhaps all those long summer holidays spent with my grandparents when I was little, did allow me to subconsciously absorb at least one thing from her!

Her one major point of contention with me was my hair! For as long as I can remember, she couldn't stand my unruly mop of curls. She called it 'Thengai mattai' (Coconut husk!). She constantly reiterated her desire to oil it into submission and braid it tightly into a long plait as behooves a good brahmin girl. My constant experimentation with cut, colour and different types of fringes were a source of great irritation and annoyance to Paati.

Last November, the last time I saw her, she merely shook her head and rolled her eyes as I walked in sporting copper highlights. I was the black sheep grandchild that she couldn't understand. The eldest and yet seemingly the most 'unsettled' as she thought of it. My single status bothered her and I know she prayed and performed pujas hoping for divine intervention. I let her oil and braid my hair on Diwali morning and taught her how to watch Tamil serials on the Youtube app on an android tablet.

It is very odd to think of her as gone. Thoppi Paati had been such a constant presence in my life since the day I was born. There exists a picture that I am trying to unearth, that shows 4 generations of women of my family staring out of a faded black & white image, with my great-grandma Manni Paati in her trademark madisar, Thoppi Paati, my mom, and me as a baby in her lap.

Nagu Thatha and her were my last link to a generation that I glimpsed from the fringes of my childhood. The smell of burning camphor and filter coffee, a houseful of people, women gossiping in the kitchen, the blue Mahindra Jeep parked outside, Thatha, the family patriarch holding court, and Paati, the quiet, unassuming presence lost in a Tamil book, a permanently open door to the ground floor flat that served as a meeting hub for a large clan now dispersed in the winds of time.....memories from simpler times.

Rest in Peace, Paati. Thank you for the memories.

How the telephone directory changed my life!

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Tue, 20 Aug 2013 12:02:00 +0000

This story about the death of the Telephone Directory took me back to a time when the humble phonebook was responsible for turning my life around.

I was 20 years old and a series of bad decisions had found me in a tough spot. I had wasted more than a year of my life after graduating college, screwed up badly, learnt some valuable life lessons, and suddenly at 20 found I had no job, no money, no home and a degree in journalism that probably wouldn't have got me anything more than a minimum wage position in a neighbourhood paper!

It was a pretty hopeless situation and with all the naivete and short-sightedness of a 20 year old at the turn of the millenium (20-year-olds today are way, way smarter!) I thought my life was ending
even before it began.

And suddenly, an old friend who didn't even live in the country anymore referred me to her former employer, the Yellow Pages. I walked into the interview nervous as hell, with no experience in selling anything, and somehow walked out with a job! Turns out all I needed was the ability to speak well and sound good on the phone...at least in the beginning. It paid a basic salary and promised commissions on sales I made over the phone to advertisers in the Yellow Pages.

I remember the training program well. We were taught to distinguish ourselves as the ONLY Telephone Directory Yellow Pages. There were probably 2 other brands of Yellow Pages at the time, but ours was the only one distributed with the official telephone directory, which meant a guaranteed audience and a wider reach. Advertising gold.

And so I turned into that annoying telesales girl who called shops and small traders and random people trying to sell them space in the Yellow Pages. The more I sold, the more money I made. I was living in a hole-in-the-wall place with 6 girls, one shared bathroom and chronic water supply issues. The motivation to sell came from the desperate need to get out of that hovel. And so for a year, that's all I did. I lived on the phone.... badgered, cajoled, flirted with and convinced hundreds of people that advertising in the Telephone Directory Yellow Pages was the only way to sustain their business. I got to know their secretaries, found out their birthdays, wished them on festive occasions and just relentlessly kept calling. Thank God this was before the days of cellphones and call screening!

I don't think I was a very good salesperson, but mostly I think people felt sorry for me and usually agreed to take up a small space just to get rid of me.

I didn't even particularly enjoy it, but it was the only way I could pay the bills and pull myself out of the hole I was in. Miraculously, it worked. A year later, I had enough money to move into a better place where I didn't have to share my bedroom with anyone. And I even had a little bit left over to buy a small 14" TV!

Most importantly, that year helped me develop the self-confidence I so badly needed to pull my life back together.

It has been 13 years since I bid goodbye to the offices with the instantly recognisable walking fingers logo. The Yellow Pages business itself has changed drastically since then. Print is dying and digital is the way forward. I doubt if the training program for new recruits even includes the words Telephone Directory anymore!

But back then, that thick book of numbers was a symbol of hope for me, at a time in my life, I needed it badly.

RIP Telephone Directory.

For the love of a mutt

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Thu, 03 Jan 2013 04:07:00 +0000

Ma and Coco. Circa 2006

Nearly 8 years ago he entered our lives, that dirty brown mutt off the street. My mom brought him home when he was just a few days old, to combat her empty nest syndrome. I saw him whenever I visited and initially refused to get attached to yet another pet. I had lost Whiskey the kitten and Goofy the puppy already and it was just too painful.

But I hadn't counted on Coco's seductive charms. He jumped on me and slobbered all over me every time I visited, like I was the lost love of his life. Slept by my bed side, even tried snuggling into bed with me a few times. Ransacked my suitcase, chewed on my shoes and then looked at me with those adoring chocolate brown eyes and all was forgiven.

My mom turned him into a Thayir Saadam eating Tam Brahm dog and whenever I visited I would sneak him canned meat and other not-so-brahmin-approved-goodies from pet stores and that was possibly why he was so fond of me. I was the hand that gave him a taste of those yummy treats.

My dad told me stories of how Coco would follow him all the way to his lab and hang around the students or just lie down by his feet while he worked. He lived for the long walks with my mom every evening, exploring every bush, every tree on the way, trying to make friends with the street hardened dogs.

It was hard not to fall in love with that stupid mutt, however hard I tried.

And today, I found out from Aarthi Chandra that he is gone. It's been a month and a half since he went missing as he tried to run away, terrified by the Diwali crackers. After spending 3 days locked up at home, the freespirit that he was, he couldn't stand staying indoors and sneaked out the gate when it was opened to let some visitors in. And that was the last anyone saw of him.

Search parties, posters, visits to our old home.....he is nowhere to be found. And after 6 weeks it's difficult not to give up hope. He doesn't know how to survive the streets. This is one dog who had no concept of being a dog. This was a 4-legged creature who was confident he was human. He couldn't understand why the fierce street dogs wouldn't play with him and kept snarling at him.

The hardest part is not having closure. Not knowing what happened, and knowing how scared he must have been, all by himself. I am trying not to think of it and focus on the happy memories I have of him.

I went back to a post I wrote about him, when he was a year old. It put a smile on my tear-drenched face.

I love you Coco. You taught me unconditional love. And Amma was right...you will always be my little brother.

Lessons from the Quake : Do not take the lift

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 10:55:00 +0000

So, there I was enjoying a day off, catching up on my reading in bed and suddenly I feel the bed shake. I get off the bed and peep out the window and find other faces peering out their window in the building next to mine. Ok, so i didn't imagine it. Now, I live on the 17th floor and up here, you can really feel the building swaying. For a few moments it felt like I was on top of a palm tree in a gust of wind.

Now I've experienced this before in 2007 and dutifully blogged about it at the time. Then it was the result of an earthquake in Sumatra Islands in Indonesia, 8.4 on the richter scale. Nasty business that one. So, when I felt the building sway the same way, it was déjà vu and I knew, this was serious.

OK, next step, grab phone, wallet and keys and run out. Just then my phone rings and it's my old friend Suresh Venkat on the line. Considering he rarely calls me, this is indeed an earth shattering occurrence. (yes, pun intended) As I tell him that I am possibly in the middle of a quake and run out the door, I make my first mistake.

I decided to take the lift, forgetting every single safety warning about NEVER going for the lift during fire and quakes.

Looks like every one else in the building made the exact same mistake. The lift stopped at every floor and gradually I am forced into the corner at the back quashed in next to an old chinese gent with a hearing aid on my left and 2 young chinese girls in front of me. Along the way we gather a tiny, possibly new born baby with its nervous parents.

2nd mistake - Should have gotten out when it started to get crowded and the lift was still stopping at every floor.

By the time we reach the ground floor, the lift is packed like a can of sardines with 15 of us and it comes to a stop with a THUD! We wait for the door to open...nothing happens. Then suddenly the lift is moving and we go to B1. Another THUD...then silence. Doors do not open. Just as we are recovering, lift starts moving again and goes all the way to B2 and this time the THUD is massive. The old gent loses his balances and staggers. We grab him before he falls...but then where is the place to fall?

B2 is the absolute lowest the lift can go to and the doors refuse to open. A guy in the front rings the alarm bell for what feels like hours before a security guard answers on the lift intercom - "Any problem?"

"YES!! 15 of us stuck in a lift in Basement 2 after feeling 3 massive THUDs and a tiny baby bawling its eyes out. IT IS A PROBLEM!"

Guard assures us that he'll get to it immediately and we wait patiently. Well, as patiently as one can in the circumstances. The baby is really at it by now and the lift is getting hot as hell. The mother and father try in vain to get the little one to stop. Suddenly a lady next to the mum says, "do you want to feed her? We'll cover you and you can move to the corner."

Miraculously, that works. I am quashed in one corner and the mum feeding the baby on the other.

Suddenly, the old Chinese guy says - Did anyone ring the alarm?

"Err, ... yes Sir, we did and we are now waiting."

10 minutes....no sign of guard. We ring the alarm again. This time the guard says he is waiting for the lift technician to come and he is on the way. He needs another 10 minutes.

By this time, everyone is getting fidgety. 15 people in a small lift in basement 2 with very little ventilation is NOT pleasant. Two guys in the front try to pry the door open in He-Man style. There is a lock on top and the doors don't budge. The He-Man wannabes give up eventually.

Suddenly, we can feel the tremors again and this time its SCARY because there is no where to run!

The shaking stops as suddenly as it started. I swear I can hear someone murmuring a prayer. Throughout all this, what am I doing? Since there is no signal in the lift and I can't live tweet this earthquake experience in true social media diva style, I am taking notes on the iPhone. Yes, unbelievable, I know. Some cry, some pray and I tweet. Maybe that's my salvation!

Finally, after what feels like hours the rescue brigade arrives and the doors are opened. As we all rush out to get some air, an Arab girl who got in on 16th floor just after me, stands there looking completely disoriented. I ask her if she is ok and she looks blankly at me for a second before saying - "How do I go out? "

Basement 2 is the car park and clearly she has either never been down here or is still reeling from the whole "building-shaking-thud-stuck-in-lift" ordeal. So, I grab her arm like the good samaritan that I am and lead her out the ramp that goes to the ground floor. We come out into the sunlight and I've never been more thankful for the harsh, humid heat of the Malaysian sun.

And my phone rings again, now that I am out of the lift-basement area and signal is back on, its Suresh Venkat again - "So, I really did shake your world?"

Yes Suresh, this time, you really did!

The delightful world of Suzie

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Sun, 26 Feb 2012 07:28:00 +0000

Four days of being confined to bed with no strength for anything except turning pages, meant that I did a lot more reading than usual. I couldn't have asked for a better book than Richard Mason's "The world of Suzie Wong" to keep me company and take me back to 1950s Hong Kong, to places that I am so familiar with in their post Y2K avatar.

In short, its a love story. A prostitute with a heart of gold meets the poor white artist trying to find himself, against the backdrop of colonial Hong Kong in the seedy by-lanes of Wanchai's Nam Kok hotel. They fall in love over the course of the book and a lot of emotional drama ensues. But that's not why I love this book, addicted as I am to sappy love stories. In fact there is nothing particularly original about the story.

What had me hooked is Richard Mason's ability to tell a masterful tale, in an engaging, entertaining manner that evokes a distinctive sense of a specific time, and to share his experience of an exotic era that will not return.

Wanchai as I know it today, is probably not that different from the Wanchai of Suzie Wong's story. The Chinese girls in silk cheongsams have been replaced by Thai girls in barely-there cheap miniskirts and plastic go-go boots. Business is not restricted solely to sailors whose ships dock for the week. And on digging around a bit, I realise that the Nam Kok hotel where all the action takes place in the novel, is based on what is today the Luk Kwok hotel, which is in fact a rather smart, boutique hotel which has never been host to the 'yum-yum girls' or their trade. Either today or in the 50s.

I found that the book had been made into a hit Hollywood movie in 1960, though upon reading the plot I realised I don't want to see it. The images of Suzie and Robert, the protagonist on the DVD cover are not the images I have in my head as I read their story. Suzie Wong is one of those amazing ageless characters. Funny, intelligent, vulnerable and so absolutely human that you want to slap her when she does something stupid and cheer her on, as she makes hesitant attempts to break taboo.

The book was first released in 1957 and was apparently a huge success. Richard Mason died in 1997 and never really wrote anything this successful after "The world of Suzie Wong". He reportedly said he didn't have any good stories left to tell! Penguin recently re-released the book and that's how I found it in Hong Kong airport 2 weeks ago. If you live in Hong Kong, have ever been to Hong Kong, or just love a good story, I recommend it highly.

Here's a preview from Amazon.

Book Review : Bali and the Ocean of Milk

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 07:08:00 +0000

Some times a book comes along that leaves such a lasting impression that you want to recommend it to everyone! Nilanjan Choudhury's Bali & the Ocean of Milk, is a rib tickling take on the old 'Sagar Manthan' tale from Indian mythology where the Gods and the Demons come together to churn the ocean to produce nectar.

Indrah, the king of Gods is facing ageing issues. Bali, the Asura King has his own issues with back-stabbing, power hungry courtiers. And the Holy Trinity that controls the universe is made up on Jai, Viru and Sambha, in an obvious tribute to Sholay! There's war, treachery, lust, vengeance, unexpected twists and turns and much, much more.

Nilanjan Choudhury is obviously a genius who probably smokes the same high quality ganja that Jai (the Destroyer) in the book is always high on, to come up with this crazy, but absolutely hilarious contemporary take on this ancient tale. Some totally cooky stuff that had me rolling on the floor

1) The churning team consisting of 6 Devas and 6 Asuras is called Ocean's Twelve!
2) Indrah uses Molten Midnight by So'Real to cover his greys.
3) Oh, he also steals his girlfriend Urvashi's 'My fair Lady' cream that he furtively applies at night.
4) Prithvi, the earth Goddess sounds a bit like Arundhati Roy!

Oh, there is so much more....even Taliban type brotherhood that wants everyone to live by THE BOOK.

To you I say, GO GRAB THE BOOK. NOW!

Oh hey....there is a book extract here if you want a quickie sampling.

RIP Nagu Thatha

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Sun, 30 May 2010 11:08:00 +0000

It seems like the only time I am able to write lately is when someone dies. Is that what the whole tortured artiste thing is all about, I wonder....

Last night I was out at a dinner for the cricketer Muralidaran, with who I have been shooting for the last 2 days as our new brand ambassador. Its been 2 days of hectic shoots, running between studios, coordinating with the ad agency and the production crew. So, at dinner, I decided to take a break and not look at my phones and just relax and let go. After dinner, I ended up at a party of Indian expats and still refused to look at my phones. Little did I know, that decision would come back to haunt me in a few hours.

On my way back home at nearly 2 AM, I finally brought the phones out only to see several missed calls from my mother. At that time on the night, a series of missed calls from her can mean only one thing - bad news. My maternal grandfather, Nagu Thatha died around 8 PM, India time in his sleep.

Nagu Thatha, the guiding light of a family of over 20 odd people, a humanitarian before we even knew such a term existed, a man who put nearly ten kids through school and college, not all his own, who took care of everyone who came to his door, and who unfortunately didn't really know who he was in the last few years, passed on at the age of 87.

When I think of Nagu Thatha, I think of a bright blue Mahindra Jeep. His pride and joy, as an engineer with Mahindra and Mahindra, a company he worked for all his life, where he rose from being a humble mechanic to a senior service engineer at the time of his retirement. I loved that jeep. I associated it with trips to the Marina beach every Sunday evening when I visited him and Paati during school holidays from far away, landlocked Kanpur. The 2 and a half days it took by train from Kanpur to Chennai in those days, I spent dreaming about being picked up by Thatha in that blue Jeep at central station. I've spent hours playing hide and seek with my cousins using the Jeep as my favourite hiding place. So much so that if I went missing Thatha knew to look for me in the Jeep first.

But there was more to Nagu Thatha than just a Mahindra Jeep. It took me many years to realise that he was the sole bread winner of a large family of over 20 people which included not just his wife and kids but his brothers and sisters and their families too. And all in a little 3 room house in St.Mary's street in Madras in the 50s and 60s. How he managed that on the salary of a mechanic, is a mystery I'll never be able to solve.

His favourite pastime of course was scouring the pages of the Hindu Matrimonials section every Sunday morning! The number of alliances that have been made thanks to his sharp eye and the Hindu Classifieds deserve a book of their own. My parents owe their union to that hobby! My paternal grandfather showed me a scrap book many years ago in which he had pasted a yellowing slip from 1975, of the ad he had put in for my father who was then an impoverished Post Doctoral student at Harvard. Of course, the ad sounded like that of an ideal groom. US educated scientist, Brahmin Iyer boy, coming home for 2 weeks to select a bride. This was 1975 and the supply was much lesser than the demand! Nagu Thatha once told me how he finally made the decision that my dad was right for his first born daughter.

He wrote 'yes' and 'no' on two slips of folded paper, dropped them in front of the altar of assorted Gods my grandma kept in a corner, sent up a prayer and picked one slip. The answer was YES. The simplicity of how he arrived at a life changing decision for his eldest daughter never failed to amaze me. But that was the power of his faith. And I found myself resorting to that exact method of arriving at a decision many a time in my adult life during particularly confusing periods, without consciously realising I was copying what my grandfather did many years ago.

I was his eldest granddaughter and the one that he didn't quite understand in later years. All the other grandkids were doing fairly straightforward things, working in companies he had heard of, or at least in professions that he had some understanding of. I don't think he really knew what I did for a living till the end, though he was aware that it involved a lot of travel. In the last few years, every time I saw him, he wanted to know two things - which countries I had visited and when I planned to get married. I don't think he quite understood the concept of me looking for Mr.Right. He still held out hope that Hindu Matrimonials will come to my rescue and tie me down to one country at last.

The last time I saw,was about a year ago. He was frail and confused. The famous 'Khandaani Toppai' that has been passed on to his son, my uncle was long gone. He spent all his time watching TV, flipping channels. He never really came to terms with being a retired man of leisure. He was constantly looking for work after retirement and held at least 2 major jobs for a few years after, including one in blazing, hot Vijayawada where he dragged my grandmother to, much against her will. But the last few years since he came back to Chennai, he was never quite the same. A man who was the defacto head of a large clan, the one that everyone turned to for advice and guidance, the one who went out of his way to help anyone and everyone who came to him, much to my grandma's annoyance.....he was fading fast. He couldn't walk or bathe without assistance. I hear in the last few months, he didn't even recognise his own younger daughter, my aunt. He slept most of the time and woke up only for meals.

And last night, when Paati went to wake him up for dinner, he didn't wake up.

Rest in Peace, Nagu Thatha. You will be missed.

Stranded in Nairobi

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Sat, 22 May 2010 09:08:00 +0000

Recently I went back to my favourite continent...a journey into the heart of Africa. And when I say heart, I really mean the literal central part of Africa - Rwanda. A country that's known as the land of a thousand hills...the Switzerland of Africa!

My first trip to Kigali, the capital city was in October 2008 and for several reasons it was a trip I won't forget easily. For one, it was one of the most complicated routes I have ever travelled with so many stop overs that by the time I reached Rwanda, I really didn't care about the beauty of the hills. Secondly, I was on a plane 35,000 feet above sea level, travelling to the dark continent on the day of the festival of lights - Diwali! So, I had reasons to be biased against Rwanda even before I arrived.

But once I recovered from a good night's sleep and had the opportunity to meet people and look around the city, I was hooked. I'm very familiar with Uganda and Kenya, two of the neighbouring East African countries and I expected Rwanda to be similar. In fact, the only thing I knew about Rwanda was the genocide and I wasn't really expecting much, when the invitation to attend the East Africa Business Forum appeared in my mailbox.

But that trip in 2008, changed my perception of Rwanda drastically. I learnt so much more about the country, its history, the culture and most importantly the foresight and vision of President Kagame who has turned a warn torn nation around, literally on its head! Everyone I met from business people to government authorities were so switched on and clued in to everything. Young, vibrant, dynamic and forward thinking are some of the terms that come to mind when asked to describe the people that are in the administration.

So, when the opportunity arose to go back to Rwanda this year, I jumped at it. Of course, one thing that hasn't changed is the complicated route one needs to fly from Malaysia to reach Kigali. Only 6 airlines worldwide fly into Rwanda and my complicated route included an 8 hour journey from KL to Dubai, a 3 hour stop over in Dubai, then a 5 hour journey from Dubai to Nairobi, a 5 hour stop over in Nairobi, and finally a 2 hour flight from Nairobi to Kigali on Kenya Airways, the pride of Africa!

The journey started on a pretty good note. I got upgraded to Business on the first leg from KL to Dubai on Emirates. A blessing on a long 8 hour flight. Once in Dubai, I managed to find some books I'd been looking for, for quite some time at the airport, which kept me in a pretty good mood. The flight to Nairobi was uneventful though I was dreading the 5 hour transit, as there really isn't much to do at the Jomo Kenyatta airport. I found myself a corner at the Java Lounge, the popular coffee shop in the airport and got down to catching up on emails and people watching alternately, while I waited for the 11.40 pm flight.

A group of British soldiers trooped in at one point providing much needed eye-candy relief and I could swear one of them was a dead ringer for Prince Harry. A random guy picked up a conversation with me and turned out he was waiting for the same flight and proceeded to tell me all about his agri-products business in Africa. After several rounds of strong Kenyan Coffee and stimulating discussion about agriculture, it was time to board.

At the gate, I found out the flight actually goes all the way to Bujumbura, the capital of Burundi and stops at Kigali on the way. Got into the half empty flight and found I was on an empty row and stretched out from exhaustion, hoping to wake up only once the plane touches down. Alas, that was not to be. 15 minutes into the flight, we hit turbulence and just like in the movies, there is a sudden flickering of lights in the cabin and everything blacks out for a few seconds. Captain requests everyone to stay strapped into their seat belts. The meal service that has just started is suspended. I reluctantly get up from my horizontal position and once again there is that scary flickering of lights. This time, its scary.

Suddenly, the purser announces - Ladies and Gentlemen, we are returning to Nairobi. Please have your seat back upright, tray tables folded and fasten seat belts.

Eh???? We wait for an explanation. None is given.

30 minutes after we have taken off from Nairobi, we return. Finally, after safely touching down, the captain announces that there was a electrical fire that necessitated the return! Shock, surprise and relief mixed with confusion fills the cabin. So, we're offloaded and told to expect further instructions from Kenya Airways on ground.

Its 12.30 am. There are no Kenya Airways staff at the gate. No one to tell us what needs to be done. A group of really angry and tired passengers are left stranded in the middle of the night and the 'pride of Africa' has gone missing. A Kenya Airways Paris flight is boarding and one young girl is at the counter. The stranded passengers descend upon her like a flock of angry geese and the poor girl is left in tears as she doesn't have a clue. She is just boarding the Paris flight. Passengers are getting tetchier by the minute. One of my phones is dead and the other is dangerously close to dying. I don't want to go too far away from the group in search of an electrical socket to charge my phones. Eventually I find a dodgy looking wall socket with half the wiring out and try my luck. Voila, it works! I park myself on the floor next to the dodgy socket and am busy Tweeting and facebooking my woes.

Frayed nerves, exhausted and travel fatigued, people are getting angrier by the minute. Kenya Airways doesn't seem to care since they haven't deemed it fit to send anyone over to keep the passengers informed. Finally at 2.15 AM, a KQ official walks in and announces that the next flight to Kigali is at 11 AM the next morning and passengers were being put up in a hotel for the night. My conference begins the next morning at 9 AM and clearly I am going to miss the opening session officiated by President Kagame, thanks to Kenya Airways.

But the nightmare is not over. We clear immigration and are told not to worry about our checked in bags as they will be held in storage overnight. We are asked to head to a KQ counter that will give us our hotel vouchers. Once again confusion arises. The counter is manned by one person and there are over 100 passengers. The official behind the counter looks clueless and has no answers. As everyone crowds around the counter, suddenly the conveyor belt nearby starts moving and hey...what do you see - the bags that are to be held in storage overnight by KQ! Obviously, someone forgot to inform baggage handlers. So, there is a mad scramble as everyone tries to get their bags and once again chaos reigns.

Finally at 3 AM, several groups are segregated and each group is escorted to a van waiting outside that is to take us to the hotel. But wait...this is a 20 seater van, with 30 pax in each group and luggage! But Kenya Airways, the pride of Africa, is unfazed. We are all loaded into the van with our luggage and packed in like sardines! Suitcases and bags of all shapes and sizes are loaded into the van and stuffed into every available surface.

3.30 am - We are at the hotel and told that departure for airport is at 7.30 am for those headed to Kigali! And those going to Bujumbura leave at 6 am!

I fall into exhausted sleep and after what feels like only a few minutes, the alarm goes off. A quick shower, a half decent breakfast and its time to leave.

7.30 AM - luggage and people loaded into van. But van doesn't move and there is a commotion in the lobby. Turns out the hotel claims a guest has eaten a Kit Kat and had a Pepsi from the mini bar and has not paid for it. The guest says he doesn't even know where the mini bar is and he was so exhausted when he checked in, he went straight to bed. Argument ensues and guest is mega offended and refuses to pay on grounds of principle.

The hotel manager is yelling that he won't let the bus leave till the bill is settled. The guest is yelling back that this is blackmail and fraud and cheating.

Eventually, a Brit guy sitting next to me yells out from the window - Oye, how much is that bill?

8 dollars!

He pulls out a $10 bill and hands it out the window to the hotel manager and tells him to put a lid on it. Literally! The bus is released from the hostage situation and finally we are on our way to the airport. We re-checkin, get new boarding passes and hang around the gate. Finally at 11, its time for take off and....a passenger is missing. His bag is checked in, but he is missing. Which is not surprising because Kenya Airways made no actual announcement about the boarding gate. The electronic display at the departure lounge did not indicate the gate number. And the only reason I found the gate is because I walked up and down a dozen times and finally found the board for Kigali hanging in front of the gate. Which is perhaps what the others did as well, except this one guy.

Finally, his bag is offloaded and 20 minutes later, we finally take off. This time, when we touch down, I am actually in Kigali!

I had a fantastic 4 days in Kigali meeting some of the brightest people in the country. And that's what makes all of this drama worthwhile, because Rwanda is truly a country on the move. Officials are solution oriented, bureaucratic red tape is minimal, corruption is almost non-existent and everyone is so open and approachable!

Two restaurant recommendations - Republica and Shokola! I visited Republica even during the 2008 trip and loved the log cabin feel to it. Fantastic food, great music and lovely ambience.

Shokola is a Mediterranean restaurant with an amazing menu, ...yes even for my vegetarian palate. Huge, open spaces, Arabic/Moroccan themed loungy décor. Looks absolutely ethereal at night.

I was sorry to leave after 4 days...would have loved to go to the Gorilla park for a bit of the touristy sights. But as always, work calls. Thankfully, return flight from Kigali to Nairobi was on Rwandair which even if not fancy was at least on time and the staff were polite and friendly!

I hope, soon other airlines would start flying into Kigali so that people have options other than Kenya Airways to visit this beautiful country!

For Kafs, the best friend a girl can have

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 05:46:00 +0000

My closest friend died last night. And I am angry. Angry that he died so young and abandoned me just like that. And angry that I didn't even find out till this afternoon. Cardiac arrest at 32! What kind of world are we living in now?

Kafs, you were there for me through so much all these years. And now, suddenly, you are not. And I don't know how to deal with it. I don't want to believe that you are no longer just a phone call away.

I don't know how to describe my relationship with you. I still remember the day I was introduced to you on the steps of that awful pub, Bunker, in Bangalore all those years ago. Those were still my teetotaller days and as I was sipping my lime soda, you were detailing the virtues of mixing some vodka in it to spice up my life. You asked me out that night and I only went on that drive with you only because you were so sweet and funny.

And what a drive that turned out to be. First you got pulled up for suspected drunken driving and you quickly handed the Kingfisher bottle to me and flashed that loony smile you are so famous for, at the cop and said, "She is the one drinking. I am just taking her for a drive to sober her up!" And to think, the guy actually believed you and looked at me disapprovingly - "Maydam, you are ladies. You should naat be drinking like this." And you had the cheek to say, "I told her saar!"

Ten minutes after he let us go, we found that homeless guy passed out in the middle of the deserted road. Anyone else would have just driven past. You stopped, looked at me and said, "give me a minute...i can't just leave him lying there. I have to move him to the side" and jumped out before I could say anything. Back then, I thought you were just trying to impress me. It would take me much longer to realise, you didn't care what I thought. That was just you. No hidden agendas.

And that was also our first and last 'date'. I can't remember now why the date didn't go anywhere, but what I do remember is that we were inseparable after that. And my presence glued to your side lost you many an opportunity with hot women who'd think I was 'with' you. I practically lived in your house. You threw me birthday parties, tried to set me up with strange men who you insisted were 'husband material', gave me hankies and shoulder when I needed, loaned me money when I was broke, fought many a battle for me and were my designated driver to go everywhere! Even your mom took care of me when you were not around and your maid made me many a delicious lunches and dinners.

You also finally, successfully got me to start imbibing alcohol and dealt with my drunken brawls and occasional passing out. I even wrote a post three years ago about how you dealt with one such crazy misadventure after my house party. When I sent you the link, you said - 'glad you portray me as the gentleman I am not!' But you were Kafs....in your own twisted, demented way, you cared about people close to you and you took care of them.

Oh how much we fought! How I disapproved of your various 'bimbo' girlfriends. And hated that silly card game you insisted on playing every time we had a house party. And argued with you over your incessant smoking and drunk driving. Remember that time you got so drunk and drove off from the party at Speedzone into a field and called me to come and find you coz you had no clue where you were! I was looking for you till 5 AM till you just curled up and went to sleep in the car. Only to wake up the next morning and find you were 15 km outside Bangalore on a very angry farmer's property. How much I yelled at you that day! And you just flashed me your loony smile and said," just chill ya babes. I'm here now and I'm fine and I made my first farmer friend!" That was just so typically you!

You were there through so many turning points in my life. And even when we didn't live in the same city anymore, I loved how we could just pick up from where we left off after months of not having spoken to each other. I moved to a different city and you moved to a different country. I'd still go to your place when I was in Bangalore and hang out with your mom and the cats. Then you came back and I moved to a different country, while you went back to your favorite city.

And that's where I saw you last. Diwali 2006. I was lonely and homesick in Malaysia and the festive season was looming large reminding me of how alone I was in this strange new country. I hadn't spoken to you in months. I picked up the phone on a whim and asked you what you were doing during the holidays. You didn't answer my question. You knew immediately from my voice, even though you hadn't heard it in a while, what I was feeling. You said, " Get your butt here Rams! Why you getting so formal and all with me yaar." And so I did. A quickie 3 day trip to Bombay in October 2006 to celebrate Diwali with my favorite person in the world. A trip that I'll never forget. Once again you were there for me when I needed you the most.

After that I made it a point to definitely speak to you every Diwali. And last Diwali was the last time I spoke to you.

So many memories...so many stories. Where do I begin and where do I end?

Knowing you are not there, smiling your loony smile under that scraggy beard you insist on sporting, with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, telling me to just 'chill yaar'.....is very hard to deal with. I don't want to believe that you are gone. You are too young, too full of life to just not be there anymore. Remember we promised each other ten years ago, if we're both single at 30, we'd hook up. And you called me on your 30th to ask for deadline extension to 35! You can't bail out now. Its not fair!

I miss you Kafs and nothing will ever be the same. I don't want to let you go.

My personal Sex and the City moments

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Sat, 16 May 2009 06:31:00 +0000

So, the first decent guy who asks me out after my rather spectacular 'disengagement' (that's what i'm calling it...break up sounds too trivial when we are talking about an engagement that was to lead to be a fabulous beach wedding in Goa) turns out to be quite interesting.

We met at a friend's party a few months ago and I remember thinking, there is no way this dish would be single! A month later a chance meeting led him to 'see something in my eyes' (his words, not mine!) and he asks me out. Now this is the first guy I am going to go out with after having been in an 'engaged relationship' for nearly two years. I've been out of the dating scene for a while it seems.

The first week is great. We meet every evening for dinner and find loads to talk about and I'm thinking the Chemistry is amazing. I do my usual neurotic thing, psycho-analysing everything, trying to figure out what's wrong with him. My friend M thinks I am nuts and should just chill and let things take their course. By the end of the week, I am convinced this is going somewhere. And that's when I find out that I wasn't being neurotic without reason. The man I am dating is....how do i put this the right way.... The man I am dating is in love with Jesus!

I kid you not. The first decent man to ask me out in months turns out to be a Jesus Freak. At the end of that first week, I leave for a business trip to Colombo and that's when the full extent of the Lord's influence over my JC lover comes to light. I get text messages from him every morning wishing me a blessed day! And inevitably our nightly conversations turn to the Lord and how JayZ (that's M's nickname for him and that's what we shall use to refer to him in this blog) is God's special son.

I am torn now because I know JayZ and I have great chemistry but I am not sure how to handle the JC obsession. I am pretty secular and while I have been brought up in the Hindu faith, I respect all faiths because ultimately i believe they all teach you exactly the same thing. What I don't know how to deal with is this rather overt display of religious affection. I mean, i have my faith and my way of praying but its a personal thing for me and I never talk about it with anyone or impose it on anyone. And here is this guy I am really starting to like and he seems intent on discussing the Bible with me at every given opportunity.

After my return from Sri Lanka, we have a serious chat and he tells me its his "heart's desire" to be with someone he can pray with. By this time, I am trying not to freak out. So, I ask him if this is about faith or religion. They are two different things, as far as I am concerned. He says, its faith. Ok...that I can deal with. I have my faith and I respect his. I don't see a problem with this. I tell him as much and I explain to him that I like him and the connection I felt in the first week with him was strong enough for me to take this seriously. He says, he felt it too and hopes I can see how important his faith is to him.

We decide to leave things as they are and try to make things work. Then one morning I open facebook and find his status message - 'Its been a stressful week filled with deadlines, but with Jesus behind me, I can do it.'

I almost fell off my chair in the office. Later that weekend I visit his house and find 'Jesus Saves' posters everywhere. By this time, I am mentally hyperventilating.

BTW, 3 weeks have passed by now and he hasn't made a move. You know what kind of move! It's bothering me and I am wondering what's taking him so long. So, painfully conscious of what I am about to say, I bring it up with him. Even as I am saying it, I know its sounding strange and silly. But its bothering me and I need to get it out of my system. In hindsight, the answer shouldn't have surprised me, but I have to admit, in that moment, I was dumbfounded. Apparently, with Jesus watching, we weren't going to ever move beyond first base.

That's when I realised that that I was competing with Jesus for JayZ's affection and well, as much as I didn't want it to be a contest, that's what this was turning out to be and clearly the Lord trumps all.

So, that was the end of my first dating expedition post the disengagement. No one said this was going to be easy!

Buy me a spaceship and fly past the sky...

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Mon, 11 May 2009 12:07:00 +0000

This last week has truly been very weird for me. I am rather embarrassed to admit the reasons but then, I wouldn't have anything new to blog about!

So, Monday started off as any other chaotic Monday morning and my best friend from work, M was to take off to Australia for a 3 week break that evening and I had made sure to bring my Grace Kelly coat to loan her for the trip. Both of us were caught up in endless meetings and it was after 5 PM that she managed to show up at my office to pick up the coat, just in time to rush home, change and make a dash to the airport.

At 6 she called to tell me there was a last minute controversy around her break and how she was supposed to have got more than the usual approvals due to the longish period involved. We discussed her options, I gave her some advice and we hoped for the best, as I dashed off to another meeting. By 7, I figured she must be on her way to the airport and called her only to find out that she just cancelled the trip in the end due to the major political drama that was starting to brew around her little vacation!

As any good girlfriend should, I offered my shoulder and that age old remedy to all problems - a trip to the pub to drown one's sorrows in alcohol. Little was I to know that by the end of the evening, she would be slinging me over her shoulder to get me home.

Lest you think I just got legless on countless margaritas, therein lies the twist in the tale.

So, I try to finish up at work and I am starving by this time. Its a Monday night and the week looms large ahead. So, I'm thinking, one quick drink, some dinner, some bitching and I am on my way home. So, I get to the designated pub, find M has started on the alcohol intake with her neighbour B and is halfway through a jug of Long Island Iced Tea. Because I was starving, I am thinking, its better I get some food into myself before I start on the LIIT. B helpfully offers me a lunchbox of brownies she baked that afternoon at home. I take one look at the gooey chocolaty slices and throw caution to the wind about calories and start to dig in. The brownies are delish! I love how they melt in my mouth. Before anyone realised, I am already through 2 of those heavenly slices and about to start on the third one. B gives me a hesitant smile and says...."errr...glad you like it, I have more at home that I can pack for you. BTW, there is a special ingredient in there."

As I am munching away on my 3rd brownie, I am nodding enthusiastically and say - yeah yeah, pack me some. This stuff is fantastic. What special ingredient?

B : Can't you taste it? I know I used very little but you might be able to get an after taste....

I stop for a second and try to feel for this 'special ingredient'. Then it hits me suddenly....these are Space Brownies!!!! (children, go google it if you don't know what I'm referring to, coz i am not linking it from my blog!)

I start laughing at the irony of it, because I have never even smoked a cigarette before and here I am overdosing on Space Brownies!

But I don't feel any different and my food arrives and I have poured myself the first glass of LIIT. All is well with the world for the next 20 mins or so. I finish the first glass, i am halfway through my food and have just poured myself a second glass. The bitching session is in full flow. Suddenly, it happens.

I feel like I am floating. I know I am sitting there and laughing away with these two women, but at the same time I can't shake the feeling that I am floating. I drink some water and think, i better go easy on the LIIT. I stuff more food inside of me hoping to neutralise this floaty feeling. Nothing changes...in fact, it gets worse. I feel like my head is spinning. Not the 'oh-I'm-drunk-and-the-room-is-spinning' feeling, but like my head is a top and its spinning like on its axis. Slowly at first and then faster and faster. I grab M's hand and tell her I'm spinning. She takes one look at my face and knows what's happening.

M: how many brownies did you eat?

Me: Three...maybe more. dunno...lost count.

M: Damn...ok...calm down, take a deep breath.

Me: I am calm. Perfectly calm. But my head is spinning.

M: You need to throw up. Let's take you to the ladies.

Me: err....i don't think I can get up. I don't feel my legs anymore.

M & B looking very alarmed : We'll take you. You HAVE to throw up.

They literally hauled me up and dragged me to the ladies. Once in there, the deterioration was rapid! The irony is that I was sooooo conscious of everything that was happening and what I was saying and what was being said to me, but it was like having an out of body experience!

I am embarrassed to admit, I have a vague recollection of curling up on the bathroom floor and wanting to go to sleep. (Thank God for upmarket pubs with clean bathroom floors!) I can hear B telling someone else in the ladies - Oh she's not drunk...just not feeling very well! At this point, I believe i was slumped on the floor with a wide grin on my face!

Soon, everything was moving in slow motion. I remember telling M everything was soooo sssllllooowwww. I remember shrieking with mad laughter while M held on to me looking bemused, trying to coax me to throw up. After 30 minutes they gave up and tried to drag me out of the ladies and out of the pub so that they could load me into the car and let me sleep it off.

I have another flash of memory where I was practically dragged out of the ladies ( apparently i loved my new bed and refused to leave!), grinning like a mad person. I think I even made some silly remark about feeling like I was a blind person being led by the hand, which at the time I thought was clever and hilarious.

I saw loads of exploding colours in my head. Also, some geometrical patterns kept swirling around. I think I even saw a rabbit on a race track (don't ask...i can't explain!).

Finally, I was in M's car. I think she wanted me to sit up, which I refused to and curled up in the back seat instead. I could hear her say - you bloody well not mess up my car!

Ten minutes later, that's precisely what I did. M was driving and heard me in the backseat and I could hear her yelling - NOT IN MY CAR!!!!!! At those words, I promptly threw up a second time and fell into deep slumber. I think M just gave up coz there was no point. Her precious Beemer was ruined anyway!

By the time she managed to get me to the basement parking of my condo, I was lost to the world. It wasn't even midnight yet! Just how she managed to single handedly drag me out of the messed up backseat and out of the car without ruining my clothes is a sign of her great resilience and smarts.

Just our luck, a big group of people waiting for the lift and I live all the way up at the 17th floor. She tried very hard to hold me upright and ignore the curious stares of the Chinese students. I have some vague recollection of this as I was drifting in and out of consciousness. During one moment of lucidity I knew I had to stand straight till we get to my floor. But that lasted exactly 3 seconds and I did a leaning tower of Pisa on M. The Chinese students were probably snickering about old ladies and how they can't hold their drink!

Aah well.

Finally, M got me home and into my bed and waited around for me to come to. The funny thing is I knew she was talking to me and I was responding to her in my head. But of course, she is not telepathic, so that wasn't working out to be a useful conversation. After about an hour and a half of watching me passed out and not move a muscle, she panicked and called a friend of hers who is 'experienced in these matters'.

30 minutes later, as I was swimming back into consciousness, I opened my eyes to find myself staring back at some strange boy peering down at me and checking for my pulse (presumably!). A credit to my zombie like state that I did not scream. I don't think I even reacted. Just stared back at the guy while he cheerfully explained to a relieved looking M that I was going to be just fine.

The effect was wearing off and while I was still light headed, at least I didn't feel like a thousand needles poking through my skin or Diwali and Holli celebrations combined in my head. The strange boy (who incidentally was quite cute and I must remember to ask M about his a/s/l) made me lime juice, which I didn't know existed in my fridge! Citrus intake apparently is the way to go. I started to feel human again and M decided it was safe enough to leave me on my own so that she could now go deal with her messy Beemer.

I found out later that the lime juice boy took her to some all night carwash and they managed to get most of the mess cleared up. Though for 2 days after, despite another round of steam cleaning, the car did smell of Nasi Lemak. The carpet at the back is ruined though, and I must figure out a way of making it up to M.

As for me, I don't think I can ever look at a brownie the same way again. Whoever thought that at 31, I would be experimenting with stuff 17 yr olds do! Gosh, I'm a late bloomer.

No one tells you how hard it is!

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 04:37:00 +0000

I haven't wanted to write for the longest time. Maybe it was the dreaded writer's block, maybe i just didn't have anything new or exciting to talk about, maybe I simply wasn't ready to share...

Things happened, milestones were crossed, people came and people went and there were many missed opportunities. And yet, I couldn't find it in me to post. It's probably a year or so since I have done any regular posting. One post a year hardly counts. Work and travel can't be an excuse anymore....I simply have no idea why I didn't want to write. So, I'm going to try and end this dry spell, little by little and hopefully I still have some readers left!

A lot has happened in the past year. Most important of all, I turned 30, fell in love, got engaged, then fell out of love and got dis-engaged. 30 was supposed to be a milestone. The year one is supposed to feel like a full fledged adult and can no longer avoid being called 'aunty' by the kids in the neighbourhood. 30 was when I thought I'd have a grip on where my life was going and how i'd be able to see in slow motion a preview of the next ten years.

Friends got married, had babies, younger cousins got married, had more babies, I gained new titles each time the stork came to visit. Periamma, athai, aunty, akka....

And yet, nothing seemed to have changed.

I remember when I was 21, I was chatting with a former boss, who was then 28 and she was telling me how she had mapped out a life plan. To be in a relationship by 30, get married by 32, and have a child by 35. I remember thinking...Gosh..that sounds rather late. Of course at 21, I wasn't to know that ten years later, that conversation would come back to haunt me!

I'm fast approaching 31. I've been in and out of relationships. I still have no clue what I am looking for. And I end up behaving totally neurotic when a halfway decent guy asks me out by psycho analysing everything he says.

Where is that 'adult wisdom' I should have attained at the stroke of midnight when I crossed over to the big three-oh!? The one that should have enabled me to have these deep feminine insights into relationships and people.

Should I be settling for whatever comes my way because as my mother never fails to remind me, my biological clock is ticking? Or should I say two hoots to my shrivelling ovaries and hold out for more?

Is it practical once you cross 30 to want to be swept off your feet? Or does it only end in a resounding thud as you crash down having flown too high?

Life... and its exquisite moments

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Sun, 25 Jan 2009 06:42:00 +0000

Finally breaking my blogging hiatus after nearly a year with this post that's actually my column for a magazine in the Philippines, run by a friend, for their next issue.

Hey, atleast I'm trying!

*****

When I was an impressionable adolescent, growing up in an India on the threshold of change, brimming over with hope, exploding with possibilities, I couldn’t wait to grow up and experience all the fun that the adult world had to offer to me. I was still in middle school, but I so badly wanted to be like the ultra cool seniors who seemed so confident and sure of themselves as they bossed around the juniors. A bunch of us would follow the girls and boys in senior year with puppy dog eyes waiting for the privilege to be summoned, to be spoken to, to be considered special enough to be acknowledged by the kings and queens of high school!

It didn’t take long for me to get there and take on the mantle left behind by my seniors and I had my own little brood of midgets following me around, waiting on me! But, already, I was restless. By this time, I knew there was a world outside of the little high school I was reigning in, where I knew I’d have to start out right at the bottom.

When I graduated high school and entered college, I was back to being at the bottom of the pile. I joined college as a naïve freshman who’d never been kissed, never skipped class, had never had to travel for more than 15 minutes to get to school and was used to being the centre of attention in my tiny high school universe which had more boys than girls!

And here I was at an all girls college, more than an hour away from home, terrified at this new world inhabited exclusively by women in all shapes, sizes and colour, where I was just another wide eyed junior and well…simply ordinary. The senior girls seemed impossibly glamorous and unbelievably confident as they sat around the canteen gossiping about the lecturers or ragging some poor freshman. I felt staid and anonymous as I tried to blend in and watch them unobserved. They seemed so worldly and to know their place in the world and all I had known till then was the little neighbourhood I had grown up in and where my high school was situated.

Those three years in college, I grew up without quite realising it. Three years of changing two buses to get to college, hanging out with women of all temperaments for 6 hours a day, trying to learn all that you can to prepare you for a career outside the safe haven of the college campus forces you to grow up in ways that surprise you as you are graduating. Because, suddenly I was that glamorous senior holding court in the canteen. The only difference was, this time I knew what my seniors had really been feeling 3 years ago sitting at the shaky table, sipping tea from a chipped china cup. While I was excited about getting out there and making my mark on the world, I was also equally terrified about getting out there to join the rat race and finding out that I was just another faceless new graduate, one among thousands, looking for a career opportunity that will define who I am for the rest of my life.

Real life was just about to begin.

Over the next few years as I flitted from one job to another trying to find my niche, before settling into one that truly made me happy, each new experience, every new job, every new relationship stood on its heads and made faces at me for ever presuming I knew anything about them.

Along the way, I moved cities, moved countries and moved from one social circle to another. Boyfriends came and boyfriends went. Girlfriends went from being giggling confidantes to girlfriends of other men, to wives to mothers. Priorities changed, lifestyles changed. In every phase, something new took on great importance.

It’s interesting how each new milestone just marks the beginning of a new journey that leads to yet another milestone. Over the years, I can’t even remember some of things that had once occupied by every waking hour, as I obsessed over someone or something.

It’s been over ten years since I graduated from college with a degree certificate that bears little or no impact on what I do today for a living.

Ten years where I’ve gone through moments I thought I’d burst with happiness or just die of depression. Loss, pain, death and betrayal coexisted with promotions, weddings, new friendships and babies. Ten years that saw me move from a rut to high places and made me wonder where my life was going.

An entire decade of moments where I wished things had sped along at all the boring and depressing points but slowed down just about enough for me to take a breath and look back with wonder at everything that I’ve experienced, learnt and am thankful for.

Today from a vantage point of being on the wrong side of 30, I can see myself in hindsight; evolving from an awkward teenager to a terrified tween to an independent and confident young woman whose life experiences forced her to grow up faster than most of her peers.

In some ways, each stage of our lives is like a metaphorical graduation ceremony. We all have these defining moments, where you know with a sense of never-before-clarity that this was the moment, we decided to make the leap from one phase to the next. You experience them in the unlikeliest places – in the subway as you travel to work, at a coffee shop while you watch the world go by, sipping a Grande’ Mocha, standing in the rain soaking to the skin and knowing this is nature’s way of washing away the past or simply waking up one morning and knowing you are different today from the person who went to bed yesterday.

And it is a series of these defining moments that ultimately shape you are.

Tag-a-long

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 07:03:00 +0000

Loca thinks I need to be shaken off my blogging inertia. I can't help if nothing exciting has taken place in my life in the longest time. Or even if there was something that got me excited, it was probably not bloggable! So, here goes the tag from La Vida Loca.

Rules of the Meme:

Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the 5 key words given (family, friend, yourself, your love, anything you like). Tag 5 other friends to do this meme. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will do) so that you get to know them each a little bit better.

Family

That's easy! I started this blog (well...the 2nd post at least) with a sort of fam post. These would qualify:

My mom's incessant nagging that landed me on shaadi.com is chronicled in Of single women, menopausal moms & matrimonial websites

My lovely quadruplet nieces are here, here , here and here

The amazing story of a distant aunt I admire is here

And the most difficult post I ever wrote....saying goodbye to my brother is here

Friends

Is there such a thing as an inner circle?

Hanging out with friends in Hong Kong during FIFA fever

Difficult choices in friendship here

Myself

The entire darned blog is about me! For your reading pleasure, here is me, me and more of me.

Love

Hmmm....tricky. So here is a highschool romance. Some existential issues about my love life here and something that I surprised myself by writing about.

There is that long pending post about the engagement which hopefully I will bring myself to write about soon.

Anything I like

A post that I am proud of - My take on the great Indian middle class was also my very first DesiPundit linked post.

I had fun writing this one.

Highschool Battlefield got some interesting responses.

Ok, that's it! Loca, I hope I have sufficiently proven my blogging abilities :)

I'd like to tag Dr.Mosi who has gone off blogging since he landed in Zambia. Pri, coz I've never tagged her and am sure will have some insane, hilarious stuff up her sleeve. Once again, coz he seems to be in Tag mode!

Ta-Ta!

Blast from the past

noreply@blogger.com (freespirit) — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 11:32:00 +0000

I jumped into the taxi this morning cursing everyone and everything coz I was super late for a meeting and was about to order the teenaged cabbie to turn the radio volume down, when I suddenly heard the Radio Jockey say - Backstreet Boys, Live in Malaysia, Feb 27!

WTF! Those guys are still around? And people are still listening to boy-bands??? I suddenly had this flashback vision of my 16 year old self prancing around the room with 'As long as you love me' blasting off my Philips Hi-fi. Yeah...yeah...i went through the boy band phase. A few years ago, I would never have admitted that, but I can now safely say that all go through an embarrassing growth spurt!

I am about to turn 30 and these chaps are still around and singing the exact same love songs! OK, so 15 years ago I was mad about Boyzone and Backstreet Boys. I had their posters up on my wall and even though they all looked and sounded the same, it was an obsession I couldn't get over. I was heart broken when I read in some gossip rag that Stephen whatshisname from Boyzone was gay and I think for a brief while I even had a little pendant with Nick Carter's picture in it, hidden away under my pillow. I can't now imagine why I was so fascinated. I mean all they did was get into this V formation and the cutest guy is in the centre and they spread their arms and scream 'Baaaabeeeee'.

Every boy-band from back then, did pretty much the same thing and every time they did the 'baaaabeeee' thing, teenaged girls screamed (possibly dropped their knickers!) and asked for more! They all sang love songs, their videos featured cute blonde girls and the boys all looked ridiculously good. It was teenage girl heaven!

I have painful memories of pining for this guy I had a huge crush on while listening to Nick Carter singing 'Quit playing games with my heart'. Then when the guy finally paid me attention and I was over the moon, I remember celebrating with 'Shape of my heart' blasting from the speakers. Then, when he didn't call when he promised to, I wept along to 'Show me the meaning of being loney'.

Somehow the songs always added to the angst, the joy, the pain...

I also have some interesting memories of learning to dance to their songs. I remember, I was 17 or 18 and had just met some Ugandan students and was amazed at how well they all danced and was painfully aware of my own total lack of coordination. So, this one Ugandan guy decided I desperately needed help and he put on Backstreet Boys' I want it that way which had fairly simple beats and he taught me how to do this slow form of shuffle. Two steps right, two steps left, one step forward, bend and wiggle your ass. Or something like that. When you did it in a group of 4 or 6, the synchronisation looked great. Of course, the two steps right and left required a certain amount of grace and fluidity of movement that I don't think I ever managed to get right. But that was the first time, I managed to 'dance' and not make a total fool of myself and that's why the Backstreet Boys will always hold a special place in my heart.

And now nearly 15 years later, when technically I am old enough to have pre-teens of my own, these boys are still around, looking as glossy as they did when I was a hormonal teen and singing 'I want it that way' to a whole new generation of screaming teenage girls!

How unfair is that???